“Right.” He smiles brightly. “And you’re the lovely Miss Harmon.”
Lovely?I wouldn’t say that, but I’m not about to argue.
“That’ll be five-fifty,” says the bartender.
“Here.” Max pulls out his wallet. “Let me get that for you.”
“Oh, um, no….”
He’s quick. The bartender has a ten-dollar bill in her hand before I can even open my wallet. “Keep the change,” Max says, winking at the girl behind the bar. I should probably know who she is, but I can’t place her.
“Well, thanks, I guess,” I say, lifting the plastic pitcher. I quickly walk over to my table and slide in.
Taking Rose’s glass in hand, I start to fill it up when Max appears again. Holding his hand out to Rose, he waits for her to take his. “Max Lang.”
“Rose Avery. Special ed teacher.”
“Right.” I watch as Max takes a chair from one of the tables nearby and sits at the end of our table. “Mind if I join you?”
Yes. I want to say it, but I don’t. I was having fun with just Rose.
“No, of course not.” Rose smiles sweetly at our unwelcome guest.
Rose is a dead woman.
I sip my fresh beer and lean back in my seat. So much for fun girl talk. We have an interloper.
“So, Miss Harmon,” Max says smoothly, “what’s a pretty woman like you doing at Sisters on a Friday night? Why aren’t you out on a date?”
“I am,” I point to Rose.
“Oh?” He chuckles, arching his brow. “So, that’s how it is?”
“We’re not romantically involved, Max,” Rose says, sounding flirty. Heck, she even gives him a wink. “But Izzy is sexy as hell, don’t you think?” My former best friend sips her beer casually, like she didn’t just throw me under the man bus.
He turns to look at me and pauses. “Yes, she’s definitely sexy, but I think I’d call her beautiful. Gorgeous, actually.”
I feel heat run up from my chest to my face in seconds. I glare at Rose. I don’t like this conversation, so I do the only thing I can think of. “Well, time to change the music.” I quickly grab my wallet, slide out of the booth, and run right into a brick wall—a brick wall named Nash Watson. I teeter a little bit, but big, warm hands wrap around my upper arms to keep me from falling on my ass.
“You okay, Isabelle?” Nash asks softly.
Doing my best not to make eye contact with Nash, I wiggle free of his hold. “I’m fine.” I step to his left to get around him. I’m determined to get to the jukebox, but things aren’t going my way.
“Where you off to?” he asks, turning to face me.
“Jukebox,” I mutter as I pass the man.
I spend an inordinate amount of time choosing music, having put five dollars into the machine. That’s eighteen songs. You get three bonus songs if you put in a five. I’m doing my best to read through all of the selections when I feel warmth against my back.Please don’t be Max… or Nash for that matter.
“Did you play Journey?”
It’s Nash.
“Yes.”
“What about Billy Joel. Aren’t you a fan?”
I am. He’s one of my all-time favorites.
