“Well,” I say when he reaches the bar, keeping my tone light, “look who waited more than twenty-four hours.”
He tilts his head, amused. “You missed me?”
I don’t answer, because I might have, but hell if I’m going to admit that to him. Instead, I set a coaster in front of him without asking what he wants.
Because I already know.
I’m also pretty damn sure he’d drink whatever I gave him without complaining even if it wasn’t what he came in for because he’s one of those nice, non-confrontational types.
“Well thank you for the chat. I take all feedback very seriously,” he teases in response to my non-answer.
“Impressive growth,” I finally reply.
He shrugs. “I guess I’m evolving.”
“That’s optimistic language for a man wearing sneakers with jeans.”
He glances down defensively. “I’ll have you know these are my expensive sneakers.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs, and the sound slides under my skin in a way I try not to acknowledge. I pour his beer without looking, muscle memory taking over to which he nods, impressed.
“So you’re memorizing my drink preferences now,” he says. “ I feel so special.”
“Nah,” I tell him, sliding the glass toward him. “Pattern recognition. Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” He grins, taking the glass from me. Our fingers brush, brief and accidental, and something in me warms at his touch.
What the fuck is that feeling?
I pull back first, grabbing a towel and wiping a perfectly clean section of the bar because suddenly I need something to do with my hands. “So,” I say, keeping my voice casual, “you survived the weekend?”
“Barely.”
“Let me guess. Grown men in expensive pants running into each other?”
He smiles. “Aww, you watched.”
“I did not.”
“You know the schedule.”
“I work in a bar,” I say defensively. “Sports happen whether I want them to or not.”
“Sure,” he teases, smirking like he thinks I’m lying.
My eyes narrow, and I lean across the bar, lowering my voice. “You know, you’re very smug for someone who gets paid to play tag.”
“Well, it’s full-contact tag, so…”
“Still tag.” I shrug like his job doesn’t impress me because honestly it doesn’t.
Okay, maybe it’s not the sport itself that bothers me, though I’m not sure I could ever truly understand the game of football. It’s the world around it that irritates me. It’s the money. The attention. The celebrity of it all.
It’s his turn to lean closer and when he does I get a nice whiff of his cologne, and holy hell…whatever it is it’s electrifying.
“You know,” he says, “most people are nicer to the guy who tips them.”
