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I nod. I doubt any cocktails they can make here would have any top-shelf liquor. My glance around the bar shows tall glasses of draft beer or bottles of it. I want to not only imagine fitting in here, but I also want to truly let loose and have fun.
Because why not?
I don’t have classes to study for.
I have the samples and fabric to get me started as far as I can go with Lauren’s dress.
And my mother and her acquaintances are nowhere to be seen to judge me.
I move to the music, enjoying the beat as he orders us two beers, chuckling at my enthusiasm.
“It’s like you’ve never gone out before.”
I haven’t, with you. This isn’t a date, but that doesn’t matter.
If coming out to have an early dinner and drinks with Sawyer is the best way I can escape the awkward tension of being alone with him in that suite, then we may as well make the most of it while we can.
We clink our bottles together, and I grin before taking a long sip.
Chapter 16
Sawyer
The second we entered the bar, I could tell Claire was out of her comfort zone. She didn’t sneer and look down at her surroundings. Instead, she gawked at it all as though she’d never set foot inside such a simple place. Maybe she hadn’t.
Hours later, though, I realize she’s not turned off by it. She has yet to stop moving her head to the music, sometimes tapping her fingers on the table and shimmying her shoulders. I highly doubt she’ll claim to be a country fan anytime soon, but she sure as hell is going along with it tonight. The plates of greasy burgers and salty fries can’t resemble any of the fancy-schmancy arty food she ate in Paris, but she ate every bite and seemed to want to lick her fingers, too.
Then the beer. Shots, too. I can’t tell if she’s on a mission to get wasted and pass out before we return to the suite as a way of avoiding sleeping with me or what, but she is not shy about drinking.
Maybe it’s been a while for her. She did say she was busy in Paris, studying. She turned me down when I asked her if she’d like to come to the bar back home. Both of those clues have me suspicious that she’s been too high-strung to have much of a social life. At the rate she’s drinking, I have to wonder if she hasn’t had a chance to just be and have fun like this. And on that matter, I’m more than happy to let her enjoy herself as much as she wants. Everyone needs a break, after all.
“What is this called?” she asks me with a glimmer of excitement burning in her eyes. She’s tipsy, but cute and not sloppy about it. Like she’s trying so hard to still be the proper and haughty woman she knows she should be. The alcohol is getting to her, though, making her more mellow.
“The shot?”
“Yeah!” She giggles, leaning into me as someone bumps into her at the bar. Half of the liquid sloshes out of the small glass, and she pouts.
“Hey, watch it,” I tell the man who shoved into her. He ignores me, and with an even quicker exit from the crowded bar, he elbows her again, and she loses more of the scant liquid.
“Damn.” She sets the glass on the counter, but as I lift my hand to hail the bartender again, she touches my forearm until she lowers it and holds my wrist. “Nah. Don’t bother. I’m already buzzing, and I don’t want to get too intoxicated.”
I smile. So much for the theory that she wants to get so drunk that she can avoid me later.
“Okay. Your call.”
It’s been her call all night. From the first place where we ate to the next bar. And the next. And the next. I stopped checking the time around one, glad no one was shouting last call anywhere yet.
“Let’s dance!” she insists instead of reordering a drink.
We’re already sweaty from doing just that, but I’m in no mood to turn her down. I never expected to be tearing up the town with Claire, but it seems that beer is a quick way to get her to lower her guard and let loose because that’s actually what we’ve been doing all night. Eating at one place turned into dancing at another. Ultimately, we shifted to bar-hopping, and I know this will be a night I’ll never forget.
It is different for her. I can tell. She’s not used to living it up and doing whatever the hell she wants, and with her enthusiasm, looking at this experience through her eyes, it’s all the more fun and exciting. Hell, dancing with her is a torture I’ll never turn down. While I’ve been careful with my drinks and mostly staying as sober as possible, I can’t resist this opportunity.
She leads me to the dance floor again, and I don’t hesitate or drag my feet. It was quickly clear her style of dancing doesn’t match what everyone does here, but with my hands on her back and sides, my body pushing against hers as a guide, I show her how she can dance with me. As the drinks flowed, though, she didn’t wait for or follow my lead. Instead, she took to gyrating against me and stroking her hands over me.
I’m not sure how much more I can take, and I expect my control to remain intact. She has no clue how much she’s tormenting me.
Or maybe she does.
