He glanced at the empty stool, then back at me. Slow. Unhurried.
"It isn't," he said. "But I was hoping someone interesting would sit there."
"Well." I slid onto the stool. "You're in luck. Here I am."
The corner of his mouth tipped up. "Bold."
"Tired," I corrected. "Bold comes later."
He huffed a quiet laugh and lifted his beer. "Jack."
"Maggie."
Just first names. No qualifiers. I liked that.
The dog at his feet sat up and looked at me like he was deciding whether I was a threat or a snack.
I held still. "I feel like I'm being judged."
"You are."
"Fair." I appreciated the bluntness. “What’s his name?”
“Sully,” he replied before patting his head.
“Hi, Sully,” I said, tempted to pet him myself, but didn’t want to overstep. A second later, he settled back on the floor, resting his chin on his paws.
"Congrats," Jack said. "You passed."
I chuckled once. “I've always had a way with men."
His whiskey-colored eyes flicked to my mouth. Back up. "I noticed."
I took a sip of my whiskey. "So. You always sit at the quiet end of the bar with a guard dog, or is tonight special?"
"Depends who's asking."
"Let's say someone curious."
"Then yeah," he said easily. "I like to see what comes to me."
"That sounds dangerously philosophical for a Tuesday night."
He smiled then—slow, amused, like he was enjoying this more than he'd expected.
"I'm a people-watcher," he added. "Best seat in the house if you don't want to be part of the circus."
My mouth curved. "Same. Though I take it a step further."
His brows raised a fraction. "Oh?"
"I assign backstories.” I gave him a nonchalant shrug. “It's a hobby."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Should I be concerned?"
"Probably." I tipped my glass toward the room. "Couple by the dartboard—first date. They met on Hinge. He said he loves deep, philosophical talks and watches The Bachelor. He absolutely does not."
Jack snorted. "Harsh."
