4. Adrian

I didn't plan on picking anyone up tonight. In fact, the plan had been to have a few drinks, let Sophie use me as a human shield against unwanted attention while we dance for a little while, then duck out just after 10:00 p.m. because I have a shift at the clinic tomorrow. Until I saw him, one of the most handsome men I've ever seen, watching me.

He has brown hair that's just a little bit messy, like he's constantly pushing it back from his face but never bothers to actually style it. It's a little too dark for me to tell what color his eyes are, but they're wide and expressive as they stare right at me. Even in the dim lighting, I see his high cheekbones are tinged with an adorable blush. I can't help but wonder what that flush would look like spread over the rest of his smooth, pale skin.

He's sitting at a table just off the dance floor with two women—a brunette with golden bronze skin and a pale blonde with streaks of pink through her hair, who I assume are a couple based on the way the brunette has an arm wrapped around the other woman. They're watching me, too, but I don't really focus on it. This man has every bit of my attention.

I don't realize I've stopped moving until Sophie taps my arm and glances over her shoulder to look up at me. "What's wrong?"

I don't look at her, instead nodding my head in the man's direction.

Sophie giggles as she notices where my attention is. "Ah, got it. He's cute. You should go over there."

I want to. The idea of doing what I can to make this shy, handsome man blush all night is tempting, though. Except, I could be reading this wrong. It's entirely possible he's checking Sophie out. We're in a gay bar, but bisexual people exist. He also could be straight and here with his queer friends, much like Sophie is here with Casey and me.

But then, his lips wrap around the cocktail straw in his drink while he maintains eye contact, and yeah, I'm definitely not reading this wrong. Jesus Christ, how can a man who blushes like that look so sinful at the same time?

Before I can second guess myself, I take Sophie's hand and twirl her in Casey's direction. She laughs and braces her hands on his chest to stop them from completely colliding, and he looks at me with wide eyes as he stiffly settles his hands on her biceps. I nod my head in the direction of the man's table, and Casey nods in understanding. I hold his gaze for a moment, and there's a part of me that knows I should feel bad about abandoning Casey with Sophie, especially since he looks a little bit like he's been clubbed over the head. But he mouths a quiet "go" at me, so I mouth back a "thank you," and make my way over to the table.

As I approach, the two women stand up and link hands. The brunette looks up at me and greets me cheerfully, then immediately bids goodbye before dragging her partner toward the dance floor. The man stares up at me as I slip into the booth next to him. He's even more handsome up close, with the deepest brown eyes and impossibly long eyelashes. Pretty isn't usually a word I would use to describe most men, but I'll be damned if it doesn't fit him perfectly.

"Hello," I say with the easy-going smile I've spent way too long perfecting, one that says "I'm confident" even if I'm not feeling it in the moment. Although, right now, I actually am, especially when I watch this man swallow hard before offering a tentative smile.

"Hi," he says, his voice soft, and a little lilting.

"I didn't mean to chase your friends away." I glance toward the dance floor, where his friends are wrapped around each other and swaying to the music within full view of the table.

"Oh, you didn't," he says in what I now recognize to be a Southern accent. It's not too pronounced, so probably not deep south. "We were about to get up to dance, anyway. So don't you worry about it, darlin'." His eyes widen fractionally, like he didn't quite mean for the term of endearment to slip out. But he recovers quickly. "I'm Jamie," he says, sticking his hand out. He flashes a grin at me, and my eyes are drawn to the slightest dimple on his right cheek. Well, fuck. I thought I might have the upper hand when I came over here based on the flustered blush that tints his cheeks. But apparently dimples are my weakness. And Southern accents.

I mentally shake myself and remind myself to focus. "Adrian," I say, taking his outstretched hand and giving it a small squeeze. "So, where are you from?"

"Hmm?" Jamie hums, blinking for a moment.

"Your accent. It's Southern, right? One of the Carolinas if I had to guess," I say.

"Yeah, actually. North Carolina, just outside Raleigh," he says, his brow wrinkles in amusement. "How'd you know?"

"I'm good at differentiating accents. My dad was in the military, so we moved a lot." The second the words are out of my mouth, I brace myself for the usual response—something along the lines of "it must have been so much fun getting to move to cool places all the time," when in reality, most of the places I've lived are pretty boring. I don't know why I even mentioned it. It's not exactly one of the pieces of information about myself that I use as a conversational pick-up. Usually I use being a vet for that. But something about Jamie is throwing me off my usual routine.

Especially when he says, "So can you do different accents or just identify them when you hear them?"

I let out a surprised laugh. "The latter. You don't want to hear me trying to do any accents."

"Damn, and here I was hoping you could entertain me," he teases.

"Well, I may not be able to perform any accents for you, but I'm not a bad dancer." I brush my thumb along the back of his hand. "Would you care to dance with me?"

He glances down at our hands and blushes like he only just realized he never withdrew his hand from mine. He slowly pulls it from my grasp, and a sharp stab of embarrassment courses through me. Oh, God, did I somehow screw this up? Did I make him uncomfortable by not letting go of his hand sooner? Was I misreading our easy banter?

I'm about to backtrack when Jamie stands and offers me his hand again. For the second time, I take it. Now that we're both standing, I can get a better sense of his build. He's maybe one or two inches shorter than me and lean, almost like a dancer, or like he does yoga. His fingers lace with mine, and he squeezes my hand as he takes the lead, finding a spot on the dance floor that's in view of both pairs of our friends. Whether it's on purpose or not, I'm not sure, but I'm relieved either way. Not that I feel unsafe with he. Quite the opposite. There's something inherently trustworthy about him. He's… genuine, open. It's equal parts refreshing and discomforting.

