“How old are you, Gwen?” His dark eyes spark, and the question drips with—I don’t know what to call it. Promise? Knowing? He has to know I’m younger, but I’m also not so young that I’m afraid to take him by the hand and drag him out of the bar just to get him alone. So I don’t slink away. I just tilt my head and let my eyes flit down to the grim line of his mouth. “I’m twenty-seven, Bash.”
