I know this guy. I’m sure of it, but where—
Holy shit, it’s the guy from the sidewalk.
The one I’d crashed into a few weeks ago while having the worst morning of my life. Despite getting checked into a brick wall, he’d bent down to help me gather my exploded documents without making me feel like the disaster I was.
He was standing next to my booth, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, a bar towel thrown overhis shoulder, looking at me with those same blue eyes that I’d somehow managed to remember despite only seeing them for maybe two minutes total.
And he was tall, a lot taller than I remembered. Or maybe I’d never processed it because I was too busy scrambling for my papers on the sidewalk.
He was the bartender? A server? Did gay bars have servers?
No.
Wait.
He’d said, “Welcome to Barbacks. I’m Finn.”
I should speak now.
“Hi,” was all that came out.
Finn’s smile widened, just a fraction.
“Hi,” he said back.
My mouth opened, but nothing else came out. I was fairly certain my brain had stopped working for the night, possibly forever.
Say something, you idiot, something normal, something that won’t make us sound like we’d never had a human conversation before.
Dear God, I was talking in third person and calling myself “we.”
I was becoming the Queen of England’s stupid baby brother.
“I . . .” I started, then stopped. “You’re . . . from the sidewalk.”
Oh God. That was worse. That was so much worse.
But Finn’s smile turned into something brighter and, magically, even more genuine.
“I was wondering if you’d remember me,” he said.
“Oh, I remember you.” The words came out before I could stop them. “I remember you. I mean, yes, I do—did, still do.”
Finn’s eyes danced. “You were running late.”
“I’m always running late.”
“And you’re here now.”
“You are, too,” I said, immediately regretting my unbridled stupidity. “So, new bar? You work here?”
Finn seemed to grow a bit taller as he said, “I’m one of the owners.”
“Congrats on the opening, then.” My brows rose. “The place looks great.”
Finn’s eyes fell to the papers spread across the table. “Still working?”
“Fuck me, I’m always working,” flew out of my mouth. Then my mind caught up and terror seized my soul. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Don’t fuck me. I mean, I’m not opposed to . . . no . . . stop . . . I should stop talking now.”