Because of the sheer number of people crammed onto the dance floor, there isn't a lot of space between us. But it's still too much for my taste. I want to get my hands on his waist. And hips. Honestly, any part of him he'll let me. Now that we're on the dance floor, though, he pauses, like he's unsure of what to do next. It's almost a little funny how quickly he flips between boyish nervousness and complete confidence. It's surprisingly charming, though, so I don't mind taking the lead again. I reach forward, taking his other hand, then lift them to rest on my shoulders. He quickly gets the message and grins as he steps closer and wraps his arms around my neck. My hands slide along his arms, down his sides to his hips. Then, we start to move.

I let the thrum of the bass and the electricity in the surrounding crowd wash over me with surprising ease. Our bodies are almost completely in sync as we dance. It feels like his body was made to mold against mine. My hand fits perfectly on the small of his back, and he's the perfect height for me to rest my forehead against his. It's been a long time since I've had this much physical chemistry with someone, especially so quickly, and I can't help losing myself in it. I'm not really sure how much time passes, each song running together so I can't tell when one ends and another starts, which, I guess is the mark of a good DJ. But somewhere in the back of my mind I worry we've been dancing too long, if his friends are getting upset that I stole their friend away from them. Or if Casey and Sophie are feeling ignored. I'd check my watch, but I don't want Jamie to get the impression that I no longer want to be here because, surprisingly, I do. I could easily spend another few hours simply dancing with him, my shift at the clinic tomorrow be damned.

My train of thought is interrupted by a hand landing on Jamie's arm in my periphery. He startles slightly, and we both look over to see his brunette friend. She leans up to say something into his ear, then his eyes dart between her and me a few times, before settling back on me. "Sorry, can you—"

With a reassuring hip squeeze, I murmur in his ear, "Go ahead. I'll be here." I should probably take the interruption as an opportunity to check in with Casey and Sophie, anyway.

He nods while carefully untangling himself from our embrace. He barely steps away to talk to his friends when I feel Casey's hand settle on my shoulder.

"Hey, I was just about to come find you," I say, turning to face him. "Where's Soph?"

"Bathroom," Casey says. "Is he leaving?" He nods toward Jamie.

"I'm not sure. I think his friends might be, but I'm not sure if he's going with them." I wouldn't blame him if he did, but God, I hope he stays. At least long enough for me to ask him if he wants to leave with me instead.

"Sophie and I were thinking of heading out, but I wanted to make sure you'd be alright by yourself."

I don't even hesitate to nod. "Yeah, you two go ahead. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I don't mind hanging out—"

"No, I'm good, really," I insist. "You go with Sophie and make sure she gets home safe, okay?"

"Alright, but text me so I know you're alive," he says.

"You too," I say, just as Sophie returns from the bathroom.

"Hey, what'd I miss? Where's your boy?" she asks with a teasing smile.

I glance over my shoulder to see Jamie hugging both women, and I can't help feeling a little hopeful. "I think he's saying goodbye to his friends too," I say.

"So you'll be okay if we go?"

"Yeah, I'm good," I say again. "Promise."

Sophie nods and leans up to give me a hug. "Be safe. Make good choices. Text us so we—"

"Know I'm alive. Yes, Casey already said that," I say with a laugh.

We finish our goodbyes, then I turn back to find Jamie by himself. He smiles and closes the distance, immediately wrapping his arms back around my neck. My hands come to rest on his hips like it's reflex.

"Your friends are leaving too?" he asks, and I nod. "But you're staying," he says carefully.

"I wasn't quite ready for my night to be over," I say, letting the implication hang in the air.

"Neither was I." His fingertips drift into my hair, and he presses gently, guiding me to dip my head and rest my forehead against his. There's a brief pause, and our lips are a hair's breadth away when he takes a deep breath, his exhale warm on my skin. Then he closes the remaining distance.

The kiss is tentative at first. Gentle and slow, which is a sharp contrast to any kiss I've previously shared with a relative stranger in a bar. Although nothing about my night with Jamie has been typical. Testing the boundaries, I press closer to deepen the kiss. He follows my lead, lips parting willingly. My tongue flicks out to tease his bottom lip, and he sighs into my mouth, his body practically melting into my chest. I slide my hand to the small of his back again, this time slipping just under his silk shirt, and yeah I definitely need to get him alone and under me because the moan I get in response is almost enough to send me to my knees right there. Or on top of me. Honestly, I'm not picky as long as he keeps being this responsive.

I go to pull back, but then his hand slips into my hair to anchor our mouths together. Jesus Christ. It takes all my strength to tear my lips from his, and he lets out a small gasp as soon as we part. I take a moment to ground myself, feeling a little more than breathless, then open my eyes to look at him. His eyes are still closed, and his cheeks have that adorable flush to them again. God, he's so damned pretty. I quickly dip my head to kiss him again, unable to help myself, then pull away just enough to murmur against his lips. "Would you want to get out of here?"

The silence that meets my question almost immediately makes my stomach sink. He's going to say no. Which is absolutely his right, and I wouldn't be upset at all. Nauseated, maybe. Definitely embarrassed. But it's not like I haven't been turned down before. And while it never feels great, I never have any bad feelings toward the person. I usually try hard to make that clear, too, because there are few things that suck worse than saying no to someone only to have them either throw some sort of hissy fit or try to use guilt to garner a different outcome. So if he says no, I'll back off without hesitation. But, God, it's going to sting—more so than any past rejection, and I don't even want to try to unpack that feeling.

I pull back, and slowly withdraw my hand from under his shirt, opting to rest it more innocently on the middle of his back. Then he opens his eyes and blinks a few times.

"Yes," he blurts before taking a quick breath. "Sorry, yes." He sounds calmer this time, then he smiles. "I'd love to get out of here. Let me close my tab."