I'm irritated.

I'm irritated that Wells could see through me so easily during our short twenty-minute conversation in the bookstore together earlier today.

But he's right; I don't like being a journalist. Initially, I thought it was something I'd grow into, that maybe I just needed a few months to adjust, but the truth is, I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being.

I hate that I'm always stuck writing about topics like paper straws and new bike paths along the waterfront. I hate that every article has a sad ending. That's it's never heartwarming stories of long-lost lovers reuniting, or couples falling in love after a fender bender, or a man proposing during a baseball game.

And now I have this stupid journalism degree that I'm stuck with. I invested so much time and energy, took on college loans because this was what I thought I wanted, only to realize I actually hate it. Yes, I know, a lot of hate going on here. And the worst part is that I haven't even told anyone about it because it's embarrassing.

And then there's Wells. What the hell is happening there?

It's starting to freak me out. Did I have these same feelings when I first met Beckett? I can't recall. I just remember being attracted to him... Have things with Wells always been like this, and I've just been oblivious to it this entire time? I mean, it's not like we've ever worked this closely together until now, so I guess I wouldn't even know.

This isn't supposed to be happening, not this soon. I'm supposed to be getting over my two-year relationship. Not gawking over my coworker. There are unwritten timelines and unspoken rules for these kinds of things. And all the while, he, I'm sure, is completely unaware of the effect he has on me.

"Is he bothering you again?" Ellis startles me, pulling me from my thoughts.

I snap my head towards Ellis and Delaney as we ride in the back of the Uber, a blush creeping onto my face. "What? No. Who? No, why would he be bothering me?" I say, letting out a nervous laugh.

Her brows furrow in confusion, and Delaney glances at me in response to my reaction. "Beck. Is he still bothering you?" She points to my phone, which is buzzing in my hand with a call from Beckett. I hadn't even realized it was ringing.

"You look like you're having a mini meltdown inside that head of yours," Delaney says, her eye narrowing at me.

"Oh," I say, quickly hitting ignore on Beckett's call. "Um, yeah. He still calls and texts me every day." I shake my head, trying to shove Wells out of my mind.

"Well, it's a good thing we're going out tonight," Ellis says, sliding closer and giving me a side hug from her place in the middle seat. "Tonight, we're drinking to forget about stupid Beck Moore!"

Ellis had been pushing for a night out, claiming that we haven't had a proper girls' night since my breakup with Beckett. But I think she just wants an excuse to go drinking with us.

We pile out of the cab and head towards the bar, but not before Ellis stops to take pictures of us in the clothing brand that sent her a bunch of clothes to promote on her Instagram.

They are a variation of similar black dresses: Ellis in a skin-tight strapless dress, Delaney in a faux leather dress in almost the same cut as Ellis's, and me in a very short silky-looking slip dress. We look like we belong in Charlie's Angels, and I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that.

"I don't feel comfortable wearing this," I murmur, trying to keep my dress from blowing up in the wind.

Ellis stops in her tracks, lowering her phone to give me an appraising look, while Delaney turns her gaze toward me as well. Standing in front of the bar, I'm caught between their scrutiny.

"What?" I ask, perplexed by their expressions.

"Junie, that dress and those shoes. You look absolutely stunning," Ellis declares.

"When Beckett sees you in that dress in these pictures, he'll rue the day he ever even considered glancing at another woman," Delaney adds.

I couldn't care less about what Beckett thinks. I want to say but I hold my tongue and roll my eyes at the two of them instead.

"Don't look so sad, June," Delaney says, taking hold of my shoulders and giving me a gentle shake. "We're here to forget about Beckett, remember?"

I let out a heavy sigh, my head falling into my hands. "I don't think I need help forgetting about him," I mumble to myself.

Delaney furrows her brows as I look back up at her. "What?"

I shake my head and force a small smile. "Nothing," I say quickly, avoiding the subject, as Ellis interjects, "Let's go get drinks now."

Delaney continues to study me for a brief moment before she reaches for the bar's handle and swings it open. A wave of hot, muggy air rushes out to greet us. Inside, the place is already bustling with people, and Mariah Carey's "Fantasy" blares from the speakers.

The bar is a classic dive, its hardwood floors showing years of wear and tear. Every available inch of space is covered in beer, football, and whiskey posters. Neon signs advertising Budweiser, Guinness, and Red Stripe plaster the walls, casting a dim, moody ambiance. The primary source of illumination comes from the neon lights and the DJ stationed at the back of the room near the makeshift dance floor.

