"This one. It'll bring out your eyes."
"You don't know what color my eyes are."
"They're blue. Dark blue. Like the sky before a storm."
I'd blinked at him, surprised.
"How did you know that?"
"Because I pay attention. That's what people do when they care about someone."
I'd taken the dress and hung it in the back room, and I'd worn it the next day, and every day since.
My hair was in a braid.
I'd learned to do it myself—winding the strands together, tying the end with a ribbon, letting it fall over my shoulder. It wasn't perfect. There were always pieces that escaped, wisps that curled around my face, but Matt said it looked pretty, and the customers seemed to like it, and for some reason, that mattered.
"Hey, Bunny. Another round when you get a chance."
Frank's voice, from the end of the bar.
"Coming right up."
I poured the beers—two IPAs, a lager, a stout—and carried them to his table. He was sitting with a woman I didn't recognize, her hand on his arm, her laugh low and warm.
"Thanks, kid."
"You're welcome."
I walked back to the bar, and Matt was waiting, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression amused.
"You're getting faster."
"Practice."
"And confidence. Don't forget confidence."
"I'm not confident."
"You're faking it. Same thing."
The door chimed.
I looked up, and he was there.
Tall. Dark hair. Green eyes that caught the light and held it. He was wearing a charcoal suit without a tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and he moved with a kind of controlled grace that made me think of dancers, or soldiers, or something else entirely.
He walked to the end of the bar.
The end of the bar.
Where Matt had said the hypothetical man would sit.
Where Frank always sat.
Where no one sat except the regulars who'd been coming here for years.
"Welcome to The Lost Hours."
