Porter parked the car. I was about to open my door, but he hurriedly came around to the passenger side. He waited as I adjusted my dress, then opened the door.
“What a gentleman,” I said in an overly Southern accent.
“Hey, my mama raised me right,” Porter said as he held open the door. “Automatic locks or not, I’m opening your door.”
We walked up the narrow sidewalk to the pub, dodging kids on scooters and middle-aged retirees walking their dogs. Porter opened the door of the pub. A shiver went down my spine as his hand, once again, found the small of my back, guiding me inside. My god. This man had absolutely no business touching me, a touch-starved woman. As his hand lingered, enjoying the warmth of his palm at the small of my back felt so good. And safe.
Plastered on the wall of Hemingway’s were pages from the author’s books, like The Old Man and the Sea. There was an extensive number of dartboards, pool tables, and old-fashioned pinball machines in the dark, hazy pub. It was the perfect hipster hideaway. I’m surprised I had never been here before. This was right up my alley. Porter assured me that besides having the best craft beer in the city, that they also made a mean burger. He actually “chef kissed” his fingers to emphasize and said it was “heavenly.” When anyone describes a burger that way, you know they aren’t lying.
We sat in a booth near the pool tables. A lumberjack-sized waiter with a dashing blond ZZ Top-style beard, wearing a knit cap and flannel in mid-August, strode over to us. I looked around the pub and saw a ton of guys dressed this way. Clearly, it was the hipster uniform du jour. “Hey, guys, what’s up? What can I get you?” he asked, pulling a pencil from behind his ear.
I looked down at the menu and could feel my nose scrunching up. Everything looked so good. There were so many choices on the burger menu alone that I could not decide. With food, I was usually good at deciding on just about everything fairly quickly but tonight, I was overwhelmed by everything, including the menu.
“Would you like me to pick something from their brewery list, Ari? I’m great at making drink choices for people,” asked Porter. His eyes twinkled in the dim lighting. Somehow, this soft, hazy, slightly dingy pub made this man look irresistible. Damn. How could a man look good in any lighting? I needed a lot of concealer and highlighter to make that happen.
“Yes please,” I said, my eyes not moving from his.
With his megawatt smile, Porter turned to our waiter. “She’ll have the summer pale ale. I’ll have the vanilla black stout. And can I get some chili cheese fries? I think a large order will do. Extra queso.”
Did he just order chili cheese fries? Extra queso? Sir, just marry me.
A couple of minutes later, the waiter brought over the beers. Porter held up his beer and motioned for me to hold up mine for a toast.
“You did well today, James,” he said. “And this is one small step in the design process. So…cheers. Oh. And fuck Greer!” We clinked our cold glasses, and I took a sip. Damn. Porter was good at picking out drinks. I’m much more of a wine than beer kind of girl. A man I can trust with my drink order and a chili cheese fry lover. He was really ticking all the boxes. All the boxes for what? I didn’t know.
“Hmm,” I moaned as the smooth, crisp beer hit my tongue. “Excellent choice, Porter.”
He smiled, then took a sip of his stout. “Good. I told you. I’m very good at picking out drinks for people. It’s a gift.”
I nodded. I wonder what other gifts he had. Nope. Ari. Don’t think about sex at happy hour. Focus on the fries, girl. There’s extra queso.
In a matter of minutes, the waiter brought over two plates and a large basket of chili cheese fries, drenched in toppings. Porter ordered two more of the same beers.
“Ladies first,” motioned Porter as he handed me a fork. I stabbed the massive mound of fries and took a bite. It was glorious. I wasn’t exaggerating their taste just because I was starving. They were gourmet chili cheese fries. The homemade queso that topped fresh cut fries was spicy and smoky and the bison chili was equally amazing. It was the fanciest order of chili cheese fries I had ever had.
“I thought you said this was a bar,” I scoffed at Porter, mouth full of fries. Clearly, I’d lost my home training. “These fries look and taste like Wolfgang Puck made them. For the Oscars.”
Porter laughed. “Yeah… I forgot to tell you. The guy who owns this spot is like a Le Cordon Bleu trained chef. Friend of a friend.”
“Another guy you know?” I asked, putting more fries on my plate.