Ellis, raising her voice above the music, suggests, "Bar?"

Both Delaney and I nod in agreement, making our way through the bustling crowd until we find an available spot at the bar.

The bartender leans in. "You ladies here for 90s night?" He asks

Delaney's eyes light up. "Oh, it's 90s night? I love the 90s," she exclaims.

He nods. "Can I offer you guys our special Appletini tonight?"

"Can we actually have three shots of tequila each?" Ellis requests.

"No!" I shout, my objection coinciding with Delaney's response, "I'm not taking shots," as she shakes her head adamantly.

Ellis, undeterred, pleads, "Oh, come on! We used to do it all the time!"

"Yeah," I chime in, "when we were in college and didn't get hungover after three drinks."

Ellis rolls her eyes, seemingly ignoring our concerns, as the bartender pours us each three shots of tequila. She swiftly takes her phone from her bag and starts capturing our trio in a series of candid shots for her Instagram feed.

As she snaps away, Ellis says, "Okay, one of you needs to take away my phone if I get too drunk. I don't need eight hundred thousand people knowing I haven't had sex in over six months or that I actually hated the juice company that sponsored me last month."

Delaney, looking amused, interjects, "And you wanted to have a no-boys pact because why?"

"Delaney," Ellis scolds, her tone light but warning.

Delaney turns her attention to me, rolls her eyes, sparking my curiosity as I furrow my brows in response.

"Twenty bucks she gives in first," Delaney whispers to me, causing a chuckle to escape my lips.

"Hey!" Ellis exclaims, swatting Delaney's arm lightly. "There will be no giving in. Now, take your shots." She demands, firmly sliding our drinks in front of us.

"Okay, ready?" Ellis says, and we nod in unison. "One tequila." We all down the first shot.

"Two tequila," I chime in, and we swiftly follow suit.

"Three tequila," Delaney stumbles and gags slightly on the 'ila,' drawing chuckles from us, and we slam down the final shot.

"Floor," we chorus as we pivot, heading for the dance floor.

Delaney coughs and gags. "Oh god. Did we really used to do that in college?"

Ellis grins as she joins the pulsating crowd, swaying to the music. "No, actually, we used to take another one on 'floor'."

I quickly follow suit, dancing my way into the crowd. Ellis, as always, effortlessly finds someone to dance with, and Delaney pairs up with Ellis's dance partner's friend, leaving me alone for the moment.

Surprisingly, I'm not bothered by dancing solo. The tequila shots have started to work their magic, and a warm, pleasant fuzziness envelops me. The neon lights on the walls paint the dance floor in vibrant hues, and the pulsing beat reverberates through my entire body.

I pivot around, and the dance floor opens up just enough for me to spot Wells through the crowd. He stands there, hands in pockets, quietly observing, his eyes scanning the rhythmic chaos around him. A rush of warmth courses through me as his eyes meet mine and his lips tug into a small smile, forming those two little lines on both sides of his mouth. I try to brush off the feeling, but it lingers, refusing to be ignored.

We stand like this for a few moments, and then, out of nowhere, he begins what I can only describe as a hilariously awful attempt at the running man dance. I instinctively bring my hand up to my mouth, trying to hide the smile and laughter that's bubbling up inside me.

He comes to a halt in his dance, a wide smile spreading across his face. Unable to resist, I mirror his smile and start dancing back, executing the Roger Rabbit. He laughs as he watches me, but I refuse to stop. Because, "Get Jiggy with It" is now playing in the background, and it's one of my favorites.

He comes closer, dancing towards me now, and I can't help but laugh at how comically awful his dance moves are. He doesn't seem to mind; in fact, he joins in laughing with me.

"You're a terrible dancer, Juniper," he teases, leaning in close to my ear so I can hear him over the music. His bergamot and amber cologne wafts into my face, and he pulls back slightly to gaze into my eyes with his forest green ones. We lock eyes, and despite the lack of physical contact, my body inexplicably heats up anyways.

I briefly close my eyes, attempting to ignore the overwhelming sensations. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

"Have you seen yourself dance? Because I'm pretty sure you're worse than I am," I retort, trying to regain my composure.

He chuckles, and his gaze sweeps up and down, lingering on my outfit for a moment. My cheeks flush with heat as he takes me in. Thank god it's so dim in here.

"So who are you?" He finally says, his voice filled with amusement. "Alex, Dylan, or Natalie?" He says listing off the three Charlie's Angels.

I burst into laughter, and he grins, continuing, "Or are you guys going for more of a Spice Girls look?"

