I chuckled. “It’s my job on the line. What about you?” I gently bumped his shoulder with mine. The water droplets on his jacket were cool against my bare skin. I brushed my hand over the wet spot, suppressing a shiver. “What are your stakes?”
“Don’t have any.”
“Oh come on. You wouldn’t be in AA if that were the case.”
He shrugged. “Got nothing to lose.”
“Nothing but yourself?”
His gaze met mine as he weighed my words. His hazel eyes had a brown rim around the pupil, tapering into a light greenish-gray around the edge. Absolutely beautiful and haunting.
He tilted his head toward the counter again, answering softly, “Yeah, I guess so.”
Something about Patrick—his aura and body language—told me he had some stories to tell. I hadn’t set out to pity him, but I did. Or maybe I pitied us. We seemed tangled in the same web. So I knew how it felt. Life sucked on a good day.
I hadn’t noticed at the party how attractive he was. Patrick had dark blonde hair that brushed his forehead. He looked strong, lean, and I guessed he was only an inch or so taller than me. He had thin lips, and his two-day old stubble and eyebrows matched the color of his hair.
It was odd we kept meeting randomly. I squinted, sizing him up. “Have you been stalking me?”
He puffed out a breath sounding like a laugh, but his eyes weren’t smiling. “Sorry, but no.” He said it as if he could think of a million other women to stalk before me. I wondered if he found me attractive, too. Most guys did. Not that it mattered. Without thinking, I reached to adjust my tank top and smooth down the crazy-looking bun on my head. Taking five minutes on my appearance would’ve gone a long way.
“Have you been here before?”
“Nope.”
“Were you planning on eating?”
He shrugged.
“My advice? Go somewhere else. The food here is only good if you’re intoxicated first.”
“Noted.”
Silence settled between us, and lines from the song “Memory Lane” by Old Dominion filtered through the din of the room. Patrick seemed to forget I was there. His gaze traveled over the bar into oblivion as his fingers subconsciously traced the edges of the drink menu. Looked like his brain was a million miles away. The bartender moved towards us again. “Have you decided yet?”
Patrick flinched out of his daze. “Ah, well—”
“We are actually closing our tabs.” I fished my wallet out of my purse.
Patrick froze.
“You sure? I make a mean mule and our drafts are on sale until 9 p.m.”
“We’re sure.” I handed him my debit card. “His and mine. I just had tea as well.”
He whisked off to the computer to close us out. Patrick’s hands moved to his lap, wringing again. “Um, thanks, Julia.”
He remembered my name?
“I should be thanking you.” Pretty sure I’d be a few shots in by now had he not walked through the door. “But—I hate to say it—youdoowe me now.”
His eyebrows lifted as he took another sip of tea.
“One game of your choice in the game room.” I pointed to the double glass doors. “If you win, you can leave.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how to play many games.”
“There will besomethingyou know how to play. Pool, foosball, pinball, air hockey—it’s old school stuff. Although I think they have a gun simulator which would be fun.”
