He blinks, his expression recalibrating before he nods. “Yeah.” He nods again with a soft laugh. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s been a while since I datedorhad a good time.”
“Me, too. Way too long.” I lean close, until his broad body blocks the wind. “So, let’s do it up right tonight. Dollar drafts are on me. And if we have to take a cab home after because you’re not okay to drive, then we’ll take a cab home. No big deal. Sound good?”
Hopefully, we’ll take a cab home together tomyhome.
God, I need to get laid.
I need it so badly that I almost propositioned Dean straight out of the gate, screw the “get a drink” mating ritual.
But there was something about the warmth in his eyes, in the way he dove to catch me when my leg gave out on the porch before I even realized I was falling, that made me think Dean isn’t a casual hook-up kind of guy.
He’s the kind who at least wants to buy a girl a drink first.
So, I loop my arm through his and let him lead me into McLeary’s.
Three
CLOVER
Inside,McLeary’s looks like someone bet a New Orleans-loving Irishman he couldn’t out-decorate a Mardi Gras float, and he unleashed his full Blarney-fueled interior design skills, no holding back.
The ceiling is strung with thousands of Mardi Gras beads looped over Celtic crosses, a taxidermied alligator looms over the bar in a tiny green derby, and two hand-painted banners read—“Kiss me, I’m Irish” and “Let the Good Times Roll.”
Both are crooked, but there are way bigger things to get worked up about than whether or not the signs above the taps are straight.
Like whether or not the gumbo is fire…
And this gumbo isclearlyfire.
I smell it the second we walk in, a smoky-sweetness with top notes of tomato and grilled sausage that makes my mouth water. It also reminds me that I never made it inside to the snack table at Charlotte’s party before Charlie Bean decided she was ready to get out of her mama.
“We should get some gumbo with our stale popcorn,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the fiddle music blasting from the jukebox.
Dean widens his eyes and gives a small, but dramatic, shake of his head before lifting a hand to the bartender, an older woman with a haystack of bleached blond hair pulled into a ponytail atop her head. “Hey, Karen, how’s it going?”
“Dean! Darling Deany Kate,” she says in an Irish accent that sounds a littleofffor some reason. “I’m well and doin’ better now that you’re here, darling boy. It’s been an age.”
“Way too long,” Dean agrees.
She flashes a kind smile my way. “And I see you’ve brought a friend! Welcome, love, I’m Karen McLeary, and this is your new home away from home. Grab a basket and get yourself some popcorn. It’s on the house.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, following Dean to a shamrock green booth in the corner by the ancient popcorn machine. When he turns back to me, I whisper, “What’s wrong with the gumbo?”
“Pretty sure the pot hasn’t been cleaned this decade,” Dean says, just loudly enough to be heard over the music. “Every time I eat it, I regret it for days afterward.Days.”
I wince and laugh. “Ouch. Okay. Well, that’s a shame. It smells amazing.”
“That’s how it reels you in,” he says, shedding his coat and tossing it into the booth. “But I care too much about your fine ass to put it in the McLeary’s Gumbo line of fire.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Well, thanks. My ass and I appreciate that. Should I get popcorn then, while you get beer? I could go for a snack.”
Boy, could I. I want tosnackon every inch of this man. But until I have free rein to go ham on his big, beautiful body, I’ll have to make do with bar food.
He grins, his eyes glittering as if he has a pretty good idea what I’m thinking. “Yeah, grab us a basket. I’ll get beers and some chips, too. Abita on draft, okay?”
“Yeah, love Abita.”
“Me, too. Be right back.”
