I've experienced having liquid confidence many times since moving to Vancouver; I know what it's like to have a buzz that makes you feel like you're capable of doing whatever you wish. But this time is different.

First of all, I've only had three drinks and I'm already feeling a little more than buzzed – I've never gained the soothing buzz of alcohol so quickly. Second of all, I made the mistake of asking the waitress to get me whatever Warren had been drinking, which, of course, was straight-up whisky. I didn't like the taste at first, but after a couple of sips, my taste buds adapted to the smoky flavour.

Three drinks down, and I'm already beginning to feel like a different person – the music doesn't bother me as much, the drink warms my stomach, and I've been continuously picking at the order of nachos Warren and I decided to get after Easton and Julia left. That was around nine – when I was still functional and somewhat sober. They wanted to go see some movie. I didn't understand why.

What's the point of seeing a movie when hanging at a pub is so much fun?

Playing several games of pool with your crush while drinking and snacking on nachos is a lot of fun, but the fact that we're both more than a little tipsy makes it even better because we're both so relaxed. Like really relaxed. Even a little touchy-feely. I don't mean our hands are exploring every part of each other's bodies, no. It's more the small things, such as elbowing the other when the ball goes into the pocket, or his hand lingering on my waist when he shows me how to take a proper shot. Small movements like the simple brush of our skin when he hands me another drink, or when I pop a chip covered in salsa into his mouth.

Somewhere, deep inside, my logical self is screaming at my brain to break through the haze of alcohol, but I'm having too much fun. Too much fun acting like someone I haven't been for a long time. Someone who likes to take chances and have fun and let go of the problems daily life can bestow.

So, it's no surprise when I try to tug Warren up onto the stage for karaoke.

"Nova," he says, giving me a lazy smile. "No way in hell am I getting up on that stage."

"C'mon," I whine. "It'll be fuun! You can pick the song!"

I smile at him and wrap my arms around his torso, burying my face in his chest. His sandalwood smell intoxicates me more than the alcohol that's running through my system.

"Hmm..." he murmurs in my hair. "I don't know. Picking the song doesn't seem like enough. I've got a bad case of stage fright, y'know. What other payments could there be?"

I laugh because I know he's lying to me. Warren Ashford having stage fright? Puh-lease.

He chuckles and pulls me closer. "Don't laugh at me, baby."

Electricity sparks in my blood. His voice, although laced with the effects of alcohol, is deep and husky, reminding me of the sunsets I used to watch back home in Alberta. Warren nuzzles his nose against my temple and exhales so his breath is hot on my cheek. I shudder and pull him closer. His body is so warm and hard and his arms are so comforting wrapped around my upper body. I could get lost in this moment.

Urge hits me like a punch to the gut. I want him. I want him so badly.

"Why would it be a payment when I want it, too?" I whisper. "Just one song. One song, and then we can get out of here."

"Counteroffer," he argues. "One song, one dance, and then we get the fuck outta here. Deal?"

I smile and nod my head.

Quickly downing the remainder of our drinks, Warren and I get in line for the next song, both of us stumbling a little as we walk. The alcohol has hit my head, and I'm starting to feel the effects resonate through the rest of my body. But I don't care. This night...this night has been wonderful since the other two left. Spending time with Warren has been like a dream come true. I've had him all to myself.

The stage is small and set up for a maximum of three people. Warren and I each claim a stool and a microphone. I don't know how he manages, but he picks up the list of songs and reads through until he's nodding his head and tapping a number into the machine.

While we wait for the song to load, I ask, "What song did you pick?"

"One of the ones you played when we were driving here from New Brunswick. "On Again" by Honors and Molly Kate Kestner. I heard you humming along to it. Figured you knew the lyrics well enough."

I look away and smile to myself. He knows what songs I like. He knows one of my favourite songs. My heart twists and heats up at the thought. "Well," I say, looking back at him through my lashes. "You figured well."

As soon as our conversation ends, the music begins. I take the first verse and chorus solo, acutely aware of how terrible a singer I really am. If I were sober, I would consider this the most embarrassing moment of my life. I am, however, too drunk to care. And, although my tipsiness has heightened within the last few minutes, I can't help but notice how well the lyrics suit mine Warren's relationship: both of us fighting our own feelings to avoid each other, wanting each other so badly that anyone in the pub can probably tell, and how he has a magnetic pull that captures and tempts me every time I look at him.

Warren takes the second verse, and I almost drop my microphone because of the sound of his voice. I never pictured him as someone capable of singing, yet here we are. His voice is like the whisky we've been drinking: deep and smoky with a hint of sweetness. Suffice to say, he can really sing. He perfects every note, high or low. It's so captivating, that I almost forget to join in with him on the chorus.

I don't know when it happens, but at one point we're both staring at each other.

The emotions burn between us, like the smouldering embers of a fire that's about to combust, and all I can think about is what type of payment I can give him for agreeing to this. My nerves begin to vibrate with the beat of the song and the buzz of the alcohol.

When the song is over, Warren slides off of the stool, puts away his microphone, and then scoops me up into his arms. We exit the stage while the crowd claps and cheers. I feel like I should thank all of them, perhaps take a bow, but I'm too busy staring into Warren's deep blue eyes to do so.

Those eyes...

The dance floor is larger than the stage, but very crowded. Because it's so late into the night, everyone is past getting up on stage and singing along to their favourite songs; the DJ has taken over and is now playing a song that sounds familiar to me. But the truth is, I don't give a damn about the song – what I care about is that Warren has his hands placed on my hips and he's pulled me so close that I can feel the way his body moves.

The urgency hits me again. Hard. Oh my God. I've never wanted someone so badly in all my life. For a moment, I ponder the idea of hooking up with him in the bathroom. Or the back of the vehicle we drove here. Then I shake my head. Public bathrooms are disgusting, and Julia and Easton took the vehicle. The only possible way I could get what I want is to call a taxi that would take us back to the house.

One song passes, and then another. Two more. Another one. It's not long before Warren and I are both sweating as we move together. We're both so close that it's almost like we've shut the world around us out. All I can see is him. All he can see is me. And when his lips touch the soft spot below my earlobe, I stand on my tiptoes and whisper the words I've been wanting to say since the buzz started.

"Take me home, Warren."