Page 8 of Bastard Bartender

I let out a deep breath and stand up, finding that I might not know Nic from Adam but there’s something about him that makes me feel like he wouldn’t steer me wrong. Now, Marie, she’ll send me into a pack of wolves if there’s a slight chance I’ll come out uneaten. But Nic? No. I don’t have the feeling he would. I don’t know him well, but in the few hours I’ve been sitting here, I’ve learned the man has no filter. It’s as if he can’t be bothered to lie or hide the truth. Life’s too short, I suppose.

I smooth out my dress and push my stool in. “Here goes nothing,” I say to myself.

The man at the bar is talking to his friend, who has his back to me. As I get closer, the man in the blue shirt lifts his eyes to me in intrigued surprise.

“Excuse me. Can I get that cocktail menu?” I ask, pointing to the leather-clad folder propped up on the bar top near him.

“Here you go.” Blue-Shirt Guy hands it to me. He’s good-looking with a humble-as-pie smile.

“Thanks.” I pretend to mull over the menu. “I’m a little unsure on what I should order. My friend over there says what you drink says a lot about you.”

“Oh, really?” He leans back, intrigued.

“Yeah, especially when it comes to men. A beer means you won’t take risks while a vodka straight up … well, you might as well be living in your mom’s basement.”

He runs his finger over the rim of his glass. “What does gin say?”

“That you’re a man who knows what he wants and when he wants it.” I give him a smile, which he returns with steady eye contact.

His friend must sense the blooming sexual tension between us because he stands and says, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Feeling good that his friend left so quickly, I motion to the stool. “May I?”

“Please,” he says, all too eager for me to sit down. “I’m Paul.”

Paul.His name is the perfect P to end my night. I look down the bar at Nic, who is staring my way with a charismatic smile. I turn back to Paul and introduce myself.

“Evette. Are you from here?”

“Kind of. I’ve been living out here for about seven years. I’m in construction. You?”

“San Diego. I moved here to work for the new stadium. I run events there that aren’t associated with the team.”

“That’s great work. I might have to persuade you for a private tour of the facility. I heard it’s an incredible space.”

“For a man who values a well-made building, you will certainly be amazed.”

“I already am. By you. Thank you for coming over here. I noticed you before with your friend, but I thought you were with the bartender.”

“Nic?” I ask emphatically. “Oh, he’s just a friend. Well, kind of. We just met tonight. He’s been keeping my friend Marie and me entertained.”

“You seemed rather cozy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t imply—”

“No. We really just met, and besides, he’s not a …” P, is what I want to say. Thankfully, I stopped myself.

I never tell guys that’s the only reason why I’m giving them my attention. They might find it cruel to date this way or get the wrong impression about my intentions. I figure it would be a cute story to tell our grandchildren in, say, sixty years, long after we’ve been in love.

“Nic is not who I’m interested in tonight.”

This seems to make Paul feel good because he smiles. It’s a nice smile. The kind that makes his eyes crinkle. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Jack and Seven, please.”

He lifts an arm to summon Nic, who is over rather quickly. When he slides my drink over, he’s easy to wink at me, which I’m sure doesn’t do well in convincing Paul he’s only a friend … albeit a very attractive friend.

Nic leaves us, and we cheers and then talk. I learn Paul is into muscle cars and vintage records. I tell him I enjoy music of all genres and amateur photography.

Our conversation is easy, and when my drink is done, I’m pleased when he asks, “Is it too brazen of me to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me this week?”