Picking up the Tab and the Girl

It was probably the earliest I had ever been to a pub, but Jennifer had insisted.

"If you're going to practice, and you need to learn everything, we need to start at the beginning, babe," she had said back at the apartment. "And the beginning is that you need to pick me up."

Imagining Jennifer, the wife of my best friend, the woman who had been cold to me for months, inviting me out so I could practice winning her over still felt surreal. Seeing how she chose to dress for it made the whole thing even harder to process.

For so long I had almost forgotten there was a body like that under the baggy clothes she normally lived in. Now the green-eyed beauty was leaning hard into the role of a woman who wanted to be seen, wanted to be wanted, wanted to go home with someone at the end of the night. The skirt was short and tight enough to show the long line of her thighs when she moved. The top was thin and low, the kind of fabric that clung and left very little to guesswork. Her heels were tall and made her already considerable height even more striking. Jennifer looked as sexy as I had ever let myself imagine, and she had done it for the practice session she believed we were running.

We left separately. I took an Uber. She drove. The implication that we would leave together later was not lost on me. No sense leaving a car behind if the plan was for both of us to head home as a couple. Before I ordered the ride, a text came through from her phone. She had found a place open early, a bar near the airport. A little far, but worth the journey. What waited at the end of the trip felt worth every dollar the driver was about to charge.

Walking into the place, my eyes found her immediately. She sat alone at the bar, slowly stirring a drink with a thin red straw. The sight of her stopped me for a second. Long legs crossed at the knee. The curve of her breasts under that thin top. The narrow waist the skirt and blouse both managed to highlight. And those green eyes, still half-hidden behind her glasses, still the feature that had kept pulling my attention even in the months when everything else stayed covered. In all the time she had hidden herself under hoodies and sweatpants, the eyes had been the constant. Now that the rest of her was on display, they still held the same power.

I walked up.

"Hey, honey," I said, using the pet name we had agreed on earlier.

She looked up, and the expression that crossed her face was pure disappointment.

"Babe," she said, voice low but firm. "You need to play along. If you're picking me up, we need to pretend we don't know each other. Come on. I promise I'll make it easy on you. It's your first time, after all."

The look of disappointment vanished, replaced by a playful smile and a quick wink. Of course. Play along. She wanted the full practice run, which meant I had to treat her like a stranger I was trying to impress.

I turned around, stepped back outside, drew a slow breath of the cooler air, then walked in again. Jennifer had returned to stirring her drink, looking every bit as delectable as before. I made my way to the bar and stopped a few stools away, trying to keep my hands steady.

"Scotch," I told the bartender once I caught his eye. "And another drink for the lady. Whatever she's having." I nodded toward her.

The bartender glanced over for confirmation. She smiled and gave a small nod of her own.

"Thank you," she said, turning slightly toward me. "It's not every day a girl meets a generous stranger like yourself."

The way she looked at me then, curious and warm with a spark of something that looked like real interest, was an expression I had never expected to receive from her. The app, that quiet glowing thing on my phone, was still working its slow magic. Every day it made another piece of the old fantasy look closer to real.

"I, uh, you're welcome," I managed, feeling about as smooth as wet cardboard.

"And you're humble too!" She slid off her stool and came to sit on the one beside mine, close enough that the scent of her perfume reached me. "Tell me, does this good-looking, humble, generous man have a name?"

"Dustin," I said, feeling heat rise in my face as I held out my hand. "I'm Dustin."

"Jennifer." She took my hand in hers. Her fingers were warm, the grip light but deliberate. "And I'm pleased to meet you, Dustin."

Our drinks arrived. She lifted hers. I tapped my glass against it.

"So," I said, filling the quiet that followed, "are you from around here?"

What came next was a stretch of conversation that felt both natural and completely manufactured at the same time. Jennifer carried most of the early weight, turning on the barstool so her knees angled toward me. The short skirt rode a little higher with the movement. She took a slow sip of her fresh drink and smiled over the rim.

"So, Dustin," she said, tasting the name like she was trying it out. "What brings a generous stranger into a place like this in the middle of the afternoon? Hiding from work, or just looking for interesting company?"

"Bit of both, maybe." I turned my glass in a slow circle on the coaster. "My warehouse job ended a while back. Shipping and receiving. Lots of pallets, lots of early mornings. These days I have more free time than I know what to do with."

"Warehouse work." She made a soft, considering sound. "That explains the shoulders. You look like someone who can lift more than a drink menu." Her eyes flicked down and back up, open appreciation written across her face. "The city can be lonely when the routine disappears. I know a few quiet spots that help. Little parks, a bookstore with a good coffee counter, that sort of thing. Do you get out much?"

"Not as much as I should." The honesty came easier than expected. "I spend a lot of time at home. Roommates. Nothing exciting."

Her knee brushed mine under the edge of the bar. The first contact was light, almost accidental. I nearly pulled back. The second time it happened she left her leg there, the warmth of her skin steady against mine through the thin fabric of my jeans. I forced myself to stay still and let the touch remain.

She noticed the tension in my posture and leaned in a fraction, voice dropping so only I could hear.

"I touched your leg," she murmured, still smiling for anyone who might glance our way. "You should probably touch me back. Light is fine. Just enough so I know you're paying attention."

I rested my hand on her knee for a few seconds, feeling the smooth skin just above the hem of the short skirt. The contact sent a clear spike of heat through me. She did not pull away. Instead she covered my fingers with her own for a moment, gave a small approving squeeze, then let go and returned to her drink as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Tell me more about the roommates," she said, louder again, playful. "Are they the kind who leave dishes in the sink, or the kind who actually buy groceries once in a while?"

"One of each, depending on the week." I managed a short laugh. "The place is fine. Quiet most days. Close to a few decent restaurants if you know where to look."

"Quiet can be nice." She traced the rim of her glass with one fingertip. "My own place gets noisy sometimes. It would be good to see somewhere calmer. What's the neighbourhood like where you are?"

I gave a vague answer about tree-lined streets and a grocery store within walking distance. She nodded, asked a follow-up about parking, then circled back a third time with a softer question about whether the living room got good afternoon light. Each time she steered the topic toward my apartment, the invitation hung a little more obviously in the air between us.

After the third mention she set her glass down, turned fully toward me, and spoke under her breath again.

"I've asked about your place three times," she said, eyes bright with the game. "Maybe this is the moment you invite me back to see it."

I took a swallow of the Scotch and set the glass down carefully.

"You know," I said, trying to keep my voice level, "if you wanted to continue this somewhere quieter, my place isn't far. We could head there whenever you're ready."

The smile that spread across her face was pure triumph. She broke character without warning, the practiced stranger vanishing in an instant.

"You did it!" she said, voice full of open pride. "Babe, that was perfect. A little clumsy at the start, but you got there. I'm so proud of you."

She finished the rest of her drink in two quick swallows, set the glass down, and reached for her small purse.

"Let's head home," she said, already sliding off the stool. "We don't want Marcus to get there before us and see us coming in with me dressed like this."

The reminder landed like cold water. For a stretch of minutes I had almost managed to forget the larger truth sitting under all the practice and pet names and soft touches. Jennifer was still Marcus's wife. Everything that had just happened, every smile and every brush of skin, existed because of an app and a string of carefully chosen commands. The pride on her face was real enough in the moment, but the foundation under it was something I had built without her knowledge or consent.

I paid the tab, followed her out into the early afternoon light, and tried not to look at the way the short skirt moved when she walked ahead of me toward the car. The practice session had gone better than I had any right to expect. The harder part would be deciding how far I was willing to take the next one before the risk of discovery became something I could no longer ignore.