I stood there for a moment, still hovering next to the table, him looking up at me with those hazel eyes that I’d been thinking about for three weeks straight.
Again, Chase gestured to the booth seat across from him. “You’d better take a seat. Mark doesn’t look like a man who makes idle threats; and I do family law, not criminal cases. Can’t help you if Mark murders you for being chicken.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and the tension shattered as I slid into the booth.
“So,” Chase said. “Looks like you’re on a break now.”
I nodded. “Guess so.”
“How long do you have?”
“Until Mark decides I’ve fulfilled my human interaction quota for the day.” I glanced back at the bar. Mark gave me a double thumbs-up and a grin that suggested he was absolutely going to make fun of me for this later. “Could be five minutes, could be an hour. It’s hard to predict with him.”
“That’s very scientific.”
“He’s not a scientific man.”
“I gathered that from the whole ‘threatening your life’ thing.”
I smiled and tried to stop my fingers from folding and refolding the towel I’d taken off my shoulder when I sat. I hadn’t done this—hadn’t flirted with a guy—in over a year, maybe longer. I couldn’t remember. The Tampa dating scene had proven frustrating at best. It was a good town. There had to be good men in it. But all I’d come across were guys who were more interested in hookups than conversations—or overgrown boys who wanted to party every night and couldn’t understand why I’d rather stay home and watchStranger Things. The few dates I’d gone on had been exercises in disappointment, men who looked good on paper but couldn’t hold a conversation past surface-level small talk.
But Chase seemed different. His eyes didn’t dart away or search the door whenever it opened. Hisattention was focused on me and never wavered. When I spoke, he leaned forward, just enough that I knew he was committed to whatever I might say.
It felt . . . good . . . talking to him.
When was the last time it felt good to just talk with a guy? I mean, someone other than Mark. He didn’t count since our own little dating experiment had failed so spectacularly.
“You’ve been here three times now,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing. “That’s—that’s a lot for a new bar.”
“The food’s good.”
“Just the food?”
“You’re close to my office. I work late, so that’s . . . helpful . . . especially since I forget to eat most days.” Chase’s lips twitched. “The beer selection is decent, too.”
“We try.”
“And the atmosphere is nice.” Blond hair shifted as he glanced about the bar. “It’s sportsy, yet gay, without being aggressive about either. You know, gay-friendly without shoving a rainbow flag where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I grunted. “They do that?”
“Do what?”
“Shove flagpoles up their asses? I mean, I’ve heard some crazy things, but a pride flag?”
Chase spit beer again, this time all over me.
“Oh, shit, man. I’m sorry.” He leaned across the table, snatched up my towel faster than I could register, and began dabbing my tank top. “Here, let me get that.”
I watched him, looked down and watched his hand as it pressed against my chest, then looked up to find him staring. His hand froze . . . still pressed against me.
“It’s okay,” I breathed, unable to raise my voice above a rasp. “I already smelled like beer. It’s kind of an occupational hazard.”
Chase still didn’t move.
“The bar looks great. Really,” he said as he finally sat back. My chest missed the warmth of his touch. Or was it the towel it missed? I was still pretty wet.
“That was our goal, to create a real neighborhood bar, a place people want to come back to.” I was fiddling with a napkin on the table, folding and unfolding the corner. “So are you? Going to come back?”
