Damn, that ass fills out a pair of jeans well.
“Come here often?” he asks.
“No, you?”
“First time. I was supposed to stay at a hotel downtown tonight for a little staycation, but my car broke down and this is as far as Igot.” Shrugging my shoulders, I send Hayes a questioning look. “What about you?”
“Hiding out.”
“Hiding out? Okay, there’s a story here. Your turn. Explain your tough day.”
As the bartender delivers another round of drinks and an order of nachos and chicken wings, Hayes pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “I’d rather not.”
“C’mon, talk. Maybe it’ll help. I feel so much better after telling you about my poor sleeping habits. See? Look at me,” I tease, waving my hand down my body, “the picture of tranquility.”
His gaze tracks my moving hand, starting at my face and working his way down, like he’s undressing me with his eyes. He pauses at my chest just a moment too long. I feel the heat behind his stare. Desire builds within me, and my breath hitches.
Ignoring the swirling butterflies I feel, I say, “Don’t distract me. Why are you hiding out?”
Moving his eyes back to the television, he grimaces. “I broke up with my girlfriend today, and I needed to hide out somewhere she couldn’t find me.”
“Damn, you just broke up today?” Solemn, he nods. “How long were y’all together?”
“About a year, give or take,” he murmurs.
Squinting my eyes, I cock my head to one side. Given Hayes’ age, early to mid-thirties is my guess, and the duration of his relationship, I have an idea about what happened. “Let me guess, she was ready for you to put a ring on it, but you weren’t that serious about her?”
Pointing his beer bottle at me, he replies, “You got it in one.”
“Not ready for commitment or not ready for commitmentto her?”
He lets out a sigh. “I care for her, but I’m not in love with her. It didn’t feel right staying together when I knew she was more invested in the relationship than I was.” I let his comment sit without responding, but after a minute, Hayes fills the silence. “What about you? You look like the commitment type. Boyfriend? Husband?”
I hold up my left hand, showing off my empty ring finger. “Single.”
“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “Nope. I don’t believe it. Women like you are always taken.”
“Women likeme? What does that even mean?”
“Hot. Funny. Real. It’s not possible that some dude hasn’t locked you down yet. Maybe you’re not married, but I can tell you’re taken.”
With less reluctance than I usually feel when discussing this topic, I admit, “Nope. I’m as single as can benow.”
He grabs my hand and lifts it closer to his face. I know what captured his attention. The tan lines from my wedding rings have faded, but their traces remain, like a red wine stain on the tablecloth after the party’s over.
“Recent then?”
“Fairly recent, yeah,” I confirm. His hand stays on mine, and his touch sends tingles up my arm, soothing my frayed edges. “A few months ago.”
Sensing my discomfort, he doesn’t push me for details. He watches me, his blue-gray eyes filled with compassion.
But not pity.
I take a deep breath, push down my feelings, and shoot him one of my double-dimpled smiles. “Enough with the serious talk. Let’s get back to drinking.”
“That sounds like a plan I can get behind, Annabelle.”
2
