Page 62 of Wild Abandon

Rubbing my hands under my eyes, I hold my face and try to fight the urge to turn the car off and go back inside Henley’s Pub.

I lose.

Shutting off the ignition, I get out of the car and walk back into the bar, hoping I don’t look like a complete loser.

I could say I forgot something.

Or just slip in to use the restroom.

Maybe I could pretend my car is stalling, and I need to call a cab.

All of those excuses go out the window because at the bar is a freshly poured stout in a frosted glass and a handsome bartender standing, his arms open on the cedar with one brow raised and a lopsided grin on his face.

I feel my smile widen, and I hope I don’t look like a complete tool. Because I am one. For some reason, the sight of him, knowing I’d be back here for my after-date beer, with that smirk on his face makes me stupidly, deliriously, idiotically happy.

And I really need to stop that shit.

“Okay, I’m ready for your assessment.” I take my usual seat, cross my legs, and lean into the bar.

“You picked a good one.”

“Oh.” My mouth puckers out.

Nate reaches behind the bar, takes the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and places it on the bar. Two shot glasses appear next to it.

“Brent Montavale is a big name around here. I’ve also never seen him in here before.” Nate opens the bottle, pours two glasses, and then hands me one. “I find it hard to believe that you met him online.”

“No. Jeremy set us up. This was date number two.”

Nate’s eyes widen. “Date two? Huh.” His brows curve in as he downs his shot.

I pick up my two ounces of amber liquid and try to dissipate the searing disappointment that Nate approves of Brent Montavale and the annoyance that it bothers me.

“You play pool, Red?”

“No,” I state, rather disappointed.

“Good. Let’s go.” Nate takes the bottle and the two glasses and walks away.

“Oh. Okay.” I swing my body around the stool and follow him to a back room where there is a pool table and no one playing at it.

Nate grabs the triangle off the wall and puts the balls inside.

“Nice rack,” he says to himself, causing me to look down at my blouse. When I look back at him, he’s smiling and then looking at the triangle filled with balls. “Yours is nice, too,” he adds.

I blush.

He hands me a stick and ushers me to go first. I hate pool. It’s a stupid game of sticks and balls and that weird triangle thing. It really is just an excuse for guys to get girls to bend over.

“What’s with the face?”

I release my lip and realize I was making that duck-mouthed face again. Leaning over, I give him my biggest, most sarcastic smile. “Better?”

“Much.” He’s standing on the other side of the table, feet wide apart, chalking the tip of his pool stick. His hand is caressing the cube and rubbing it in slow, deep circles. Only Nate can make the motion wildly sexy. “You wanna break, or should I?”

It takes a second for me to actually hear what he said. Clearing my throat, I say, “After you.”

He smiles and then leans down over the table, the lid of his baseball hat casting a shadow over his eyes. Nate lines up his shot and shoots with a force I think is harder than necessary. Three balls sink in various pockets.