He doesn’t frown, just takes a long, long look at me, and his eyes seem to soften a bit. If I didn’t feel like utter shit right now, it might be enjoyable, being looked at like that.
“Bad news?” he ventures.
“Not great news,” I admit.
I move along the front of the bar. His friend is gone. The lone waitress is chatting with the bachelorette party, who now have drinks strewn across their tables.
The volume of the music has gone up a bit. I point at the ceiling, not really sure if I’m pointing at the speakers playing “Hold the Line” or the heavens. “Toto. My grandpa would love this.”
Mason looks surprised that I know the name of the band, but then frowns a little. “Yeah, well, your grandpa has good taste.”
Had.But I don’t correct him. “Ah. So the classic rock is your doing, then. I wondered if it was you or that fancy jukebox in the corner.” I smile a little. It almost hurts. I really haven’t used those muscles all week.
“Guilty.” He seems to realize that I’m actuallynotmaking fun of him or the music. I think I catch a subtle flash of dimples deep in that beard before he dips his head to open a bottle behind the bar. “You’re welcome to change the song, if you want. Jukebox is free.”
“My grandpa was the coolest human on the planet. Just so we’re clear.”
The dimples are unmistakable this time.
“Thank you for letting me use your Wi-Fi.”
His eyes flash to mine, and I feel that electric zing right down to my ovaries again. “Anytime,” he says gruffly.
I’m not sure how to take that, since getting his help was like pulling teeth, but I feel his attention lingering on me as I head forthe door. I’m not even sure where I’m going, just that I need to fall apart a little bit and I don’t want to do it in front of the most effortlessly sexy man I’ve ever met. Maybe I’ll do it in my van.
“Hey,” he says.
I pause and glance over. He’s pouring something from a bottle into a tall glass: a golden, sparkling liquid that looks incredibly refreshing.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I’m not surprised. But I am curious about whatever inspired this change in his mood.
Pity, maybe.
“Is it that bad?” I say.
“Professional observation.”
He slides the drink across the bar toward me.
I consider for maybe half a second; Sophie’s advice is in my head. But so is this whole terrible week, and I’m drowning in it. “Well, you’re the professional, so.” I drop my things on a barstool and lean on the bar, eyeing the effervescent drink. “Beer?”
“Apple cider. From my family’s orchard.”
He leans on his elbows on the bar, watching me, all massive shoulders and muscle-corded forearms, and deep, endless blue eyes. His sleeve has ridden up, revealing more of the tattoo on his right bicep. Amid the flowers and leaves, the scripted letters clearly readSamantha. Which is a level of commitment that goes well beyond anything I’ve seen demonstrated by most of the men in my life, that’s for sure.
Maybe hehasn’tslept with half the town?
I try not to be too impressed by the muscles or the tattoo or the orchard thing, but this man just gets more interesting by the second.
Hopefully Samantha is his sweet grandmother, or his dog, or his beloved dead sister or something. And not, you know, the love of his life, who’s sitting at home right now wondering where the hell he is, while he’s right here, staring at me.
What are you doing, the Sophie in my head says, but I ignore her.
He seems to be waiting for me to taste the cider, so I lift the glass and take a sip. I close my eyes, savoring, and maybe trying to escape the intensity of his attention. The cider is cold and tart, then sweet. Refreshing and bubbly. I taste apples and honey and maybe a hint of citrus?
Holy Christ, it’s delicious.
