by Stacey Lynn
Logan: See you then. Can’t wait to meet you, pretty girl.
He responds almost immediately, and that does make me smile. Was he waiting for me? I got his message an hour ago and have looked at it thirty times. Plus, who doesn’t like being called pretty?
I send him back a smiling emoji.
Then I whip off a quick text to Teagan. Seeing the cute guy tomorrow. Cross your fingers.
I’ve told her all about him. She thinks he’s cute and sweet. I agree.
But am I looking for cute and sweet? Ugh. Dating sucks.
I’m in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of red wine, when my phone dings from the living room. I assume it’s a message from Teagan, so I hurry back to the room, grab my phone, and soon, a goofy smile is stretching my cheeks.
Grapes explode in the microwave. Note: Do not test this theory. It’s also messy.
Michael. The mysterious guy. He’s either a serial-killing creep or someone I have to meet. He texts me nothing important, avoids questions, even avoids making it too personal toward me, and yet every message makes me laugh, dying to learn more.
Perhaps he’s playing the long game.
Either way, I’m interested.
Caitlin: Trying to make homemade wine?
Michael: A girl I like once told me she prefers martinis to wine but wine is her go-to at home.
I said that last Saturday when he sent me a simple question. What are you doing? Fun weekend plans?
My response was lame. Netflix and chillin’ alone. Glass of wine nearby. Getting old is exhausting.
That had devolved into asking whether I preferred partying or lounging around at night. I told him the lounging comes after the partying. He didn’t use the opener about getting old to ask about my age, even if it is in the profile. He did tell me he works late, starts his days late, but wishes he had more time to lounge around.
Which means he’s busy. Active. I’ve seen no more photos of him other than that profile picture showing only his shadowed back.
Caitlin: I’m not sure that girl meant drinking homemade wine.
Michael: Damn. Knew I should have learned to read way back when.
I’m tempted, oh so tempted to ask when that would have been, but I’m learning with him. I ask him a personal question, and he avoids. It should be a red flag. For whatever reason, it only has me more curious. My fingers itch to type out asking to see him, even though I already have one date planned for the week, but I hesitate. Without saying anything, he’s already made it clear he’ll move at his own pace. The question is, will I wait around for him?
Michael: Busy tonight?
It’s only Wednesday, but I’m already worn out. Emotionally, I never would have thought even something like online dating would be difficult. I tell myself I’m doing this for Trey, but in a way, it’s been fun even if most of the guys who message me use cheesy pickup lines and lose my interest before they have it. But I can tell from the few conversations I’ve had with some of them, the creepy creepy guy aside, that what Trey has done is brilliant.
I have yet to receive a single dick pic or receive a message with only DTF? Trey warned me it could happen, and considering I had no idea what those letters meant, my blank stare made him laugh. “It means ‘down to fuck,’ Caitlin.”
“Ew,” I’d responded. I mean, gross. “What kind of guys send those?”
He’d waggled his brows and made me nauseous when he responded. “Sometimes it’s the ladies that ask, too.”
Right. You’d think I wouldn’t be grossed out by this. I’m the queen of onetime hookups and keeping things light. But sending a message like that to some guy or woman when you’ve only seen their picture? It seems so cold and distant.
I at least like the guy I’m screwing to make me laugh a little bit. Compliment me.
Hookups through apps feels mechanical and, I don’t know…icky.
It seems those truly interested in finding someone long-term are at least taking this app seriously, which should thrill Trey.
My phone dings, and I realize I’ve been staring at the screen, mind wandering, but still hoping he’d respond.
Michael: Busy here. People must need a night to relax. We usually don’t get busy until ten-ish on Thursdays.
Has he realized he’s put this out there? It doesn’t say much but tells me a lot. Something I’ve already started putting together so while I can cross semi-truck driver off my list, there’s still the possibility he’s a drug pusher.
Still, I take the risk and hope for the best.
Caitlin: So you work in a bar?
Michael: Own one, actually. Nice small place.
