I needed a drink.

The day had been too long, too full of surprise and anticipation-like nerves.

Forget that it had been my first official day with the Chicago branch of Singer-Paulson; forget that it was my first day not as the head of my team, but merely a cog in the department. Forget that I had another two missed calls from Marcus that I did not want to answer. Forget everything, as I did, because the only thing about my day that had actually mattered was Dean.

Dean. Mr. Cannon. My boss, my—what? My nothing.

My head spun. The cotton-taste of exhaustion in my mouth felt as if I’d woken up hungover, instead of clear minded and eager for a fresh start. I had been so hopeful for this job. I had assured my team that this move, despite its sacrifices, was good. And it would be, for the company, for those I brought with me.

But for me?

I pulled the car into Yellow Tail’s parking lot without thinking. It was the same bar where I had met Dean, where brother had insisted we come because of its “incredible, absolutely incredible shot sale”. It was risky coming here again so soon, especially as Dean frequented the place, but it was the only one in the city I knew. It was so close to my home, it had good beer, it—

It was the only place I knew.

I sighed, dropping my head to my hands. The car cooled now that the heat had turned off. The cold Chicago weather was not entirely unexpected, nor was it particularly unfamiliar—it was just different. It heavier.

I considered calling Joey, but that would lead to a question I didn’t want to answer and a conversation that I really didn’t want to have. He had already texted me twice since Friday, asking about the guy he didn’t know was Dean. Then a third message that I barely counted because it was just a string of inappropriate emojis.

One beer. Just one beer, until I could push the image of Dean sliding closer to me, eyes sharp and hands underneath his desk and—

One beer. Maybe two. Just enough to get the burn out of my pulse.

The bar wasn’t busy but had a decent crowd for a Monday night. That was one benefit in living in Uptown, I supposed—the bars wouldn’t ever be destination spots, but they would always have that air of anonymity that made cities so appealing.

I ordered whatever they had on draft and settled into a booth in the corner. The waitress brought it to me quickly, smiling widely. I nodded at her politely and she leaned an elbow on my table, cocking her head. With a start, I realized she was flirting. I frowned.

She raised an eyebrow but straightened, told me to holler if I needed her, and drifted off.

She seemed nice enough.

Nice enough wasn’t what I was looking for, though.

I needed to shake Dean from my head. I could compartmentalize—I would—and it was easy enough in the office, except when we were face to face. It was hardly my fault. His face was distracting and mine could only respond.

If he was less handsome, I’d be less distraught. Although, if he had been less handsome, I might not have been in this situation at all.

The beer was frothy and cold. I hoped it would cool my veins a little, if I drank enough.

I had always enjoyed people watching in bars. The clumsy way men held their bodies as they tried to look nonchalant, the twisted stretch of women as they pretended not to look around; friends, gathered, laughing at jokes I didn’t know.

I lost myself watching a game of pool, drinking the rest of my beer. I flagged down the waitress to order another.

She smiled, though it was a little less wide than before. “Sure thing. Anything else I can get you?”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” The way Dean had looked when I had asked that question—a half a breath away from dangerous, just this side of careless. He looked entirely unprofessional.

“Just the beer,” I answered gruffly, trying to ignore my own thoughts. The guys at the pool table had gone and I sighed, dropping my chin into my hand with my elbow propped on the table, looking around for new entertainment.

I scanned the room. A few men clearly just off work stood at the bar, a couple in a far booth by the windows, a couple of girls dancing a little awkwardly by the jukebox. It was filling up a bit more and I was glad I came when I did—I would be able to have my second beer and be out of here before anyone’s night actually started.

The waitress came back, depositing my drink. I tried to be a bit nicer this time, smiling in return. She seemed nice—if I was going to be frequenting Yellow Tail with any regularity, I ought to be nicer to the staff.

She gave me a little wave before disappearing behind the counter. I watched her, my gaze sliding down the bar to see the other employees and who they were serving. Surely, there was at least one person worth looking at here—

My eyes tripped. I nearly lost my grip on the beer, cursing softly under my breath as I sat it down on the table. I spilled a little on my hand and shook it to get the excess off.

