I down the tequila without grimacing — no small feat, let me tell you — and set the glass down with a hard tap on the table. My whiskey sours seems tame in comparison with that oily fire I just tossed into the back of my throat.

God, this girl was getting under my skin. Or maybe I’m just out of my element, I don’t know. Because I don’t want to be here anymore, sitting next to her, watching her watch me with those black, inquisitive eyes.

And I know she’s trying to rile me up. I can almost see the cogwheels churning in that pretty head of hers as she tries to figure out what’s going to send me off into a murderous rage.

No wonder her father’s gone prematurely gray.

Her plate of fries arrives a few minutes later and she begins devouring the things. The Goose makes good food, but there’s nothing to be done with fries — they’re just strips of deep fried potato. Slapping ketchup — catsup, really? — on it never improves matters. Except Holly seems to think it does.

The fries are drowning in red. Her fingertips are red. She has a drop of red on the lace of her vest — I’m surprised there isn’t more of a massacre on her clothing from the way she’s shoveling food in her mouth.

I’m tempted to sneak into the bathroom and climb out through the window.

Why the hell did I have to suggest a place that I frequent? It’s not like I know people here, but I recognize quite a few faces — most of which quickly turn away when I glance at them.

Regulars, like me.

Some of the staff.

The manager, who at this very moment has his arms crossed over his chest and is trying very hard to keep a straight face as Michael chats animatedly to him.

They both look our way and hurriedly turn around to face the restaurant’s entrance.

My cheeks go hot again.

This must rank as Number One Most Embarrassing Day Ever.

Holly finishes her fries. And most of her beer. She moves to wipe her fingertips on her skirt, catches my horrified look in her direction, and puts her elbow on her knee, dangling her messy fingers in the air as if they have the plague.

I catch the waiter’s eye and make the universal gesture for napkins — rubbing my fingertips together — while secretly wishing he would bring a finger bowl instead because I doubt napkins are going to cut it.

He arrives a few minutes later with a stack of napkins and another beer.

Had she somehow asked for another one, or was he just pre-empting?

The waiter takes away Holly’s ketchup-soaked plate and the empty glasses.

“Uh, excuse me?”

The waiter turns back to me, eyes sticking for a second on Holly before he can force them back to me.

I get it, okay — she’s pretty. But really?

“Look, we’ve been here for a while already. Is there a table opening up—”

“You are the first on the list, Mr. Potter.” The waiter’s assurance would have gone down better if he hadn’t been concentrating on Holly’s thighs while he delivered it.

“Fine,” I say, not bothering to adjust the irritation in my voice. “But please, we really—”

“Relax, Josh.” Holly’s taps the side of my leg. “I know my dad. He’s going to be busy for at least another two hours.”

I knew her dad too, but that wasn’t why I was rushing this.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur, slogging back the rest of my drink and standing without bothering to hear her reply.