Immediately, without warning and unbidden, Jonas’s face flashes in my mind. I shove it out as fast as possible. It has to be the connection of owning a bar. But I can’t help myself, because this guy has ruined my fun by making me think of Jonas and the awkwardness between us.
Got a friend who owns a place. Hard work and it’s late. Enjoy your night.
I tack on a smiley face, much like I did to Logan, so hopefully this guy doesn’t think I’m brushing him off. I’m not, and I shouldn’t.
Or maybe I should. He gives me morsels that keep me hooked, but besides weird and random facts and laws, he’s not trying to get to know me. Not really. And the last thing I need to get hooked on is a guy who reminds me of Jonas.
My phone stays silent, and I try to forget the weirdness seeping into my bones, making me restless.
Netflix is useless. Cable is worthless. My favorite classic old rock playlist and a book is even worse. It’s too quiet in my apartment, and my thoughts and memories of Jonas are too loud.
I give up, toss my Kindle onto the couch, and grab my phone.
Got company? I text to Trey. I’m bored.
Trey: Mariners and Miller Lite night. Get your ass up here.
I shake my head. Trey’s an idiot.
Trey: Oh and bring up some of the beer I left in your fridge.
Yup. Idiot.
I’m already in the kitchen, shoving my wine bottle into the empty spot of the six-pack he left at my place a couple weeks ago. I send him a quick text back. Sometimes it’s like talking to a child. A very small child.
Hey Caitlin. When you come up can you please bring the beer I left in your fridge?
Sure, Trey. Happy to. Thanks for asking so nicely. Anything for you, friend.
In response I get a bitmoji image of him with his hand on his forehead and the words “You’re Impossible” in bubble letters beneath him.
“Moron,” I mutter and grab my keys. Then I go and do what friends do—deliver beer and smart-assery.
* * *
—
Dirty Martini’s is already quite busy when I arrive before seven the next night. I’m early, and amazingly enough, I only had a slight nervous breakdown in my closet earlier. I spent way more time than necessary flinging clothes and hangers all over the place trying to find the “perfect” first date outfit.
My closet now looks like the remnants of a war zone after a dozen IEDs exploded.
And I’m still dressed in casual skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a cute but simple black top with bell sleeves and cutouts at the shoulders. A long gold necklace with a teardrop gold medallion and my hair curled.
Simply put: I look like I do every single day of the week. So why half of my belongings if not more are now all over my floor is a mystery to me.
I find a spot near the end of the bar, and with an eye on the front door, I scan the smallish restaurant. A group of six girls is at my favorite high-back booth, but I wouldn’t sit there anyway on a first date. It’s almost too private, too intimate. A few tables are open, but the tables are close together and conversations from the strangers next to them can easily be overheard.
The last thing I need is to have our first-date embarrassing blunders tweeted and retweeted by millions. I’ve seen that stuff in my Twitter feed before, and it’s not happening to me.
Which leaves the bar seating, where Jonas and
Tucker are hustling and serving drinks.
It’s the first time I’ve met someone here when Jonas has been so close. My body tenses, and I have to force my limbs to move in order to swivel in the stool and take a seat.
“Hey Caitlin, I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight,” Tucker says. He’s already sliding the coaster onto the bar in front of me. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the bar and grins. “What can I make for you?”
I’m so nervous at the thought of meeting somebody here while Jonas is standing so close, and with all the thoughts I’ve had of him lately, I shake my head at Tucker. “I’ll wait a few minutes. I’m meeting somebody here tonight. Thanks, Tucker.”
“Meeting someone?” Tucker’s head tilts to the side, and his lips turn up at the edges. “Anybody special?”
I’m completely unprepared to answer the question. Logan seems nice and he’s good-looking. Hopefully, he isn’t a nutcase like some of the other guys and tonight will go more smoothly. I won’t hold my breath. “We’ll see,” I offer lamely.
Tucker’s brows press together, and he gives me a strange look, pushing off the bar and scanning the customers. “You need anything, let me know, okay?”
