If I can smash a giant tomato to smithereens, maybe I can do this. No. I can. I can sit and make conversation. After all, I won’t be alone with this friend of Brian’s; I’ll have Sally and Brian there with me.
As my confidence grows, so do my insecurities.
Questions bloom, sprouting new questions.
Do I know what I’m I doing?
What do I even know about this guy?
I run the facts through my head. Brian and Sally call him Pep. What kind of name is that? He's Brian's age, late twenties or early thirties, never married, and an ex-professional hockey player. What does ex mean? It means he no longer plays hockey, but what does he do? Is he unemployed?
Do I care?
Brian’s an ex-hockey player and he’s employed. Does it matter?
“Table, ma'am?” the very young-looking girl behind the hostess stand asks.
When did I become a ma'am?
“No. Not yet. I'm meeting some friends.”
The girl motions to the archway. “You can wait in the bar if you'd like.”
I nod. Trying to swallow my worries, I turn and step that way.
My mind continues to churn.
Why does it matter if he's employed? This isn't a job interview. I don't need his resume.
I don't.
But maybe a police background check and a medical clearance would be nice. I start to make a mental checklist.
Background check.
Medical records.
Wait! I don't plan to take this night to anywhere that would require medical records. Then again, better safe than sorry. I mean, what if those performance-enhancing drugs did more than affect the circulation in certain parts of his body? What other side effects do they have? Do I care?
Taking another deep breath, I stand for a moment on the other side of the archway as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit bar. It’s a popular establishment and busy. And while it’s what my dad would call a safe location for meeting a stranger, it’s also far enough away from home that it’s not full of nosy, well-meaning friends.
I scan the room, looking for Sally and Brian. Of course, I can’t find them.
From glancing at the clock in my car before I was brave enough to enter, I know that I'm early. A giggle makes my throat clench as I shake my head. Sally has never been early in her life. She usually makes it to work on time, but that’s by the skin of her teeth.
Being early is a chronic ailment with me. With Jackson having been in the military, late was unacceptable and on time was considered late. The only possible arrival time was early. It’s one of the habits I can’t seem to break.
Since Sally and Brian aren't here yet, I look for an available seat. I want a place to wait and fade into the background. If maybe I could avoid looking quite so conspicuous, that would be a plus too.
A table alone would fail at the inconspicuous part. Therefore, I decide to make my way up to the bar, all the while doing my best to exude confidence—though it’s fake. As I do, my pulse increases with the realization that I've never been to a bar by myself. Jackson and I married at nineteen. I had just turned twenty-one when...
I work again to fill my lungs and hope that no one notices my shaking hands or stuttered steps. Being that it’s a Friday night, there are only a few empty barstools and of course, none with more space than a single. Quietly, I ease onto one stool wedged between two people and wonder for at least the tenth time if everyone can sense how tense I am.
I shoot Sally a text: I'm here. Where are you?
"Drink, pretty lady?"
I look up and try to stop myself from cringing at the bartender's greeting. It isn't his words that creep me out, but the leer as his eyes move from my face to my breasts and finally back to my eyes.
"U-um, yes, a glass of white moscato."
When his gaze lingers a little too long, I look away and stare at my phone, hoping that my focus on the screen will accelerate Sally’s answer. Yeah, right. As my mom would say, a watched pot never boils.
“Sorry, some men are jerks.”
I lift my eyes to the deep voice sitting beside me. I hadn't even noticed him when I sat, other than that he was there. Now as I'm staring into his eyes, I'm wondering how I hadn't.
I blink. Once. Twice. I’m trying to decide if this man is talking to me and if I remember how to respond.
Sapphire-blue eyes from beneath a protruding brow and wavy dark-brown hair have suddenly stolen my ability to speak. As I try to swallow, my gaze lowers, scanning his narrow nose, full lips, and chiseled jaw. I inhale, taking in how his jawline contains just the right amount of beard—trimmed yet soft. Even though I haven't even seen his body, my insides are twisting like they haven't in years.
This is ridiculous. I'm not some eighteen-year-old schoolgirl.
It's then I realize that his broad shoulder infringes upon my personal space and that our bodies are nearly touching.
Silently, I nod, agreeing with his statement that men are jerks and trying to remember how to speak. “I-it's okay.” The words finally find their way off my tongue. “I'm just a little nervous. My friend is supposed to meet me.”
The man turns my way, his shoulder brushing mine. “Your friend should never leave you alone with these wolves. He doesn't sound like much of a friend.”
Mr. Blue-eyes extends his large hand. “Hello, I'm—”
“Hey beautiful,” the bartender interrupts. “Here's your wine.”
Blue-eyes turns to the bartender. “She's with me. While I agree she's beautiful, Miss is an acceptable greeting.”
Suddenly, all the menacing glances from the bartender disappear.
“Hey, sorry. I didn't know.”
“I don't care if you knew or not. Serving drinks is your job—not hitting on every gorgeous woman.”
Beautiful? Gorgeous?
I'm speechless as Mr. Blue-eyes sends the bartender away looking less like a predator and more like a wounded puppy with his tail between his legs.
Once he's gone, I smirk, my cheeks filling with heat. “Thank you. You didn't need to do that.”
His shoulder moves against mine again as he shrugs. “I didn't need to, but I've been watching him. He's a snake.” Blue-eyes turns my way. “And thank you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, thanks for letting me say that. I wasn't insinuating you couldn't handle yourself. It's just that he’s been pulling those moves on every woman since I arrived, and I was dying to put him in his place. Really, you did me a favor.”
My cheeks rise as I lift my glass of wine. “Well, you're welcome.” I propose a toast. “To righting the world of wrongs.”
We clink glasses—my wine against his tall glass of beer—as he chuckles. Like his voice, his laugh is deep and sends vibrations from my ears throughout my entire body, down my chest, my tummy, and lower. I swear my toes tingle from his laughter.
As I take a sip, my phone pings. I read the text and sigh.
“Don't tell me your friend is standing you up?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, she's on her way. But she's running late. Surprise. Surprise.”
“Oh, she? I assumed...”
Heat floods my system. Shit—maybe I shouldn't have said that. What if this guy is a serial killer or something? Then again, maybe it's the way my bare shoulder rests against his sleeve-covered one or the way his warmth radiates from under the cotton.