I narrow my eyes at him, genuinely curious. "How did you know we all dressed the same?"

He grins. "I saw you walk in with Posh Spice and Scary Spice."

I can't help but laugh again. "Alright, fair enough," I say, pausing for a moment as we continue to dance. "I'm curious to know which one of my friends is Scary Spice to you though?"

He attempts the Bart Simpson move, and I playfully mimic him, both of us doing a terrible job. Wells leans in close again. "Isn't it obvious? Your blonde-haired friend constantly taking pictures like she's a mom from 'Toddlers and Tiaras.'"

Then, almost out of nowhere, the music shifts to "Too Close" by Next, and I find myself momentarily frozen because, first of all, it's a highly inappropriate song to dance to, and secondly, there's no way I'm going to slow dance grinding with Wells. No way.

I glance around, taking note of everyone else continuing to dance seemingly not caring about the lyrics of the song, including Ellis and Delaney who are across the dance floor.

Then, unexpectedly, Wells takes a step forward, causing me to snap my attention back to him. His hands find my waist as he gently slides and lightly grips me, pulling me nearer.

My chest flutters and heat rushes through me. My heart thumps so loudly that it starts to drown out all other sounds. It's so loud, so overwhelming, that I'm almost certain Wells can hear it too.

I want to pull away, but I can't. So I focus on avoiding eye contact, doing my best to pretend that he has no effect on me. He begins swaying us to the music, and as the song envelops us, we effortlessly find a natural rhythm together.

The three tequila shots were definitely a bad idea. My surroundings are starting to blur, and everything seems to feel a bit hazy. Am I that drunk, or is this the proximity of Wells?

I can feel his eyes on me, and I try to brush it off, but it's getting harder to hide the impact he's having on me. Meanwhile, he appears entirely unfazed by me.

Is dancing just inches away from his face better or worse than turning around and dancing with my back to him? I'm not sure, but I can't keep facing him like this, so I decide to turn around and dance with my back to him.

And immediately I know I've made a terrible judgment call, as my ass presses against his front, and his hands gently grip my waist again.

Oh no. What have I done?

Sober Juniper would never in a million years consider dancing with Wells Hansen, never entertain the thought of letting him get this close. But drunk Juniper? Drunk Juniper really loves the way his hands feel on her body. The heat that emanates from his touch, the way his body presses against hers, making her whole body feel like it's buzzing.

I involuntarily grind my hips into him as his hands glide from my waist down to my hips, sending a wave of heat pooling low within me.

It's almost too much. It is too much. Oh my god. What is happening?

I suddenly take a step back from him and spin around, and he immediately stops dancing, our eyes locking. His eyes seem to ask, "Is everything okay?" while I'm sure mine are saying, "I'm panicking."

I shake my head, attempting to come up with an excuse for why I can't keep dancing, but nothing comes out.

"Wells!" A woman's voice calls from the side, and we both whip our heads to see a dirty blonde-haired girl with long braids on both sides, sporting a brown cowboy hat, jean shorts, and a white cropped tank top.

"There you are," she says, her eyes shifting between us.

"Roxanna," Wells says, raising his voice above the music. She approaches, standing next to Wells, and then looks over at me.

"Roxanna, this is Juniper," he introduces, gesturing toward me, and then speaking more softly, he adds, "Juniper, this is Roxan–"

"Roxanna, hi. I'm his date," she interrupts with a grin, smacking her gum, and reaching out to shake my hand.

His date?

My cheeks flush as I shake her hand. "Oh, um, hi, nice to meet you," I stammer out. Then, I turn my attention back to Wells, who also appears a shade of pink and shakes his head slightly.

How did I not know Wells had a girlfriend? Here I am, grinding against him, and him letting me. I'm not sure if I should feel embarrassed or angry at him for allowing it to happen.

"June!" Delaney's voice comes from behind, and she grabs my elbow, turning me around. "June, let's go! We're signing up for trivia."

"Trivia?" I ask, trying to regain my composure.

"Yeah, they're doing '90s trivia over by the bar. Let's go," Ellis insists, pulling me toward the bar.

"Juniper," Wells calls out again, attempting to get my attention.

"I'll see you later Wells," I say as I walk off the dance floor, but not before stealing a glance back at him.

I hear him say to Roxanna, "Come on, we're playing trivia."

Notes

Did anyone else used to listen to "Too Close" as a child and now wonder why on earth your parents allowed it?

I hope that 90s night is living up to your expectations! Juniper definitely has the feels now.

How did we all enjoy it?