He holds his hands up. “Hey, I said I was buyingyoua drink, not myself.”
“Okay… sure.”
“Do you want another one of those?” He points to my empty glass, sounding unsure, as if he doesn’t quite know what it was.
“That’d be great.”
Nodding, he leans against the bar top, eyes going right to the bartender who’s walking this way. She moves by quickly, and heflinches forward, lifting his arm like he’s going to call her, but he didn’t get the chance. His hand goes back to the counter, and he doesn’t say a word as his eyes follow her. He does this a few times. I watch him so very unassertively try to get a drink, and it’s slightly entertaining. I almost laugh.
“And you got drinks all night by… hoping?” I ask, waving out my hand to get the bartender’s attention.
She raises a brow but doesn’t stop. I hold up my glass. She nods, then grabs three full shot glasses and takes them to the other end of the bar.
“Well, that’s not embarrassing at all,” he says, turning to face me once again.
“What’s your name?” I ask. My mood is slightly better, thanks to him. Distractions are always nice.
“Miles.”
“Nice to meet you, Miles,” I say. “Is it your first time at a bar?”
“Uh, no… She just looked busy.”
“She’s doing her job.”
“I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Okay.” I shrug as she puts my beer down.
“That’s going on my—”
She takes off before he gets the rest of the words out.
This time, I can’t help but laugh. He looks at me, pouting.
“Hey, at least you’re cute,” I say, pointing at him with the glass before taking a long sip.
His lips turn up in a grin. “You think I’m cute.”
“I’m sure you know you’re cute.”
He moves his head from side to side. “Maybe.”
I roll my eyes because it works for him, and he knows it.
“What do you do for work?” he asks, resting his elbow on the counter.
The crack of someone breaking the first set at pool table echoes through the air, then a bunch of guys start whooping and laughing.
“I’m a firefighter,” I say, the same practiced way I always do. Like it’s not a big deal and I don’t see people die all the time, and if you want to be a firefighter, you totally should be because it’s amazing to save lives and all that jazz.
And it is. Of course, it is. But losing them… it’s never easy.
My job might not be so stressful if my home life were a little better, but that’s a whole other problem I don’t want to think about right now—or ever, usually.
“Shut up,” Miles says with a gasp, pulling me from my spiral. “My nephew isobsessedwith firemen and especially fire trucks. And I don’t mean like a normal amount of obsessed, I mean over-the-top. Like… it’s concerning, maybe. His entire room is fire trucks. The walls are that ugly red, and—sorry.”
His cheeks turn pink as he rolls his lips between his teeth to stop from talking.
