Page 3 of Final Proposal

“It could be worse. This place could be closed. They could be out of alcohol. I mean—”

“I get the picture. Thanks.”

“C’mon,” she coaxes and then nudges me as if we haven’t just met. “It can’t be that bad.”

I give her a smile that’s anything but amused. “Aren’t we Miss Rainbows and Sunshine?”

“Says the man trying to be a grumpy asshole to ensure I don’t talk to him or disturb his”—she makes a show of looking at my glass—“whiskey, is it?”

“Sunshine, rainbows, and a mind reader?” I raise my eyebrows and give a low whistle. “More than impressed.”

She mock curtsies and gives me a smile that lights up her face. Jesus, I was wrong. There’s a whole lot of sexy there too.

“Thank you. It’s one of my many party tricks.”

“One of your many?” I ask.

“Oh, he does know how to smile,” she murmurs just above the fray, her eyes meeting mine again. “It’s a good look on you. You should try it more often.”

I slide a bemused look her way. “Noted.”

“Oh, see, a glimpse of cute and then right back to grumpy.” She takes a seat and swivels on her stool to face me. A hint of her perfume hits me with the motion. The irony that it smells like bottled sunshine isn’t lost on me.

“Exactly.” I give a curt nod as if I’m annoyed by her and her interruption—which I was and still should be—and yet I engage when I could easily excuse myself from the bar. “See? It’s fruitless to waste your time trying to make me smile.”

“Noted.” She repeats my word back to me and smirks. “I have much better things to do than try and make you smile anyway.”

It’s my turn to swivel and face her, my knees bumping against hers. “Is that so?”

“It is.” She orders a glass of Cabernet sauvignon and looks back at me expectantly.

“What exactly do you have that’s better to do?” I point around the bar and as if on cue, thunder rumbles again to emphasize that we’re stuck here and she can’t leave.

She angles her head to the side and works her tongue in her cheeks. “Stuff.”

“Stuff? How descriptive.”

“How about, stuff I don’t want to do? Stuff I’m avoiding doing? Stuff I’m simply trying to make sense of? Is that descriptive enough for you, Mr. Grumpy?”

Something flickers in her eyes that tells me she’s glossing over whatever it is. “Sure. Fine. Whatever floats your boat.”

“Apparently, I’m going to need that boat to find my way out of here if the water keeps rising.”

“And she has jokes too.”

“Always. Why is it that you’re grumpy? Is this an everyday occurrence?” She narrows her eyes and studies me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she does. “Hmm. I don’t peg you as the type though. Moody possibly. A brooder perhaps but simply for effect. But not perpetually grumpy.”

“Thanks for the psych eval.” I slide my empty glass toward the bartender, signaling for another. “I didn’t ask for one.”

“And yet that comment just confirmed my diagnosis.”

“Aren’t you the jack-of-all-trades,” I say.

Her smile just grows wider and damn it. It’s hard not to smile in return. Doesn’t she know my plan was to come here and brood? To self-medicate with this whiskey and tell myself how I have every right to be hurt and pissed and everything in between?

“So what is it? Girlfriend problems? Dog got run over? Car out of gas?”

My only response is a blank stare.