Dean Cannon stared at me from across the room.

He had one hand wrapped around a beer bottle’s neck and another half raised, tugging on the knot on his tie.

His mouth was open and his eyes were obviously, even from across the room, wide. I cursed again.

I should never have come here. I knew that Dean came here—he had been here at least the other night. What was I doing, tempting fate?

A thrill shot through me followed by a wave of shame. Had I done this on purpose? I didn’t mean to but I might have. I couldn’t stop seeing the wide expanse of his shoulders, the way his face darkened when he tugged himself closer to the desk, trying to close the space between us even with a few feet of wood separating.

What was wrong with me? I tore my eyes away, glaring at the table top.

I was playing with fire. I half wanted to get burned.

“Jimmy.” Dean’s voice made me flinch.

I looked up. He had crossed the room so quickly his hand hadn’t even dropped from his tie. He looked at the other side of the booth, eyes darting between the empty seat and me.

Dean and I stood on a precipice.

He looked nearly frightened. I wanted to be the one to throw us over. “Have a seat,” I said.

Although he’d clearly been angling for it, his eyes still widened, face lighting up with surprise. He hesitated. “You’re sure?”

I made a show of looking around the room. “It’s crowded,” I lied. “Not a lot of places for you to go.”

He glanced around the half empty bar and waited a beat. Then he dove in after me. “You’re right.” He agreed to my lie and slid into the booth across from me. He tugged his tie nearly off and threw his coat and jacket on the seat next to him. His beer sat across from mine; his was a darker amber and it looked enough like his eyes that I wondered if he picked the color on purpose.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said after a minute. My eyes flew up from his drink to look at him. He was tapping his fingers against the table top with one hand, the other on his chin as he scanned the room. I was sure he wasn’t actually looking for anything in particular.

“I didn’t know you would be here, either,” I said. It tasted enough like a lie that a small flash of guilt bit through me.

Dean’s head turned, slowly, until he was looking at me. His gaze flickered down before dragging back up again and I shivered.

“I—Who are you, here?” I could see that he didn’t understand my question. His eyebrows drew together, his lips puckering and dipping into a frown. “I met you as Dean, and then Mr. Cannon. Who are you here?”

Dean considered this. He looked back at the bar, fingers freezing in their tapping. When he picked up his beer to take a drink, I followed suit. The silence should have felt tense, but—it was probably the least tense I’d felt all day. The urge to be near him was gone, but the fear of him seeing how badly I wanted to be closer was gone, too. I felt suspended mid-air. Whoever we were here, it was different to the office.

“This place,” Dean jerked his head, nodding at the bar, before he looked back at me. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before dropping his hand and folding them together, propping himself up a little. He commanded the booth, the bar, the room—he probably couldn’t help it. “I’ve been coming here since I was a teenager.”

I frowned, a pang of disappointment in my stomach that he was ignoring my question. “Legal drinking age,” I ignored the way disappointment colored my voice, “is twenty-one.”

Dean’s lips quirked and he winked at me. “It’s my favorite bar, you see.”

I felt a laugh in my throat. I didn’t let it out, but felt my eyes widen in surprise. “It is nice here.”

“I’ve never gotten with anyone here, though,” he said, turning back to look at the bar. “It’s not the kind of place I would pick someone up. Too—it’s my favorite place.”

The air we were suspended in was thinning by the second. I had already thrown us over a cliff. Would there be anything to break our fall?

I didn’t answer Dean, but I didn’t think he wanted me to.

Words that were unspoken sat between us. Words about propriety, about rules and consequences, chased away with each drink and sigh.

We finished our beers. Dean’s legs were long enough that they bumped into mine underneath the table a few times, and our eyes kept accidentally locking before we tore them away. It warmed me as the beer cooled. I felt normal for the first time all day.

“I’m Dean,” he said suddenly, staring at me with an openness that I hadn’t seen on his face before—even the Dean who made homemade pancake syrup hadn’t been quite this open. “It’s real nice to see you again.”

