Yes, talking would be good.
“Thanks for the advice. Fish at a bar is never a good idea,” I say, my voice sounding scratchy. I take a sip of my whiskey sour.
He smiles and my stomach does one of those flips that make my skin tingle. “That’s true, well, unless you’re in Boston. Then you want to get whatever seafood is on the menu.”
The way he says it, with a Boston accent at the end, has me grinning. “Same in New York.” I let my practiced one come through.
“You’re a New Yorker?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I’m actually from Indiana, but I’ve been practicing to sound like a New Yorker since I live there. What about you? Are you from Boston?”
What about you? Ugh! I sound ridiculous.
“Sometimes.”
“That’s vague,” I say back, placing the menu down and my hands on top of it.
“Is it? Sometimes I’m from there, other times I’m not.”
I laugh softly. “Okay. Then how often are you here?”
“It used to be around fifty percent—now it’s more like seventy.”
“Interesting,” I say, lifting my glass. “What keeps you here more lately?”
Please don’t say a wife.
Or maybe I do want him to say that so I can go back to my menu perusing and instead of staring at the hot guy.
“My farm.”
Farm doesn’t mean wife. That’s a start. He has no ring on, but my dad proved a ring really means jack shit.
Plus, my friend’s husband never wears one because when he was working on his engine, it got caught on something and almost had to have his finger amputated.
Farmers use their hands a lot, right? This guy could be thinking the same thing.
“I see,” I say even though I don’t. “So, since I shouldn’t get the fish here, is there anything you’d recommend?”
He leans in a little closer, looking at the menu. “I’d also avoid their Italian food. If you live in New York, you’re not going to be impressed here.”
That is a very true statement. The Italian food in the city is absolutely the best I’ve ever had, well, other than when I was in Italy, but that’s in a league of its own.
“We’re really limiting my options here,” I tease the sexy stranger.
Slowly he lifts his green eyes to mine and I can’t breathe. I could get lost in them. I could stare into them as they looked down on me while he…
What the hell?
Where did that come from?
My God, I’m here for work, not a hookup. Not that I would even know what a hookup is at this point, since it’s been about four years.
Okay, five.
In college, I was never into the dating scene. Most guys at my school just wanted to sleep with as many girls as they could find. No thank-you. I did have one, but he was an asshole who dumped me after he cheated.
Then, I didn’t have time between classes, tests, and working damn near full-time so I could afford college, my internship, and grad school.
