Me: That, too.
I turned and tried to pretend I was reading something on my screen as I zoomed my camera and snapped a pic of Finn, shaking the martini thing up by his ear. His bicep flexed right as I snapped the photo.
Diego: Well, hello, Irish. If Chase doesn’t get your number, I’ll give you mine!
Me: You’re married!
Diego: Doesn’t mean I’m dead. Besides, we have rules for this.
Me: I work in family law. I don’t want to know your rules.
Diego: Get his number and you won’t have to hear them. Unless Irish wants a little Diego Dog, if you get my meaning.
Me: I’m never talking to you again. Goodbye!
I chuckled as I put my phone away and went back to my food.
The game wound down.
The Lightning dominated the third period, stretching their lead to 7 to 1 with less than three minutes remaining. The crowd celebrated before starting to filter out. It was a work night, and normal people needed rest.
My inner voice said, “I should leave, too.”
I’d finished my food, finished my third beer, and the bar was thinning out. Finn hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction, and I was losing hope that would change anytime soon. So, I pulled out my wallet, dropped cash on the table, again tipping waymore than necessary because the food had been that good and because I couldn’t help myself, and started to slide out of the booth.
“Not going anywhere, are ya?”
That Irish lilt sounded like music.
I looked up.
Finn was standing next to my table with a bar towel slung over his shoulder.
And he was smiling.
Chapter 18
Finn
Istood next to Chase’s table, having just stopped him from leaving. The only problem now was that I had no idea what to say. My brain—which had been working at lightning speed for the past four hours—had apparently decided now was a good time to shut down. I could hear Pac-Man’s death tones, and all rational thought winked out of my head.
Say something. Anything.
“So,” I managed. “The Penalty Box?”
Brilliant opening, Finn. Really stellar.
Chase blinked up at me, startled from my sneak-attack interruption. But . . . his lips were curled up in . . . amusement? “The Penalty Box?”
I pointed to the empty plate. “Your food. The thing you ordered. How was it?”
I fidgeted with the bar towel over my shoulder. When had I started fidgeting?
Stop fidgeting.
My mouth moved again. “Rod likes feedback. He’s very particular about his food.”
“It was incredible,” Chase said, and the sincerity in his voice made something warm unfurl in my chest. “Seriously. It was the best thing I’ve eaten all week, maybe all month.”
