We rose and strode out into the growing Tampa heat, walking back toward Barbacks, where I’d left my car. The streets were busier now, with brunch crowds and tourists and the city waking up properly.
When we reached my car, Chase stopped and turned to face me, his hands shoving into his pockets and gaze flicking about the parking lot.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“I had a really good time.”
“Me, too.”
“Can I see you again? Like, officially? Not just me showing up at your bar?”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He stepped closer, his hands escaping his pockets and finding my waist. “I’m going to kiss you now. In public. In broad daylight. Is that okay?”
“I’m Irish. We kiss everywhere.”
And so he did—soft, sweet, tasting of coffee and sausage and salty-bitter onions.
His lips felt like the promise of more to come.
When we broke apart, I was smiling like an idiot.
“Text me later?” Chase asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ooh, I like that. You can call me sir as much as you like.”
I covered my blushing face with a palm.
“Good luck with the watch party tonight.”
“Good luck with your files.”
He shoved my hand aside and kissed me once more—quick, almost shy—and then stepped back.
“See you soon, Finnigan O’Brien.”
My smile grew painful. “You, too, counselor.”
I watched him walk down the sidewalk toward his house. His hands had returned to his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched against the morning sun, looking like what he was—a lawyer heading to work on a Sunday morning.
When he got about thirty yards away, he stopped and turned back.
And found me still leaning against my car, watching him.
He stared a moment, then smiled—that genuine, unguarded smile I was becoming addicted to—and waved.
It wasn’t a cool wave.
Oh, no, it was a dorky, enthusiastic, slightly-too-much wave that belonged in a poorly attended Disney movie.
I raised one hand and wiggled my fingers.
Equally dorky.
