Stalling.
That’s indication enough that there’s reason behind her girls’ trip （woohoo）， but she’s not willing to share, which only means it’s something she’s sensitive about.
And I shouldn’t be curious. I really should just leave her alone. Pay my bill, go to my room, and get some sleep before my early morning flight.
But . . . hell, I’m feeling good enough from my alcohol consumption and I’m feeling irritated enough from my interaction with my pa that blowing off some steam would ease this tension that’s built up in my chest.
Spending a night with Cora is appealing.
It’s more than appealing. It’s what I want to fucking do, in this moment, without thinking about it. It’s what I want.
Finally, she tacks on a smile and says, “No reason, just looking to have fun.”
She’s lying, but that’s okay.
I don’t need the truth.
I don’t need her story.
I just need to know that she wants to spend the night with me.
Fuck the wall I built up.
Fuck Turner.
And fuck my pa.
She wants to let loose and so do I.
“Then let’s have some fun for one night only, Coraline. That’s all it’ll be,” I say. Leaning over the bar, I ask, “Excuse me, can we get a bottle of tequila over here, some salt, and limes?”
The bartender nods and gets to work on retrieving our items.
“Tequila?” Cora asks, a nervous tilt to her lips.
“Afraid?”
Her brow creases. “No. Just . . . you know, making sure you can handle it.”
I smirk. “I can handle it. Can you?”
“As long as it’s not Fireball, I’m good.” She twirls her drink on the bar top. “Fireball and I have a love-hate relationship—well, actually, it’s more toxic than anything.”
“Sounds like there’s a good story behind that.”
“No good stories, really horrible ones, actually. I’ve had fun with Fireball, but my mornings after really aren’t fun at all.”
“Can’t handle it?”
She shakes her head. “In the moment, I can handle it just fine. But then, in the morning, I swear to the good Lord I’ll never drink it again.”
“And you do anyway.”
“It’s a toxic relationship.”
I chuckle as the bartender hands me a small bottle of Don Julio, two shot glasses, a shaker of salt, and limes, all presented on a wooden board. We must not be the only ones who have ordered a bottle of tequila.
“Look at this,” Cora says. “How cute. How many shots do you think are in this bottle?”
“From the amount of lime slices provided, I would say four shots per person.” I glance at her. “Can you do four?”
She slips her wavy brown hair over her shoulder and says, “Easy.”
“Let’s see.” I pour us both a shot and then grab her hand. I bring it to her mouth, and she licks the spot right above her thumb while she keeps her eyes intent on mine. I grab the saltshaker and drizzle some salt on the back of her hand. I do the same to myself and then hand her a lime and a shot glass brimming with tequila.
She holds the glass up to me and says, “To a good night.”
“To a good night,” I repeat. Together, we lick our hands, down the tequila, and then bite into the limes. When she sets her glass down, I tilt my head to the side and say, “No grimace. I’m impressed.”
“It’s a smooth tequila. Makes it easier.”
“I agree.” I refill the shot glasses and ask, “After these shots, are you still planning on going to Thunder From Down Under?”
“I could be persuaded otherwise.” She smirks.
I slowly nod and hand her the shot glass. “Then drink up.”
“Have you always been this funny?” Cora asks.
“I didn’t say anything,” I say as we both sway to the side.
“It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it.”
“But I didn’t say anything,” I repeat, a chuckle on the tip of my tongue.
“Precisely.” She nods and holds up her second mojito. “That’s what makes it so funny.”
“I think you’re drunk.”
Her eyes widen in shock and she clasps her hand to her chest. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”
I hold up two fingers in front of her face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
She studies them, then reaches up and squishes my fingers together. She smiles and says, “Enough to give me just the right amount of pleasure.”