She studies me for a long moment. “Is this how you usually talk to women? Complimenting their…work ethic?”
“Only when it’s impressive.” I finish my beer. “And only when it’s true.”
She takes my empty glass, her fingers brushing mine. The contact is brief but electric, and if she feels it too, her expression gives nothing away.
“You know what I think?” she says, refilling my glass without me asking. “I think you’re used to people making assumptions about you, so you’ve turned it into a game. Let them think what they want, then surprise them by being…different.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Maybe I’m just being myself.”
She doesn’t have an answer for that, but she sets the freshbeer in front of me and gestures to it with her chin. “Finish your beer,” she says finally. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pauses. “And don’t call me that.”
“Apologies. I meant no offense, I uh…I still don’t know your name.”
She huffs a short breath and then says, “Sutton. My name is Sutton.” She walks away, then adds over her shoulder, “And for the record? I still think your pants are stupidly expensive.”
I glance down at my very normal jeans.
“Good thing I didn’t wear the fancy ones.”
She laughs, the heavenly sound ringing through my chest, and then disappears into the kitchen. I finish my second beer with a contented grin because I finally got what I came for.
The pretty girl’s name is Sutton.
4
SUTTON
Iabsolutely do not look at the door when it opens.
Not even a little.
Not when the bell jingles, not when the cold air slips in, not even when footsteps pause just long enough to make my stomach do something stupid and traitorous.
Nope.
Not doing it.
I keep wiping down the bar.
Same spot. Over and over again. Honestly, there’s probably not a cleaner surface in Portland right now.
Cal leans against the back counter, watching me with the kind of interest that usually means I’m about to be highly annoyed.
“You know, you’re scrubbing like you’re trying to erase evidence,” he tells me.
“I’m cleaning,” I say, shrugging my shoulder as I move my rag in a circular motion.
“You’re sanding the finish off.”
“I am no—” I glance down. “Oh. Shit.”
