“With men, you look confused, as though somebody handed you a present out of nowhere.”
“You’re being weirdly observant tonight.”
We make it to the bar.
The bartender is a tall, gorgeous redhead, wearing enough rings to seriously injure somebody in a fistfight.
“What are we drinking?” The bartender leans in with an easy, knowing smile.
We both order whiskey neat.
“First time here?” he observes, sliding our drinks over. There’s some playful sparkle in his eye.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
He glances between me and George once.
“You both keep looking around like two straight dudes who just realized the rainbow wasn’t only a weather thing.”
I lose it completely, laughter bursting out of me so hard I have to set my drink down.
“That,” I tell the bartender through tears of laughter, “is the funniest thing I’ve heard allnight so far.”
A burly guy already drinking beside me chimes in, his deep voice almost startling me. “You’ve both got this expression that looks like you’re trying not to imprint on the environment.”
“Oh, I’ve already imprinted,” I admit. “Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I’m two cocktails away from becoming part of the decor.”
George settles beside me against the bar. And God help me, he looks good here.
Dangerously good.
He’s in a faded gray flannel over a black T-shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, worn-out jeans on his legs. Pure Dean Winchester energy with tired eyes, hard muscle, and blue-collar sex appeal.
The low lighting sharpens everything about him. The heavy line of his shoulders. The dark, steady stare. The permanent mildly-annoyed expression that apparently translates extremely well in this place, because people keep openly checking him out every thirty seconds.
One guy walks straight over. Tiny waist, pretty brown eyes, a subtle silver nose ring.
He leans against the bar beside George, cautious but trying to act confident, like someone approaching a large, unpredictable dog.
“You look mean,” he says conversationally.
George takes a slow sip of his whiskey. “I’m not.”
The guy glances at me, amused.
“You’re right,” I say immediately. “He looks worse than he actually is.”
George gives me a flat stare.
The guy chuckles, resting his chin briefly against his hand while openly admiring George like a painting in a museum.
“Seriously though. You’ve got intense top energy.”
I nearly choke on my drink. My friend doesn’t even blink.
The guy grins at me, his eyes lingering on my face a beat longer than they do on George. “You’re cute when you short-circuit. Exactly my type.”
Excuse me?
