“Line ’em up,” I say, and he gets a cocky grin on his face.
He leans over the bar and grabs two shot glasses and a bottle of 151. He holds it up to see if it’s good for me. I nod in approval.
He pours the clear liquid into the glasses and leaves the bottle nearby.
“Your game. You go first,” I say.
He slides his chair a touch closer to mine before lifting three fingers—his pinkie, ring, and middle—as he ticks off his truths and a lie. “I live in San Francisco. I own this bar.” He pauses as his gaze flickers to the woman behind the bar. “I’m engaged to Stella.”
My eyes close for a moment as I think of which could be a lie. I didn’t see a ring on Stella’s hand. Then again, I’m wearing a wedding ring right now, and I’m as single as a dollar bill. While I don’t know if he’s engaged or not, one thing’s for sure.
“You don’t live in San Francisco,” I state.
“Take a drink,” he commands, and my brows rise in surprise. He lifts the glass, showing me my punishment. “I bought the bar five years ago and have been living here ever since.”
I suck down the shot and have to squeeze my eyes until the burn dissipates. The motion makes my ear ache again. I’ve never had my ear take this long to clear from a flight.
As I brush away the sting from both parts of my body, I say, “I never pictured you as a bar owner in the city.”
“Small-town mechanic was all you had me pegged for?”
“There was nothing wrong with that.”
“It wasn’t enough for you,” he states with a cocked brow and a quirk of his lip.
There are so many things I want to reply to that statement with. Instead, I lift three fingers and take my turn. “I speak Italian, I can cook an amazing Bolognese sauce, and I have a boyfriend named Franco waiting for me in New York.”
“I call bullshit on the Bolognese. You could burn toast.”
“Drink,” I say with a laugh, proud of myself for getting him. “I know a wonderful woman named Nonna in Naples who I visit a few times a year. She teaches me how to cook, and I do her hair.”
The glass hovers over his lips as he stares at me a beat. He takes the drink and keeps the glass in his hand. “You cook and do old-lady hair?”
I give a shrug. “She’s sweet, and she has no family. It’s like having my own Italian grandmother to dote on me every once in a while.”
His eyes glaze over at the mention of a grandparent. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandma. I would have come to the funeral but—”
“It was a small ceremony. I had her cremated. She’s sitting in an urn next to my parents. I want to scatter them somewhere, but I haven’t chosen where.”
“You’ve been to so many places. You’d think you’d have found the perfect spot.”
I shake my head. “Nothing seems right.”
“It never does when someone you love leaves,” he says, and his light eyes turn molten as they burn into mine.
I clear my throat and lift the bottle. “Your turn to lie,” I say as I pour his glass.
“I broke my leg in a motorcycle accident, I’m a college dropout, and I have a warrant out for my arrest.”
I cringe as I say, “Please tell me the warrant is false.”
“You’re off the hook. Still pretty clean or else I’d never get a liquor license.” He takes the shot as his punishment.
“I really thought you were going to attend a local college.”
“It wasn’t like I was gonna become a doctor or anything worth having a degree for. I enjoy being a business owner. Started here as a bar back, and when the owner was ready to sell, I couldn’t say no.”
“That’s great, Zack. Really great.” I think to his other truth and look down at his jean-clad body. “And your leg?”
“Broke it in three places.” He points toward his calf. “Took a fucking year to learn to walk properly again, but it’s all good now.”
“That’s awful. I’m so sorry you went through that. You’d never know you were injured like that.”
“You have to watch me walk closely. I have a bit of a limp. Not always, but when I’m worn down, it gives in a little.”
“I’d never picture you on a motorcycle.”
“It’s easier than parking my truck around here. Right now, both are parked out back in the alleyway.”
“You still drive one!” I admonish. “Even after the accident?”
“Fuck yeah,” he says with a smile. “My mother hates it though.”
“I’d imagine she’s livid. But you’re a grown man who can make his own decisions.”
“That I am.” He grins before hiding it away again.
It’s amazing to talk to him as easily as we once did while we were teenagers, and yet he’s not the boy I remember. He’s more. It almost makes me feel like he’s a different person altogether. A stranger I just met. Someone who doesn’t know my past, someone I hadn’t hurt or who hurt me.
He has no idea how much I still hurt.
I raise my chin and my glass. “I don’t own a car, I’ve never been on a motorcycle, and I love pumpkin spice anything.”
“You just handed me that one. Pumpkin,” he says, and I take a drink. “Never liked it as a kid, so no way you can handle it now.”
This time, the shot goes down easier. “Pumpkin is pretty nasty.”
“Shame. You’re missing out on pumpkin pie.”
“That sounds horrid.”
“Not the way I make it.”
“You bake?”
“Let’s not go calling me Stevie Homemaker or anything, but, yeah, I can use a whisk around the kitchen,” he says. I must be staring at him with a look of complete shock because he continues, “When my dad’s Parkinson’s set in, I started helping him. Turns out, I’m the new pie guy in the family.”
I put my hand up to my lips and giggle. “I can picture you in an apron.”
“Watch it, Jo.” His eyes narrow in challenge.
“It’s cute. And sweet.”
A slight blush rises on his chiseled cheeks. “Yeah, well …” He looks down at the bar and stares as if something has crossed his mind. He shakes his head and quickly asks, “What’s up with the no-car thing?”
“On a plane all day and cabs at home. Never a reason to have one. No use paying for a car and insurance when it’s gonna sit in a garage.”
“Probably for the better. I remember your foot jerking on the clutch.” He manipulates his body like it’s being shoved back and forth.
“It wasn’t so bad.” I hit his arm, but he doesn’t budge from his seat; he’s just sitting there with a smirk. “What’s the smile for?”
His teeth skim his lip as his eyes roam over mine for just a second before rising and giving me an intense stare. “I’m just remembering what we did in the backseat after the driving lesson,” he says to my surprise.
I blow out through my lips and feel the tingles down to my toes. How is it that I haven’t been in this man’s presence in so long, and yet in the course of two hours, he’s ignited anger, laughter, and now intense attraction?