He should haveknownshe was taken, that some guy had snatched her up and was going to—as they say—put a ring on it.
But when he’d heard Callie Quigley wanted to look at the old Tremaine Tower building, that she was going to be back in town for a project there, he carefully manipulated things so he could be the one to be there when she did.
He hoped like hell that the fact he’d carried a torch for her for eighteen years—hell, more than eighteen years, because it had started when they weresixwhen he first caught sight of her bright copper pigtails—hadn’t shone like a beacon from his face. Especially once he realized she was back in town not just to visit, butto get married.
On New Year’s Eve.
In the very same place they’d done what he’d wanted to do since he was old enough to realize girls weren’t gross. Especially Callie Quigley.
Ugh.
Ben scrubbed his face with a hand, feeling the rough bristles of the beard he’d recently decided to grow, even though CPAs didn’t wear beards. Probably made him look like a creeper.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And then she’d invited him for a drink, for Pete’s sake.
Thatwould have just been torture, sitting across from her soon-to-be-married self—or, worse,nextto her if they sat at the bar—and trying to keep from looking at her. To keep fromlookingat her or brushing against her, to keep his gaze from getting caught by those bright, enthusiastic eyes, or getting trapped in one of their friendly debates about superhero movies and watching her get all passionate and worked up.
At least she’d been wearing a big bulky coat that hid all those bodacious curves he assumed—hoped—she still had.
Not that it mattered if she still was as round and soft and luscious as he remembered.
Her eyes had been really blue tonight. Had they always been that blue? Had her mouth always looked so full and pink and luscious?
Yes. Oh, yes, it had, and he had the memory—the experience—to prove it, as the damned mistletoe thatstillhung there in the clock tower room had reminded him.
He’d seen the stupid plastic sphere of greenery with its formerly pearl-colored balls almost the moment he stepped into the room. He couldn’t believe it was still hanging there from sixteen years ago. Horrified, he’d yanked his attention away immediately and hoped Callie wouldn’t, one, notice it herself, and, two, noticehimlooking at it.
And then that weird thing happened with the painting falling down, and he’d practically thrown himself at her…for what reason? To protect her? From what?
Argh.Doofus.
And when they were crowding up next to each other to examine the wall, he’d been close enough to smell her hair or whatever perfume she’d been wearing. The deliciousness of the scent went straight to his hormones. And elsewhere.
Thank God he’d popped a couple mints before he walked over from the office.
He stomped along until he found himself back on Pamela Ave…and he walked right by Trib’s, which was already crowded even though it was just after five. He didn’t even glance inside to see whether he spotted Callie and her bright hair.
And there was no way he was going to go in there any time in the near future, even though he was Trib’s accountant and the guy always comped him a beer or two—and last April, a whole five-course meal with the best steak he’d ever had after Ben had finished the restaurant’s taxes and they weren’t nearly as painful as Trib had feared.
No, this was a night for The Roost, Ben decided on the spot—instead of going back to the office like he probably should. And it was Tuesday, so that meant Dec and Baxter—and maybe even Jake, if he wasn’t on call—would be there for Trivia Night.
The scrawny, dingy bar was the diviest dive in the county with the longest beer list (draft and bottle) and the best burgers and other bar food. They even made great omelettes. And because it was Trivia Night, Ben—the self-proclaimed Trivia King—would be distracted from thinking about Callie Quigley sitting her delicious self at Trib’s only a half a block away and around the corner.
It was early yet, though, so when he pushed open the door of The Roost and saw Baxter was already sitting at the bar, Ben smiled with relief. And the smile widened when he saw that his friend had a cardboard box filled with brown bottles on the counter in front of him.
Yes.That meant Baxter had brought in some samples of his latest brews.
Excellent consolation prize, my man,Ben told himself. Far better than going back to the office and crunching more numbers—though that was what he loved to do. It was a lot easier than talking to people. Especially bright, sunny, interesting people like Callie.
Though the two of them never had a problem finding something to talk about. He particularly liked it when they got into debates about which was better,Star WarsorStar Trek(Star Wars, obviously—which they both agreed on but he liked to play devil’s advocate just to wind her up), or whether the seventh season of Buffy actually sucked as much as everyone said it did—except for the last episode.
He particularly liked to rile Callie up about why she was on Team Edward instead of Team Jacob when it was completely obvious to him—even though he’d never readTwilight—that Edward was a creepy stalker who would turn off any normal woman. And the guyglittered? Really?
Callie’s cheeks would get all flushed and her eyes would spark and the words would tumble from her soft pink mouth at the speed of light as she explained why her point of view was the right one.
Helovedit when she did that.
