But then, just as I’d straightened on my stool and decided on the efficiency of straight whiskey over the frivolousness of another whiskey sour, a deep male voice speaking in an Australian accent said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
My head turned of its own volition and I was strangled by surprise because there he was, sitting on the stool next to mine, his interesting face in profile, the full force of his attention on Patty the bartender. How she managed to hold his gaze, I had no idea. Your old friend Patty is a tough cookie, that’s how.
Lord Vader himself. At a country western bar. In Tennessee. Sitting next to me.
My heart climbed up my esophagus and the discomfort of hyperawareness ignited a sudden hot flash beneath my skin. I was still staring at him as he turned to face me, his movements unhurried, easy, graceful. But a split second after our eyes connected, I flinched back, dropping my chin and studying the wooden bar.
What is he doing here? And why is he so close? There must’ve been twenty other free stools. It was a Tuesday at 6:30 p.m. He could’ve sat anywhere. He could’ve—
Wait a minute.
Am I about to be eviscerated?
“Well?” Patty’s friendly voice cut through my diatribe of confusion and I affixed my stare to her smiling expression. “What’re you drinking this time, sugar?”
“Whiskey?” I squeaked.
Her grin grew and she nodded once, glancing quickly at my inexplicable companion and then back to me. “Top shelf, right?”
“Of course,” he said, the juxtaposition of his cultured Australian inflection against her adorable southern twang befuddled me.
I opened my mouth but couldn’t bring myself to speak. To my ear, I had no accent. Which meant I sounded like I had an accent to both of them. He was cultured, she was adorable, but what adjective would they use to describe me? Generic American tedium? Flat Midwestern dullness? These thoughts made my brain stumble.
Patty winked and skipped away, presumably in search of top-shelf whiskey.
Meanwhile, I watched her go, watched her reach for the top shelf—who knew they actually kept “top shelf” liquor on the top shelf?—and pull down a bottle of amber liquid, pause and chat with another bartender, all the while feeling the weight of Mr. Elias Fallon’s attention on the side of my face.
“You can’t use can openers?”
My lashes fluttered at the deep tenor of his voice, and I slid my gaze to the right, discovering he’d turned completely, one of his feet on the bottom rung of my stool, his other long leg stretched out behind me.
I successfully fought a shiver and shrugged. “It can be challenging, depending on the type of can opener.” I’d managed to keep my tone flat.
“Challenging.” His elbow on the bar, his thumb beneath his chin, the side of his index finger brushed against his top lip. He appeared to be completely at ease. But then, he always appeared to be completely at ease, even when he eviscerated people.
“You have to, uh, turn the crank with your right hand.” I peeked at his face again. He watched me with a forceful yet inscrutable expression. I blurted, “I’m left-handed.”
“I know.”
I looked at him squarely. “You know?”
“Yes.”
“That I’m left-handed?” I felt my forehead wrinkle.
“Yes.”
I searched the bar beyond him. “But you don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He leaned a smidge closer.
You don’t know who I am.
I couldn’t say that, because he did.
We’d been introduced several times last year when I’d first been recruited to take over as lead design engineer at headquarters. Every time, he’d shaken my hand in a firm grasp, freezing me in place with the expressive intensity of his gaze, and said, “Dr. Bello. We’re glad you’re here.”
No. He knew who I was, he knew my name. I’d given presentations at meetings where he’d been present. He’d asked questions and I’d answered them plainly. That kind of interaction hadn’t flustered me. Like I said, when talking about subjects where I’m a content expert, I have no problem.
So instead of saying You don’t know who I am, I said, “You don’t know me.”
Analyzing him and his unwavering yet oddly warm—is that warmth?—gaze, I ignored the tight, prickly sensation in my chest and licked my lips. They still tasted like the sour mix from my earlier drink, sweet and tangy.
Elias Fallon’s focus wavered, dropping to my mouth for two beats of my racing heart, and he spoke slowly, as though measuring or counting every word. “You take notes during meetings in your composition notebook instead of using a laptop or your phone.”
“It’s so I can sketch designs as they occur to me.”
“You could do that with an iPad or a tablet.”
“But then they’d be the property of the company. I buy my notebooks myself. Not all my sketches are for corporate.” What I didn’t say, because it was none of his business, was that I often sketched people during meetings—him included. Especially him.
Which made me a weirdo creeper. Yeah. I know this about myself, okay? But what could I do? His face was so interesting. I liked looking at it, but only when he wasn’t looking back.
“And you always use a felt-tip pen.”
“If I used ballpoint or pencil, I’d smudge them with the side of my hand.”
“Makes sense.” Elias Fallon placed his palm flat on the bar in front of me. “You also always sit at a corner seat, so no one is sitting on your left.”
Disarmed and distracted by this last observation, I threw caution to the wind, met his arresting gaze squarely, and set my elbow on the bar a few inches from his fingers so I could rest my chin on my hand. “Do I?”
He nodded once, warm eyes tracing slowly over my features. “Yes. It makes finding a seat next to you very difficult.”
“Why would you want to sit next to me?” I asked mechanically, too distracted by the glamor of Elias Fallon up close.
“Perhaps I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to talk to you.”
I sunk into the depths of his amazing eyes, swam in them. “About what?”
He shrugged lightly. “Just small talk.”
That broke the spell. I flinched back, blinking away. “Oh, then you’d be disappointed. I fail at small talk.”
“Then big talk.” He bent his head, moving back into my line of sight.
His words pulled a confused smile out of me. “Big talk?”
“Yes. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax.”
“Cabbages and kings?” My grin widened and I gave him another glance, surprised by his Lewis Carroll reference. “Big fan of Alice in Wonderland? Or, I guess more precisely, Through the Looking Glass?”
“Big fan of that poem, The Walrus and the Carpenter.” Something mischievous glinted in his gaze, though his face remained poker straight.
“Those poor oysters.” I tutted. “Thinking they’re just going for a walk, and instead they end up being eaten.”
Elias Fallon inclined his head and whispered darkly, “Don’t feel too bad for them. I’ve never met an oyster that didn’t enjoy being eaten.”