“Will do.”
He nods once and moves straight toward a pretty blonde. She’s pressed to the bar, her elbows tight at her side. It’s one of the most basic tricks a woman learns to use as soon as she’s old enough to be in a bar. It offers up her cleavage enticingly. I haven’t yet met a man who can resist the call.
I laugh to myself and twist in my stool. It’s just about seven now, and Logan should be here any minute. I told him I’ll be easy to spot. My red hair is usually a beacon in even the busiest places, as long as I’m sitting. In a standing crowd I can get lost among all the giants. Short-people problems.
I don’t see Logan at the door, and I can’t find him in the small area on the other side of the bar, but I’m so intent looking for him that I don’t feel the presence come up to my back until a familiar voice is near my ear.
“So, do I have to keep an eye out on you tonight?”
Jonas’s voice is quiet but no less rich than it usually is. It slides down my shoulders, and goosebumps travel in its wake. I shiver from the unexpected surprise of hearing him so close to me. I look over my shoulder at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be behind the bar right now?”
“Taking a quick break and I saw you sitting here by yourself.” He does a quick scan before coming back and meeting my gaze. “Are you here alone tonight?”
“I’m supposed to be meeting somebody.” My voice has gone timid, something it normally doesn’t do, especially not around Jonas. I inwardly cringe. This isn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made, but it has to be in the top twenty.
“I see,” Jonas says and leans back.
My gaze immediately drops to his exposed arm. His skin is darker, more tan than it should be for spring in Portland, and I have always loved his size, skimming right around six feet tall. I’m so short I still have to look up at him. Even now as I’m sitting on the barstool, my head is tilted back so I can see him face-to-face. He’s the perfect type and the perfect build, not too bulky even though I know he works out often. And I know this because I’ve been with him many nights when he’s just returned from the gym. I brush that thought away before I jump down the rabbit hole of where it can lead.
Nowhere good. That’s where.
“I should get back to work.” He drops his arm from the bar, and his hands slide to his hips. “Be safe tonight, and let me know if you need me for anything.”
His brown eyes have darkened as he speaks, and for a moment I struggle to find the words to respond. Finally I clear my throat. “Thank you, I will.”
He dips his chin and flashes me the barest hint of a smile. He turns and my gaze stays on him as he walks away. I can’t help it. The jeans fit his backside and hips just right.
“Excuse me, Caitlin?”
I jump at the masculine voice calling my name. I’ve been so consumed with Jonas I completely forgot I meeting somebody else. God, I really suck at this dating thing.
I turn on my stool and paste on a smile. “Hi, that’s me. Logan?” I’m already holding out my hand for him to shake because it has to be him. He looks exactly like his profile pic on PerfectMatch. Thank goodness. Score one for honesty.
He’s clean-cut with his light brown hair nicely and professionally trimmed. There isn’t a hint of a five o’clock shadow. The pale blue polo shirt he’s wearing is neatly tucked into jeans; both are casual and well-fitting.
He’s cute with a great smile. He flashes it to me while he takes my hand. “Yeah. That’s me. Nice to meet you. Sorry I’m late, it took me a few minutes to find parking.”
“That can definitely be a problem around the city. Thanks for coming down here to meet.”
He rests his arms on the bar, the stool next to him now taken so there isn’t anywhere for him to sit. His smile is just as friendly as he replies, “I’ll go anywhere with a woman as pretty as you.”
I can’t help it. A slow heat starts at my throat, and I shake my head before it spreads to my cheeks where my blushing will be obvious to him.
“You’re sweet,” I say instead.
“Can be.” He shrugs and lifts his hand to Tucker, who has noticed my date has arrived. “Sometimes I can be a dick like anyone else, though.”
“Getting honest before our drinks show up? That’s a first.” I tease him and it feels natural. The way he holds himself and the things we’ve spoken about already make this easy.
But that’s all it is. Easy. Friendly banter and companionship. I know it from our first touch. He’s freaking gorgeous in a manly way without being overly brute. And I already know he’s intelligent. Now I can add honest.