The breath caught in my lungs. I kicked it out with a burst and slid my hand across the table. It shook a little, but Dean caught it between his easily, watching me with that look and I could barely help it when I said, “I was hoping.”

His expression melted and then Dean was grinning, wide. “Is this okay?” His thumb stroked over my knuckles. I had never been more thankful to be sitting than I was then, my knees made out of jelly and my lungs barely able to fill with air at all.

“More than.” My voice came out in a whisper.

Dean’s eyes fell and when a soft sigh escaped my parted lips, his eyes narrowed before shooting back up to meet my gaze.

“Do you want another beer?” he asked.

Fuck it. “No,” I said. His face fell and I tightened my fingers around his. “I’ve got some at home.”

Dean started. Seeing him rattled, after watching him stay cool and collected all afternoon, sent a chill down my spine. I couldn’t fight my grin when he repeated, “Home?”

“My place,” I elaborated. “It’s—mostly boxes but. There’s beer.”

I could see the second his brain got with the picture. His whole expression cracked and he dropped my hand so fast, I would have been offended. Except he gathered his coats in his arms and said, “Let’s go.”

I laughed and reached into my wallet, pulling out a twenty and leaving it tucked underneath the edge of my glass. Dean was already shrugging into his jacket and I slid into mine just as quickly.

The waitress waved at me, but Dean chose that moment to place his hand at the small of my back, pressing me forward through the bar softly. The sparks radiating from his touch were too distracting to focus on anything else, manners included.

I managed to wait until we were outside the bar before I snapped. The sun had set and dusk provided just enough cover for me to spin around and push Dean hard. I watched with barely muted satisfaction as his back hit the brick wall behind him. I followed into his space immediately.

“Jimmy?” His lips were parted, already panting, his eyes blown wide. I slid a knee between his legs, our chests nearly pressed together and his back against the wall hard.

I grabbed two fistfuls of his coat and pulled him towards me.

Half a breath away, I hesitated. Dean closed the space.

We had technically already had a first kiss. But, truly, fuck that—because this, this was the best first kiss I had ever had.

Our lips crashed into each other, too hard, uncoordinated and desperate. There was no finesse, no careful maneuvering or awkward unsureness. This was pure want, pure, undiluted need. I hadn’t known if I was ever going to see Dean again and then, in the course of one day, had three one-on-one meetings and a half-date.

I vowed not to tell Joey and give him the satisfaction of playing matchmaker.

Dean groaned against my lips the second he pressed into me, hands flying up to grab at me. One of his hands slid into my hair while the other curled around the nape of my neck. He tugged, hard, and I hissed. The second my lips parted enough, Dean’s tongue pressed against mine and he loosened his grip in my hair, distracted by the way our kiss deepened and we fought.

I dropped my hands from their fists, letting one curl around Dean’s hip inside his bulky winter coat, while my other raised to his face. I stroked the hard, sharp jut of his jaw with my thumb, dizzy at the way he leaned into it, our kiss softened but it was no less passionate.

When we finally broke away, I was panting. Dean’s pupils were blown black and from the way we were pressed against each other, my knee still trapped between his spread legs, his hands gripped so tightly. We were both a second away from falling apart. The heat of him was intoxicating, my head swirling with endorphins and blood and need so thick, I was dizzy with it.

“We should get somewhere less—public, and soon,” I said, leaning forward to press a quick kiss and slightly nip at his jaw. Dean’s hips jutted forward when my teeth pressed against his skin and he nodded, a bit too quickly. I grinned.

“Jimmy,” he said, trying to follow me when I pulled my mouth away.

Feeling half-drunk by the time I detangled myself from his limbs, I turned around, breathing deeply. My new apartment was just around the corner, despite the fact that we had ended up at his place across town the other night.

I opened the door to my car for him and when he slid in, if we spent a few minutes pressed tight against each other and our lips were a little swollen before we started to drive, well, who was to tell.