“Wanna blow this Popsicle stand?” he asked her, shifting into the driver’s seat.

“As in leave base?”

“Yeah.”

“Won’t we be going AWOL?”

“I think Cal will understand, given the circumstances. We’ve all earned a night off.”

Sherri hopped into the front seat.

Thank goodness. He really did need to get out of here, and he didn’t trust himself alone tonight. No telling what foolish, self-destructive idiocy he would engage in.

He frowned as he guided the Jeep toward town. Honestly, he would rather wake up beside Sherri in the morning and not feel like shit for being with her.

Son of a bitch. That could not possibly bode well for either one of them. Sex was one thing. He could justify that as mutual scratching of an itch. But feelings? Those threw what was going on between them into another league altogether. They were talking an actual relationship when feelings got involved.

He drove in silence, wrestling with the emotions roiling way too close to the surface. He was too raw, too hurt, to hold them back, though.

Contemplating the choices, he surprised himself by driving past exactly the kind of bar he would’ve chosen had he been alone. It looked trashy, the parking lot was full of pickup trucks, and classic rock blared through the cheap plywood front door.

Instead, he shocked himself by pulling into a high-end resort down by the beach. It looked classy, with beautiful tropical foliage and a wide veranda bar with umbrellas and a stone railing facing the beach. It was the kind of place a person went to sip a nice cocktail after supper. The clientele wore preppie clothes—attorneys and accountants. No rednecks here.

The other place—the crappy dive—fit him. This posh place fit Sherri.

“Interesting choice of venue,” Sherri commented as he turned off the ignition.

She reached for the door, and he touched her elbow. “Stay there. I’ll come around and get the door for you.” Why he wanted to treat her like a lady and observe the niceties of the real world, he couldn’t say and didn’t feel like psychoanalyzing tonight.

He opened the door for her and even held out his arm. She looped her hand around his forearm and leaned in close as they strolled out to the beachside bar. He led her to a table facing the beach, away from where most of the people were clustered. A hostess asked for their order, and Sherri surprised him by asking for a large order of french fries, an expensive bottle of scotch, a pitcher of water, and two glasses.

When the single-malt scotch came, Sherri poured generous splashes in both glasses. Thankfully, she wasn’t planning to water it down. She picked up her whiskey. “To Sam.”

To Sam, indeed. Griffin tossed back his scotch, sucking in a sharp breath as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. “Are we getting wasted tonight?” he asked.