37

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Drake

I sat alone at the same table I’d shared with Saara just minutes ago. The chunky ice cube was melting into water at the bottom of my glass, each sip now only full of the lemon and rosemary that had garnished the Manhattan my best friend had ordered me, the liquor much stronger than a small pour of sauvignon blanc. Saara’s hope was that it would whittle away my nerves, making the prickles in my body less blunt, but it hadn’t worked. The thought of Easton and Mr. Boston still turned me into a nonstop-talking, jittery mess.

As did the—oh God—questions.

I didn’t even know where to start with those or how to process them.

Or what to even think.

But my best friend had been very strategic with her departure, leaving less than a ten-minute window before Mr. Boston’s arrival. A few minutes before eight o’clock, the door to the bar opened with force, a familiar face walking through the entrance, his eyes scanning the large space, unsure of who he was looking for.

I had