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As soon as I ask the question, I realize how it comes off.

Women typically don’t like when men ask them stuff like that, and I get why.

Miss Vivica doesn’t know me. She has every right to be suspicious of me asking that.

I hold up my hands at the caution that flashes in her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. Didn’t mean it in a creeper way. Just that… most people need a group to come out with.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed. It’s a good thing.”

“And you?” she presses. “Are you most people?”

A grin slowly cracks onto my face. “No, Vivica. I wouldn’t consider myself most people. Most people wouldn’t consider me most people.”

“You seem like a flirt. I’d say that’s a lot of guys your age.”

“What would that be—my age?”

“Mid- to late-twenties, I’m guessing.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” I say. “I might look like trouble, but I promise there’s more to me.”

She releases a small laugh and then turns to the bartender. “Can I have a whiskey? Neat, please.”

“Make that two.”

“You don’t have to drink with me. You can go back to your pals.”

“Nah, I’m right where I want to be. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Only if you can keep up.”

The look she gives me is pure teasing, complete with the bright glint in her eye.

No less than a couple seconds later, the bartender’s nudging two whiskey glasses toward us. I take mine as she claims hers, and we toast to ourselves.

“To not being like most people,” I say, and she gives a half-roll of her eyes.

…yet the corner of her lips tells a different story, quirking slightly.

We sample our drinks and listen to more of Haven’s Chicks play.

As it turns out, Vivica enjoys live music, and I do too. More than in the way the others are—as loud noise to drink and dance to in a crowded bar.

Vivica savors the vibe. She pays attention to the musicians and absorbs the lyrics.

All things I do. All reasons I appreciate music, and why it’s one of my favorite pastimes when I’m alone.

After a few more songs play and we’re halfway through our whiskey, I decide to be blunt again.

“You’re good company, Miss Vivica,” I say. “You know that?”

“I do,” she quips. “I hang out with myself all the time.”

“Consider me lucky to be given the opportunity.”

She sips from her whiskey and casts me a judgy look, as if making up her mind. “You’re not so bad yourself, Buttercup’s daddy. I guess the mare has good judgment after all.”