2. Fern

Chapter 2

Fern

"He's here again. Hot and bookish." My best friend, Thora, pinches my butt as I tie my apron snugly around my waist. I yelp and swat at her as she grins, tying her apron in place.

The two of us have been working together for years. Thora's mom gets us a lot of gigs working the bars at the various professional sports stadiums around Pittsburgh, but tonight is the Holy Grail of lucrative shift work: New Year's Eve at Fuel Up, a popular bar near campus. It's also my final shift, since I'm starting a new job this semester and can't commit to a regular bar schedule.

I pull my cheat sheet from my pocket one more time, looking over the cocktail specials. A lot of them are standard drinks with Pittsburgh-themed names: Molten Iron for a rum and Coke, Neville Island Iced Tea instead of Long Island…that sort of thing. "I'm ready," I tell her, flexing my fingers.

"You better be ready for a fat tip." Thora makes suggestive gestures and elbows me as I try to ignore the subject of my infatuation. He comes in every few weeks and sits alone at the bar with a soda and a book, looking dark, sexy, and silently responsible.

I stomp on her foot with my Converse sneaker, and she yelps. "Will you knock it off with the tip talk? I already agreed it is going to happen. Don't make it weird."

Thora is one of the few people who knows that all my hard work academically and financially has meant there's a certain gap in my life experience. Namely, I've never had p-in-the-v sex. Like a lot of teen girls, I initially wanted it to be with someone special, and I spent all of high school working my ass off for a college scholarship, which meant that someone special never fit into my schedule.

Then, it just all felt weird and awkward,, and starting last year, I told Thora I'd settle for someone half as talented as my vibrator. But – I recognize a pattern here: – I wasn't willing to slow down my studies and fellowship applications to go out in search of anyone's tip.

So here I am, on New Year's Eve, in my senior year of college. All my paperwork has been submitted for all the things, and I have an incredible work-study position for the spring term. I told Thora I wanted to leave workaholic, sexless Fern behind and usher in the new year as a woman who enjoys herself every now and again.

It was Thora's idea to go for Mr. Designated Driver's big D. She guessed correctly that he'd be here tonight, ready to safely usher his friends home. Unless… I can convince him to take me home instead. Thora raises a brow at me as she serves a pitcher of beer to a crowd of muscular student-athletes.

My target is oblivious to it all, periodically flicking a long finger to turn the page of tonight's book. I lean forward on the bar, clasping my hands in front of my chest as I stretch to see if I can read the book title. Something about a Beautiful Game. I lick my lips and straighten my ponytail. "Can I ask you something?" He looks up at me, and his mouth opens and closes a few times. I probably startled him, so I just plow ahead. "Why are you sitting alone at a bar, reading a book, on New Year's Eve?"

His brow shoots up under the brim of his hat. "I hate crowds. I like reading." He shrugs.

I laugh. "Why not snuggle up on your couch with that book, then?"

And then he shoots me a real smile, a cocky grin that tips to one side before he licks his lips and closes the book. "Maybe I like having someone refill my drink while I read."

I pull out the nozzle and press the button to fire some more ginger ale into his glass. He laughs and watches me as I reach for a cherry to plop in. It's symbolic, although he doesn't know that.

I point to the book. "So, you're a soccer fan, then?"

He laughs again. "You could say that." He slides the book into his lap. "What about you? More of a hockey fan?"

I shrug. "I mostly think about juggling flaming bottles while mixing drinks. You know, really wow the crowds." A customer waves his hand, and I hold up a finger to the bookworm while I pour the guy a pair of cheap beers.

I catch my stranger's eye again and make my way back to him. He leans forward. "You're ambitious. I like it. But seriously, what are you into?"

I bite my lip and lean toward him. We're almost touching, and I can smell the ginger ale on his breath. I have to shout over the roar of the bar. "Honestly? I'm just trying to finish my degree and get out of here."

He nods, his eyes serious. "I can respect that. I'm right there with you."

I stare into his dark eyes, and I think my panties really do melt a little. "I'm Fern," I tell him, extending a hand.

"Wyatt." He gives me a shake, his hand warm despite the ice in the glass he's been clutching. "Wyatt Moyer."

The bar is three-deep with rowdy bodies, the jukebox is blaring, and I'm sort of just dumping various liquids into glasses and hoping for the best. I really can't ignore my work to talk to this guy, but now I know his name is Wyatt, and his palm is callused.

A customer waves a hand in front of my eyes to get my attention and Wyatt frowns, but I hold up an index finger again and wait on the newcomer. He leaves a soggy five on the bar, and I shove it into the tightly packed tip jar. My mouth waters, thinking about what I can do with that money. A new laptop, for starters, capable of running Python and saving my work. But if I get accepted into my dream fellowship in the U.K.,, I'll also need a ton of professional clothes, a student visa, the works.

I pour a few Molten Irons, envisioning the day I can actually afford my plane ticket across the pond. When I glance back at Wyatt, he's reading again. I keep one eye on him as I serve a round of beers mixed with a few pitchers of the spiked iced tea. I give a heavy pour on the rum, observing Wyatt's fingers turning the page gently, like he's worried he'll rip the paper. I watch as he uses his left index finger to smooth down the center of the book, pressing the spine open in a way that only seems lewd to me because I'm sex-starved. Surely.

There's a brief lull in the demand for drinks, and Thora catches me staring. She waggles her eyebrows, and I shrug. He's got a hint of dark stubble on his sharp jaw and full lips that tip up and down, moving between a frown and a small smile as he reads. His hand absently spins the soda glass, and I look my fill at his long fingers, the tendons in his hands practically dancing as he moves the cup.

It's now or never. There's only about two hours before midnight. Technically, I can leave whenever I want. I know Thora will keep my tips safe if I split before we close. I take a deep breath and grip the edge of the bar, standing in front of Wyatt. He puts the book down and looks up at me, smiling.

Emboldened by his warm facial expression, I charge ahead. "Any interest in me pouring drinks at your place? While you read … or whatever?"

Wyatt rubs a hand on his chin, considering. I'm not great at this, but I sense a look of combined surprise and desire on his face. He's quiet for a long time, long enough that I worry I blew it and ruined everything. Oh, god, what if he's gay? Or taken? As if he can read the panic on my face, he blows out a breath. "You're gorgeous, Fern. But are you sure? There's a lot of guys here who can maybe …" He looks around like he's trying to decide what a guy should be able to do for me.

I place a hand on his and meet his eye, drawing on confidence I had no idea lurked inside me. Desperate times, I guess. "Wyatt, I don't want a guy who can do anything other than get me off. I don't have time for more than that."

He takes a sip of his drink, chewing one of the ice cubes in his glass. I reach past his fingers and pluck the cherry back from his soda, biting it from the stem and hoping I don't look like an idiot. He leans back in his bar chair and I'm pretty sure he adjusts himself before he crosses his arms and squints at me. "Did my cousin put you up to this?"

"What? No. I don't know you. How would I know your cousin?"

Wyatt bites his lip and looks behind him, evidently spotting the cousin in question among the crowd of rowdy, laughing athlete guys. Wyatt pulls off his hat and rubs at his hair, which is a little long on top but shaved on the sides and back. Suddenly, all I want to do is run my hands through it, learn the shape of his haircut, and feel those sweaty strands between my fingers. He's hot. I look pretty good. This has to happen, right?

Wyatt nods, like he's finished having a similar internal monologue. "Your place or mine?"

I rip the apron off my waist and make eye contact with Thora, who claps a hand over her mouth and jumps up and down and makes the okay sign with her other hand. "Yours. I have to leave here through the back door. Meet me in the alley?"