“So tell me,” Claire begins, cutting through the silence. Her voice is light and playful. “What exactly are you drinking to forget?”
“Drinking to forget?” I echo.
“Exactly.”
“Who says I’m drinking to forget?” I smirk, though there’s no real humor behind it. “Maybe I’m here to pass the time.”
She tilts her head, studying me in a way that feels invasive. Like she’s stripping me bare, seeing things I’ve worked hard to keep buried. It’s unsettling.
And yet I don’t look away.
“I don’t buy it,” she says at last, a slow smile playing across her mouth. “You don’t seem the type.”
I lift a brow. “And what type do I seem like?”
“Brooding,” she answers without a moment’s hesitation. “Probably good at giving orders. Not great at taking them. Terrible at relaxing. Emotionally constipated. But...” She lets her gaze drag lazily over my fingers wrapped around my glass as I lift the bourbon to my mouth to mask my reaction over how accurate she is. “Excellent with your hands.”
“You learned all that from talking to me for a few minutes?”
“I’m very efficient,” she deadpans.
“You forgot judgmental.”
“Everyone’s judgmental, whether they admit it or not,” she says cheerfully. “But don’t worry. I balance it out with great legs and a winning personality.”
My eyes drift to her crossed legs, left exposed in a slim pencil skirt. They’re long and smooth… Impossible to ignore. She catches me admiring them and grins.
“Busted,” she taunts.
God, this woman is something else. So full of life. And so damn beautiful. Dark waves of hair tumbling around her shoulders. Bright green eyes that don’t miss a thing. And enough curves to scramble a man’s better judgment.
Especially mine.
“If you’re not drinking to forget, what brings you here?” Her gaze floats over me in curiosity.
“Work.”
She waves that off with a flick of her hand. “Not to Boston.Here.” She taps the bar. “This place. This moment.”
“This moment?” I repeat.
“Exactly.”
“I guess I was looking for quiet,” I respond after a beat. “Or maybe a distraction.”
Her smile softens, her eyes sparkling in the low light. “Rough day?”
I could lie. I could dodge. But something in the way she looks at me, open and interested but not pushing, makes me want to tell her the truth.
“I received some news today.” I swirl the ice in my glass, watching it clink and spin. “The kind that changes things. Or at least makes you question the last two decades of your life.”
I don’t say more. I’m not ready to. I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that I have a son I never knew existed. A full-grown man with a life, with questions, and I have nothing but regrets to give him.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks.
“No.”
She nods in understanding as another silence settles between us. But it only lasts a matter of seconds before she continues her interrogation.
