Page 19 of Only Be Mine

“And you’re not a serial killer because…?”

He laughed, delighted. “Is that your way of asking if I’m normal?”

“I’m just saying,” I replied, twirling my straw, “meeting a man from a haunted house in a dark corner of his favorite bar feels like a reasonable time to ask.”

He leaned back, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Do you always assume the worst about people, or just men you meet while running for your life?”

“Just men,” I said. “The rest of the world, I’m fairly neutral on.”

“And men get… what? Probation?”

“Men,” I said lightly, “get one night.”

His eyes sharpened. “One night?”

I shrugged. “Keeps things simple.”

He didn’t look away. “Is that what you want with me?”

My throat went dry.

Yes, my body said. Obviously. Right now, preferably.

No, something quieter inside argued. Not just that. Not with him.

“I haven’t decided,” I said instead.

“That’s okay,” he replied gently. “We can go at your pace.”

My pace. No one ever offered that.

I took a drink so I wouldn’t have to respond.

“John!”

The shout came from the other side of the bar. I turned to see a tall guy weaving through the tables, blonde hair sticking up like he’d styled it with his hands

“That’s Seth,” John said, sipping his beer.

“As advertised,” I murmured.

Seth headed straight for the bar, slapped the counter like he was summoning a genie, and ordered something on tap without even looking at the choices. When the bartender handed it over, he downed a third of it in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and nodded to himself like he'd just accomplished something noble.

John winced. “He’s… a lot when he first arrives.”

“A lot how?” I asked.

John only gave me a tired, affectionate smile. “You’ll see.”

Seth didn’t see us yet and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here when he did. I stood from the booth. “Bathroom. Don’t move. I need to know where to find you again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John said, hand over his heart like he was making a solemn oath.

The hallway to the bathrooms was narrow and dim, the kind of corridor where you either apologized for brushing someone’s arm, or pretended it didn’t happen. I fixed my hair in the spotted mirror, reapplied a little gloss, and reminded myself for the seventeenth time that this was not a date.

On my way back out, I pushed open the door, and immediately collided with someone.

A hand caught my elbow before I could stumble.