“Ready for that drink, Caitlin?” Tucker asks as he reaches us.
“So, would asking if you come here often be a lame question right now?” Logan asks.
I shrug. “Yeah. This is my Cheers.”
“Ah. An eighties reference,” he hums. “I like it. Nice.” He digs out his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a credit card, pressing it to the bar. “Logan Atwater,” he says to Tucker. “Nice to meet you. Get this lady whatever she likes, and start a tab for us, please.”
Ohhhh…Manners with a side of bossy. Me likey.
“Will do.” Tucker picks up the card, and his eyes slide to me. “Drink?”
“Extra dry with vodka, double olives.”
“Nice,” he says. “Something new.”
“I’m adventurous,” I reply, and I’m smiling because Tucker is shaking his head like I’m an idiot, and even Logan is grinning at me like I’ve said the best joke he’s heard all day.
“I like this,” he says and turns to Tucker. “I know this is a martini bar, but do you have any India pale ales in bottles?”
“Got thirty-two of them. Name what you like and I guarantee we carry it.”
Logan rattles off the name of a brand I’ve never heard of before, and Tucker slaps the bar. “Nice beer. We have it. Be back in a sec.”
As soon as he’s gone, already pouring my drink with the fervor of a well-trained bartender, Logan slides in closer. He leans against the bar, facing me, close enough that we can talk, still out of my personal space bubble. His eyes do a sweeping motion around Dirty’s before returning to me with an amused smirk. “So, you’re an adventurer with your drinks, and you come to a martini bar often enough to joke with the bartender.”
“To be honest, I come here because it’s close to home so I can always walk if I need to. And this place is cool. Found it one day when I was out for a lunch a few years ago, came back, met the workers, kept coming back…” because I started sleeping with the head bartender now owner. I’m smart enough to at least leave that out.
“I suppose if someone as pretty as you has their own Cheers locale, it should be in a cool place like this. I dig it. Never heard of it until you mentioned it. But it’s got a great vib
e.”
It does. It’s chilled and rustic with splashes of elegance. A rich-sounding menu, but it’s affordable and the music is perfect. Not too jazzy, not hip-hop. It’s enough to keep you happy and swaying to the beat, but no one’s going to break out in a group-wide karaoke song anytime soon.
Tucker brings us back our drinks and leaves, sliding them close to us without saying a thing before turning to his next customer. Logan slides my glass closer to me so I don’t have to reach far.
“You’re a gentleman,” I say, once I’ve taken my first sip. “I bet you open doors for ladies, give them the best seat in a restaurant, and always walk nearest the street when you’re walking them safely home, don’t you?”
He’s holding his beer to his lips, and by the time I’m done, his shoulders are shaking. “What?”
“You’re a gentleman.”
“Well, I try not to be a dick. But what makes you presume all of that?”
“You said please, which guys never do when they talk to bartenders, and you let me order first, and I don’t know,” I flip my hand out toward him, “you just seem like that kind of guy.”
“I’m not sure being that kind of guy usually sounds like a good thing, but I’ll take it. And to answer your question, yeah…my mom was pretty insistent on teaching me how to be a good man. With a mom and three sisters it comes naturally now.”
He’s already mentioned his sisters to me. “You must have been picked on quite a bit.”
“How about we go grab one of those tables, and I’ll tell you all about the time they dressed me up like Princess Aurora?”
As easily as our conversation has kicked off, I’m not too concerned anymore about ending up on Twitter with the hashtag #FirstDateFail following me around.
“Sure.” Before I can grab my own drink, Logan has the thin stem of my martini glass clasped between his fingers. He backs up and gives me space to slide off my stool without bumping into him.
“See.” I nod toward my glass. “Gentleman.”
He rolls his eyes playfully and gestures for me to go in front of him. I’m teasing him, but in honesty, this all feels nice even if it is simple. It’s been so long since I’ve been on an actual date, I didn’t realize men still practiced chivalry.