was here, it was with my sister and her fiancé. We shared two pizzas, a charcuterie board, an order of meatballs, and some fried brussels sprouts."
"So…yeah, that's everything," I said, glancing back at the menu. "It all sounds great."
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"With what, Ashville? Cheese? Sure. No problem." I jerked my shoulders up as I flipped the menu over to inspect the cocktail choices. Terrible idea. They all sounded amazing and the last thing I needed to be around this man was tipsy. "Do I trust you to pick out an eye shadow palette or use a blowtorch? Not on your life."
"All right. I'll order for us," he said, a wide grin on his face. "You should know I'm plenty capable with blowtorches."
"Agree to disagree," I said, waving him off. "I don't want you wielding fire, thank you very much."
"And why not?" he asked, ballsy enough to be insulted.
I skimmed the wine list. Not that I knew anything about wine but it was fun to read the names and origins. "Why would you even need a blowtorch?"
"I don't," he replied. "You brought it up."
The bartender stopped in front of us, folding his beefy forearms on the bar as he smiled. "What can I get you folks tonight?"
Ash tapped his finger against the menu, pointing to his selections as he spoke. I didn't know what the Vermont verano or the Blue Ledge camembrie were, but they sounded good. He ordered a beer and requested an extra dish of Marcona almonds.
"And for the lady?" the bartender asked. "What can I pour for you?"
Ash looped his arm over the back of my chair as I asked him, "What kind of beer did you order?"
"The Allagash is a sour ale," the bartender offered. He gestured toward my hair as Ash cleared his throat. "It's brewed with real blueberries."
Ash shifted his arm from the chair to my shoulders, tugging me closer. "Would you like that?"
It was unfair. Completely and truly unfair. Why did I have to wait until now, when my life was spinning like a blender without its lid, to realize how desperately I needed someone to ask me that question? It didn't matter whether he was asking me about beer or blowtorches or anything else in the world. And I wanted to answer him—answer myself. I wanted to know what I wanted and where I belonged and who the fuck I was after all these years of searching and shrinking down to fit the tiny crevices available to me.
I wanted to answer but all I could say was, "Maybe."
Maybe. Maybe I liked sour blueberry beer. Maybe I liked it when my boss glared at a bartender and pawed me like I was marked territory. Maybe I liked leaving the lid off the blender because now—finally now—I didn't have to pretend I cared about the mess I'd made. The mess that was made of me. I didn't have to keep it anymore. It was out, sprayed all over the ceiling and walls and everywhere, and it wasn't inside me.
"I'll put your order in and bring you a sample of the Allagash," the bartender said, pushing away from the bar with a wink in my direction.
Ash's lips were on my temple before the bartender made it two steps.
The twinges that felt good and right? I felt them in all the places Ash touched me.
12
Ash
Well, I'd lost my fucking mind.
That was the singular explanation for my manic reaction to the bartender who'd given Zelda an altogether too thorough once-over. He'd eye-fucked her cleavage while she studied the menu and, for the first time in my life, I wanted to grab another man by the collar and slam him up against a wall. And that asshole thought her blue hair somehow translated to a preference for blueberry beer. Of all the ridiculous, reductionist things.
Then, I'd tugged her closer, whispered into her ear, kissed her forehead. Watched as she sampled several different beers, scrunching up her face and shaking her head at the taste of each one. Wanted to find the one that would make her smile more than I wanted anything else.
Yeah. I'd lost my fucking mind.
That was why the hand not enclosed in the sling was shoved deep in my pocket as we walked up Dartmouth Street toward the Apple store on Boylston. This was a rare moment where having one useful hand helped rather than hindered matters. It was hard enough minding that hand when I wanted to run my fingers through her