The guy was young, late twenties, and was wearing a rumpled blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a loosened tie that was askew like he’d tugged at it throughout the day. His dirty blond hair stuck up in ways that somehow looked both messy and neat, though I doubted it was the look he was going for. Something about it screamed “stressed-out hair pulling” more than “stylishly distressed.” Under one arm, he carried a stack of papers that looked one strong breeze away from exploding everywhere.
He looked exhausted.
He looked stressed.
He looked like the man who’d slammed into me on the sidewalk three weeks ago, the lawyer whose name I hadn’t asked, the body-checker with the hazel eyes and the five-o’clock shadow and the adorably apologetic smile.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking around the bar the same way every other customer had—taking in the TVs, the booths, and the general vibe. For a second, I thought he might turn around and leave like some of the others. Instead, he headedstraight for a booth in the corner, slid in, and started spreading his papers across the table like he was setting up a temporary office.
“Finn?” Mark said.
I didn’t respond.
“Finn.” Mark nudged me. “You okay?”
“That’shim,” I managed.
“Him who?” Priya craned her neck to follow my gaze.
“The guy from the street, the one I told you about. The body-checker.”
Mark’s head whipped up so fast I was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. He stared at the blond in the corner booth, then looked back at me, then at the man again.
“Holy shit,” he said. “He’s hot.”
“So hot,” Priya agreed.
“Yeah,” I sighed, sounding like a lovesick puppy.
“Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to go take his order?” Mark nudged my arm.
“I’m going to stand here.”
“Finn.” Priya used her annoyed Indian mother’s voice.
“What if he doesn’t remember me?”
“Then you introduce yourself like a normal person,” Priya said.
“What if he does remember me and thinks I’m astalker?”
“How would you be a stalker? He walked into your bar,” Mark said.
“Ourbar,” I corrected.
“Semantics.” Mark put his hands on my shoulders and spun me toward the booth. He’d become handsy and bossy since becoming my partner. “Go. Flirt. Take his order. Do something besides stand here having an identity crisis.”
“I don’t know how to flirt.”
“You are Irish. Just talk. Your accent will do the rest,” Priya said.
I gave her stank eye. “Said the woman with the curry-flavored accent.”
“He would think I offered him a slushie. You will make him swoon.” She gave me a toothy smile. “Now go before I rain holy murder on your pretty red head.”
Mark snorted behind me.
Traitor.
