A touch presumptive? Perhaps. That shot glass could have been left over from a previous customer, only that conclusion was laid to waste when she raised it in the direction of the bartender and immediately got it refilled with Patron. This woman meant business.
The TV screen didn’t interest her. Bast Durand didn’t interest her, which was interesting in itself. Usually you’d take, at least, a cursory glance at whoever sat down beside you. Guess the beard n’ beanie disguise was working just fine.
Something that was confirmed when she turned to him with a blank, slightly unfocused stare and said, “That seat’s taken.”
There was a challenging set to her chin, like she expected trouble but a shot of tequila would see her right. Because she’d spoken to him, he took that as permission to look his fill. Even sitting, he could tell she was possessed of amazing curves, shapely hips, and a nice rack, though it was covered by a University of Denver hoodie. He couldn’t see her ass, but he suspected it was as hot as the rest of her.
“Sure is,” he said in response to her comment about the seat’s current ownership.
“No, I mean by my friend.”
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
Oh boy. “Your friend?”
“Why do you assume it’s a female friend?”
“Fifty-fifty guess.”
She corkscrewed a finger in the air. “Typical.”
“What is?”
“Your assumption that there are only two genders. Fifty-fifty guess.” Her voice went deeper on that last phrase, an impression of him, he supposed.
“One in three odds, then.”
She twitched her nose. Damn cute, even if it signified disapproval of his hasty take on gender identity.
“It’s a woman.” She picked up her Rolling Rock, readied to take a draft, then changed her mind. “My friend is a woman and that’s her seat.”
He nodded slowly and took an eye at the screen. Another miss, another crowd-swollen groan.
“But she’s not here.”
She sighed. “Not yet. But you have to leave when she arrives. That’s the deal.”
He smiled, figuring there was no need to argue the fact he’d been sitting here first. They had a deal.
“Fair enough.”
She fixed him with an inscrutable look through eyes an unusual shade of golden-hazel, and big, like a children’s book illustration. Did she recognize him or—his pulse rate picked up—did she not? Which would be better. Much better.
“Why so sad?”
That surprised him. “You think I’m sad?”
She pointed at his mouth. “Looks like one of those paper-over-the-cracks smiles.” Followed by a lazy wave at the TV screen. “Is it because of these losers?”
These losers, his teammates. That, and so much more.
“No one likes to see their team on the wrong end of that kind of score line.”
She snorted. Clearly, she wasn’t on board with that sentiment.
“Did you ever think that it might be because of your hat?”
“My hat?”
“No one else here is wearing one, which makes you the odd one out. Or maybe you’re having a bad hair day. I get it. Truly.” She gave a general motion of her hand at her own, to his mind, perfect, hair.
He wanted to laugh, but she seemed so serious about his funny hat, his bad hair, or both. “I’m always cold. Hence the headwear.”
“Tough to be you.”
“The stories I could tell.”
She chuckled, a raspy sound that went straight to his dick. It had been a while, so he was extra-susceptible to sexy chuckles with just the right amount of gravel.
But there was something else about that chuckle. Something strangely familiar. Her eyes, too …
“It’s a good-looking hat,” she said before he had a chance to examine this weird sensation of déjà vu. “Your grandma knit it?”
An insult, perhaps, but he had her there.
“Someone’s grandma did. A sick little girl gave it to me as a gift.”
She studied him again, checking his story out with a lie-detecting cast to her expression. He must have passed the test because she nodded. “Cool. You’re a saint.”
True enough, it wasn’t the best crafted of hats, but Granny Gwen had given it to him and that meant something. Especially when he wasn’t feeling a lot of love.
The crowd let out a loud groan. Winnipeg had scored again, so now the home team was down by three. He shook his head.
“Sucks to be a Hawks fan right now,” she said just as the bartender slid another Rolling Rock across the bar. Her second to add to the shots.
She offered a twenty, but he held up his hand to the bartender.
“Add that to my tab.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Why not?”
She blew out a breath, which caught a stray dark curl near her forehead and gave it a half-hearted lift. “Because …” The moment was held suspended. “I’m not here to be picked up by some jabroni.”
That would normally be enough to deflate his dick, but instead it pulsed, inspired by the challenge she presented. “Is that the only reason I’d buy you a beer?”
She waved her hands, taking in the entire bar. “Trying to think of any other.”
“You must be an incredibly suspicious type or severely lacking in imagination because I can think of at least three.”
For his efforts, he was rewarded with an inordinately cute kick to the corner of her lips. The charm was finally penetrating and the success sent an endorphin rush barreling through him.
“Oh yeah? Hit me.”
Reason #1: I’d like to talk to the one person in this bar who seems to have no clue who I am.
Instead he went with, “First, you put me in my place about my gender assumptions. Much appreciated.”
“True, true,” she murmured, with what sounded like a tipsy pride.
“Two, you said nice things about my hat”—though she hadn’t really—“which me and my hat really appreciate. And three …”
He tried to think of something else, wishing he didn’t have to. He was Bast Fucking Durand after all. Never in his life had a woman considered not accepting his offer to buy her a drink in a bar. He would’ve liked to say this need to convince her was refreshing, but after his recent funk, he was eager for a win.
Maybe he should introduce himself. Take the easy way out. She might not care who he was, but letting her know could be the boost he needed. Yet something in him longed for the stretch to his charm muscles, one he hadn’t had to confront since he’d made his name as a star athlete at U Mass seven years ago.
While he searched for a third reason, she spoke. “I suppose you could be trying to make sure Rolling Rock stays in business? It’s not the most popular of beers. Kind of past its heyday.”
“Exactly!” He flourished his hand to make his—or her—point, then let loose a grin.
She returned one of her own, and wow, little firecrackers went off in his chest. The gravity of before was replaced with a sunshine that warmed him through.
“Thanks for helping me out there,” he said, inclining his head slightly. Something floral tickled his senses, and the closer he got the more that feeling of familiarity came back to him. But he would remember if he’d met her. A woman like this would stay lodged in his consciousness for sure.