Page 43

Ryan laughed.

The sound remained low, barely escaping him, but it was real. I hadn’t heard it directed at me in fifteen months, and the warmth it created threatened to become something larger before I reminded myself that one laugh wasn’t a promise.

He lifted his beer. “Wine people are full of shit.”

“You were a wine person when it gave you an excuse to sit close to me.”

“I was trying to fuck you.”

“You spent several months refusing to fuck me.”

His expression changed, so I lifted my glass and gave him an easier path away from it.

“You were trying to impress me, then.”

“I brought you books.”

“You brought me wine too.”

“The books were good.”

“The wine was expensive.”

“It still sucked.”

I laughed again, and this time Ryan didn’t look away while it happened.

The bartender returned to check our drinks. Ryan finished his beer and rested the empty bottle against the bar.

“Mezcal,” he said. “One shot.”

“Make it two.”

Ryan turned his head. “You’re drinking mezcal now too?”

“I’m capable of adapting.”

“You hated it.”

“I hated the one Briggs poured.”

“That was mezcal.”

“That was gasoline transported in a decorative bottle.”

The bartender reached for a bottle on the upper shelf. Ryan continued looking at me with an expression caught between suspicion and reluctant amusement. “You don’t have to prove anything,” he said.

“I’m ordering a drink, Ryan. I haven’t challenged you to knife fighting.”

“You don’t know how to drink mezcal.”

“Neither did you the first time.”

“I was thirteen.”

“That explains several things.”

His eyebrow lifted. “You have a lot of mouth now.”