Laken
The Scribe & Scholar ends up being a low-key bar filled with dark furniture, dark lighting, and over twenty taps of beer. It’s the kind of place where patrons go to unwind after a long day on Wall Street, which pretty much describes most of the clientele. Men in pressed business suits crowd the round booths, slamming shots and nursing dark stout beers. They keep to themselves mostly, quietly chatting with friends, laughing over a joke here and there and loosening their ties. The place is relatively small, and definitely not designed for the overexuberant, drink till you puke crowd. I appreciate the darkness. If I run into anyone I know from NYU with this rock on my hand, I’m fucked.
Now ask me why I haven’t taken it off since he slipped it on my finger.
Go ahead. I’m waiting.
Notice I haven’t answered? The reason is because I have no fucking idea why.
The minute he slipped it on my finger, it was like the band fused with my skin. My mind knows everything is fake, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t like the way it sparkles on my hand—or that I didn’t sit and write Mrs. Niall Mackay twenty-seven times with little hearts around it like I was back in eighth grade and crushing on the cute boy in class.
Keep rolling your eyes. Do you know about the first rule of marketing? If you don’t believe in what you’re selling, the buyer will see right through you. That’s Advertising 101, and it works in all facets of life. Don’t believe me? Look it up.
Yep, eleven thousand dollars per semester to learn how to delude myself. I’m living the dream here, folks.
I sit quietly alone in a booth in the back, while Niall steps outside to call and check on Sophie. I had a moment of panic when he asked if I needed to check on Preston as well, and I stuttered, making up some shit about having just sent a text and he was fine.
Hell. I’m going to hell for that one.
As I glance around the bar, my eye catches a patron who’s nursing a highball at the bar and staring at me like I’m on the menu. Now, I’m not holier-than-thou—as you can see, I’m a prime example that those who live in glass houses cannot cast stones. However, one fake relationship per month is my limit, so deciding to use my newfound status to my advantage, I run my fingers across my face and make a huge production of flashing my ring. Diamonds are like anti-kryptonite to some men, and I’m not shocked when he turns around in a huff.
Drumming my fingers on the table, I’m just about to check my watch again when the door opens and Niall smiles as he makes his way over. Without hesitating, he slides in right beside me as opposed to across from me. Normally, I’d roll my eyes and make some comment about personal space. I mean, tell me you don’t see couples do that same-side sitting shit in restaurants and not want to slap them? Unless your table is so huge that you need FedEx to deliver a salt shaker, scoot the fuck over, and eat like normal human beings.
But for some reason, the simple gesture fromhimflusters me in a way I’m not used to.
A moment of silence barely passes before a waitress in tiny shorts and a white crop top swings her hips over to our table and winks at Niall. “Hi, I’m Molly. What can I get you, handsome?”
I narrow my eyes at her and lift my left hand, tracing my bottom lip with the pads of my fingers.
Yeah. Hi, bitch. I’m right here. See the ring?
Niall is oblivious to the whole thing, smiling like the village idiot at both of us.
Men.
Raising an eyebrow at me, he motions to the drink menu on the table. “Laken?”
Molly could bring us two glasses of motor oil for all I cared. I was over this the minute she walked over and opened her mouth. It’s the jealous woman in me. We all have her inside us, and if a girl tells you any different, she’s lying.
“Whatever you’re having.”
“We’ll have two pints of Guinness and two shots of Irish whiskey.” Niall holds up two fingers on each hand, because I suppose Molly’s too stupid to comprehend the order without visual cues.
Molly winks again and leans over much farther than necessary to place cardboard coasters on the table in front of him. Once she sufficiently shoves her overinflated tits in Niall’s face, she gives him a syrupy smile. “Be right back with that, sugar.”
Ugh. Wink at him again, and I’ll fix that eye tick for you, honey.
Wait, why the hell am I being so territorial? Niall and I aren’t a real couple. We’re together for a purpose. That’s it. There’s no “us.” So why does it make me so insane that this chick is hitting on him like there’s a neonAvailablesign flashing across his forehead? This is nuts. Nothing about today makes sense. My brain is twisting everything, making four and four somehow equal twenty.
Because there’s no possible way that it can equal twenty, right?
After Molly disappears, I try to shake the fog from my head. “Beer and liquor? Be careful. A girl might think you’re trying to get her drunk and take advantage of her.”
Niall looks up, his gaze hooded and electric. “A girl might be right.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. Not in the “ha-ha, what you said is asinine and ridiculous” way, but more in the “inappropriate giggle during a funeral” way.
I know, way to kill the moment, Laken. Just go right ahead and deflate the ego of the guy both you and Molly are lusting over. Well, cut me some slack. Nervous laughter is kind of my thing.
