Despite the early hour, the hotel’s bar had already begun to get a little crowded, and Scott finds a corner booth where we can be alone. He slides around the booth until his hip rests against mine, and his hand finds its way to my thigh again, a warm pressure I don’t want to lose, so I cover it with my own. I curve my fingers around his, burrowing into his palm, which earns me a slight squeeze. I think I’m in love.
We order sandwiches, fries, and beers, though to be honest, I don’t need the alcohol—I already have a buzz singing in my veins from Scott, his touch and his grin and his eyes. After a bottle or two of Killian’s Red, I start leaning into him. Everything he says makes me laugh, and I find myself resting my head on his shoulder or snickering into the sleeve of his T-shirt, anythi
