Page 9 of The Detour

“You never told me where you were headed,” I say as I reach for a bottle of wine and pour a glass of white zin.

Her shrug is as unenthusiastic as her response. “My excuse to myself was that I had to go deliver some papers to my brother, but honestly, I just needed to go.”

I purse my lips, nod in understanding, and slide the glass of wine in front of her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“It’s your favorite, and it looks like you could use it.”

Her head startles as she looks at the glass and then back to me. “How’d you know it’s my favorite?”

“You spend enough time behind this bar”—I wink— “and you get to know people.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yep.” I start a long pour of Guinness for Vix’s order.

“Then what do you know about me?”

Challenge accepted.

I take another long look at her, lips pursed, head cocked to the side. “You’re not into hard liquor because that’s too serious, because you’re too serious, and losing control isn’t your thing. At the same time, you’re restless, that much I can tell.” I set the beer on the serving station and grab a towel to wipe my hands on as I take the few steps back toward Harley. “You have an inherent dislike for the holidays, as is evident with your last name.”

“Clearly,” she says wryly above the rim of the glass.

“You’ve either been dumped recently or are getting over a breakup,” I add out of selfish curiosity to see if she has a boyfriend, and the little grimace she gives in response tells me I hit the nail on the head.

No boyfriend, then. I file it away for thought.

“And you’re escaping—” She lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, you’re escaping whatever it is that troubles you . . . perhaps that's why you can’t seem to finish that novel of yours.”

Her head whips up, and she’s on the defensive immediately, as she should be. “What? How? Why? You looked me up!”

I hold up my hands in defense, a chuckle falling from my lips. “I’m letting a strange woman stay in a part of my house. I’m sure as shit going to look them up and make sure they aren’t a serial killer. It’s only prudent on my part to check out the person I’m giving keys to.” She opens her mouth to speak and then shuts it just as quickly. “I didn’t mean any harm by it. Honestly. You mentioned on social media you were struggling with your book. I put two and two together and . . .”

“And you assumed. You know what they say about people who assume.”

My smile is quick. So is my shrug. “As a woman who uses her words for a living, I’m sure you’re more than willing to let me know.”

Our eyes hold for a beat as a sly smile curves her lips. “For the record, Saint, I got the hell out of Dodge because I wanted to find some random town with an even more random and sexy man. One who would pin me against the wall while kissing me senseless before carrying me off to have some wild, bed shaking sex. A little—or hopefully a lot of—something to take my mind off my dumpster fire of a love life and the train wreck my creativity seems to have fallen victim to.” She lifts the glass of wine and finishes the rest of it in one long gulp. “Is that the answer you were looking for?”

I’m not sure if I should applaud her endgame or raise my hand and volunteer as tribute. Regardless, I bark out a laugh and lean across the bar top to get closer to her. “If that’s the case, Humbug, you’ve come to the right place. We’re as random here as random can get. And as for the second part . . .” My eyes flicker to her lips and then back to her eyes just as she abruptly stands from her seat, confusing me. “Wait. Where are you going?” I ask, not ready for this conversation to end.

“If you’re saying this is the destination I was looking for, then shit, I better start looking around for the sexy guy portion of it.”

“Oof.” I thump the side of my fist to my heart as if I’ve just stabbed myself. “That was brutal.”

She stops mid-motion from sliding a ten-dollar bill under her empty glass and offers a lift of her eyebrows. “I guess that depends on what side of the conversation you’re on.”

I glance down at the money. “Keep your money. The wine was on the house.”

“Then put it toward my dinner.”

“But you’re leaving,” I say, and hate that it comes out with a tinge of desperation to it.

She points to the booth in the corner that a couple just vacated. “I think I’ll get more work done sitting there than if I stay here.”

“True.” I pick up her empty wineglass. “Plus, it’ll give you a view of the entire bar,” I say, motioning to the expanse of bar top that stretches the length of the room.