When he’s back at his table getting what I’m sure is a ribbing, I return to Jayne and smile. “Nicely done. Maybe next time you do your books and need to concentrate you should keep your gaze downward.”
She smirks then giggles. “Perhaps you’re right. Too bad he was a bit dim. Is it wrong to assume he’d be that way in bed as well?”
I shrug and shake my head. “Not worth the risks or effort.”
“Agreed.” Jayne hiccups loudly and covers her mouth in surprise. “I’ve had too bloody much to drink. Which is good news for my ledger but shitty news for me because now I need a ride home and you know what that means?” She holds out her wine glass, tipping it to let me know she wants it refilled.
“You’ll be taking a cab?” A glance at the clock tells me her parents have left for the night.
“Worse, I’ll end up calling my cousin, Pippa.”
“Pippa? Come on, with a name like that she can’t be too bad.” It’s a weak argument and not one I’d use in a court of law.
“I told you her mother was mental. Pippa though, she’s lovely. In small doses. Very small doses. Miniscule.” Jayne’s thumb and index finger are a hairsbreadth apart.
I refill her glass. “Seriously?” If it’s as bad as she says, she deserves a drink.
“Bloody right I’m serious. Pippa will probably want me to meditate before she lets me out of the car.”
I arch a brow.
“She’s a nutter for yoga and all things like it. Moony.” She clasps the wine close to her chest.
“If you want to wait until closing, I can take you home,” I offer with a shrug of one shoulder.
“Bless you,” she says and grins.
“If she’s such a pain, why do you hang out with her?”
“Because the American government continues to cock up and issue her tourist visas and because she’s my family and the one friend I’ve had my entire life.”
I nod in understanding.
We don’t get to finish our conversation as the bar’s patronage picks up and I’m slammed with drink orders and helping out with the occasional table delivery.
I scan the crowd. The bar is filled with a mix of die-hard locals still in their work clothes, names sewn across the pocket of their shirt, bikers with their leather chaps and helmets resting on the floor, and college know-it-alls. They wear smug smiles and tight clothes; at least the girls do. Every garment is chosen to show off their tan, and as a flock of them pass headed for the restroom, the telltale aroma of coconuts and sunshine lingers behind them. I watch them with eyes that now have experience.
“Josie, I really have to pee. Can you take this order to table fifteen and check in with seventeen?” Sara, a bouncy college junior, pleads. She’s a hard worker so I do her a solid and wave her off but not before warning her of the pincher at table three.
I come from behind the bar with Sara’s notepad and pull up the tray I’d just loaded with a pilsner and a cosmo. Seriously? Cosmos are over and usually the person ordering one is attempting to reach a coolness they’ve only witnessed on TV.
“Here you go,” I say and place the cosmo in front of a blonde wearing a black short-sleeved sweater set accented with a long strand of black and white beads that she’s twirling around her fingers.
“And for you.” I put the pilsner in front of the guy whose face deep into his smart phone. When he glances up, my eyes clash with the swampy green ones I’ve seen before. The same color as the new cashmere throw I indulged in when I moved into my fabulous apartment.
We both gasp and I give a short, quick laugh.
“We meet again.” I wink.
“You work here?” McRae asks. The phone in his hand chimes.
“No, I’m sitting at that table of guys and saw you all were without your drinks, so I thought I’d pitch in.” I point to a random table behind him. He looks at the group of frat boys then back at me and laughs.
“You’re working, I see.” I nod to his phone.
“How long you been here?” He slides the arm he was resting behind the blonde back from the ledge of the booth and places it on the table where he flips his phone face down and begins to toy with it.
“My shift started a few hours ago.” Hoping to contain my smile, I pull on my lower lip with my teeth. Don’t want to be too obvious with my pleasure at seeing him again. “This is the end of my second week.”
My body begins to vibrate; my nipples pucker under my shirt simply from being in the same space as him. Holy Hades, McRae is hot.
“You two know each other?” The girl asks, looking between us.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.
“No,” I say at the same time. Then add, “Sorta. Not really.”
I’d like to get to know him. The charge of attraction sparking between us is intense and just as strong now as when I felt it in the truck on the drive down. Only now we’re in a setting where it’s common to hit on people and we’re a little less strangers. Which is the stupidest rationale in the world. Clearly, we’re still strangers. I don’t even know if this is his wife next to him and he’s the sort that doesn’t wear a ring. Though I have a hard time imagining the tailored blond to have the skills set to keep his attention; she’s more concerned with herself than anything else.
“Josie is...” He cocks his head to the side, maybe trying to find a way to define me. How he knows me. Josie is the girl I picked up on the side of the road. If that’s not a public service announcement for crazy, I don’t know what is.
I throw him a bone. “Sara, your waitress, will be around in a flash to see if you need anything,” I say, hoping to let the subject drop. His eyes dart to my chest, my exposed midriff, and my legs before bouncing back up. “Have a good night.”
I move to the next booth, and the four guys turn their attention to me. The big one on the end gives a wolf whistle. He’s clearly the ringleader by the way he monopolizes the larger portion of the bench and is leaning away from his friends while they lean toward him.
“What can I get you boys?” I don’t lean on the table or act coy. My woman’s intuition has kicked in and all thoughts of McRae and his blonde are gone. I remove the three empty pitchers of beer as fast as I can and stand back so they know I’m ready to take their order and nothing else. The metaphorical pad is out and pen is poised. Experience has taught me to be leery of the sort of personality the ringleader seems to embody. I’m always hopeful I’m wrong.
“I could use a tall glass of you,” the oaf says and I detect a slight lisp. My kid brother, Stuart, has one and years of speech therapy have taught him how to get around it.
The asshat grabs the knot at my waist where I’ve tied my Oxford United jersey, and tugs, trying to get me to step closer, his fingers purposefully grazing my exposed midriff. He lets go to trace a knobby finger along the painted henna vines that scroll across my belly.
I bat his hand away. “Keep your mitts to yourself unless you want me to break them. Consider yourself warned.” I’m glad I decided on my heavy Doc Martins, whose sole purpose is to inflect lasting pain when kicking the shit out of someone.
I gesture with the empty pitchers and wait patiently for an order, refusing to engage further. Dumb-dumb continues to leer, his fingers drumming against his leg. Another guy, in what I assume is an attempt to steer the conversation away from me, asks the oaf which draft he thinks they should try. But oaf boy is not so bright.