“No.” I cleared my throat, wiping at the bar with the towel in my hand. I felt certain he would have no idea who I was even if he’d looked at me square in the face. I also felt certain—given what I knew of his temperament—he would have zero interest in dealing with some unknown admiring-from-afar fan from his hometown. We may have gone to school together, but we’d never moved within the same social circles.
“But you recognize him. He must’ve been awful,” she lamented. “Oh well, that sucks. I might as well have a drink.”
“What'll it be?" I reached for a martini glass because I knew what it would be.
“I suppose a vodka martini will do.” Her eyes moved to my right, to where we kept the cherries.
“Got it.” I readied myself to defend the condiment tray—Kaylee was always snatching cherries—and reached for the vodka. But then Kaylee’s phone chimed.
“Belay that order. This might be Nash.” She grabbed her bag.
“Nash? Is he meeting you here?”
“Yes. He's picking me up.” Whipping her phone out, she scanned the screen.
“He's picking you up?” After midnight? Midweek?
“Yep. Sorry, did I forget to mention that?” She jumped off her stool, tapping out a message on her phone. “You have your car keys? I’m really just here to drop the car off.”
“Yes. I have my keys.” I was all sorts of confused. “Are you and Nash back together?”
“Of course not.” She lifted her briefcase from the stool, her phone chiming again. She smiled down at something she read on the screen. “Okay, I’m leaving. See you later, gator.”
“Say hey to Nash for me.”
“I will. And—” she shot a meaningful look toward Rex at the end of the bar “—let me know if you need us to come back at closing and help you with high school trash.”
“Sure thing.”
Giving me a quick, sympathetic smile, Kaylee dashed out of the bar. I watched her go, my traitorous eyes settling on Rex as the door closed behind her. No longer staring at his phone, his large hand encircled the half-full pint of amber ale which he seemed to find engrossing.
My heart gave a stupid, weak flutter, something it hadn’t done in ages. More than just Rex’s forehead was now visible. His eyes were mostly in shadow but, yep. He still looked fine as hell. More breathtaking in person than he was on TV, visceral masculinity, raw charisma, magnetic. Even the grumpy set of his mouth did it for me.
The weak flutter in my heart became a gallop. He’s so gorgeous.
The dark stubble on his square jaw, cheeks, and chin framed his lips. Even in a grim line, like now, they were lovely and luscious. I’m unhappy to report that, as a teenager, I’d kissed my pillow more than once, wishing the cotton blend of my pillowcase were those lips.
I sensed him stir and I flinched, turning my back to him as another scorching wave of embarrassment climbed up my neck. Pretending to be busy, I faced the liquor shelf, picked up random bottles, set them down again, and strained my ears. Wishing and not wishing Rex would ask for another beer, I successfully resisted the urge to rush over and offer him a refill. Instead, I forced my brain to run through the list of tasks I needed to finish before closing.
With any luck, the next time he waved me over it would be to close his tab. Then he’d leave, my contented life would go on, and I’d watch his Thanksgiving Day game while he continued to be blissfully ignorant of my existence.
I refilled the napkin dispensers at each of the empty tables and contemplated the irony of my predicament.
Sharing the same space as Rex McMurtry for—I glanced at my watch—the last fifty-three minutes would’ve sent teenage Abby into raptures. This was noteworthy because teenage Abby didn’t go into raptures for much—extra time in the high school pottery studio, free concert tickets, free yarn—but she would’ve been over the moon tonight. My sophomore year of high school revolved around Mr. Peterson’s shop class, during which I’d try not to stare at Rex. He’d sat three tables in front of me, and it was the first time I’d discovered male backsides could be attractive.
Whereas adult Abby did not feel rapturous at Rex’s loitering. I felt impatient. His presence felt like a big fat interruption in my lovely, quiet, calm existence, a bone in my salmon fillet, a large seed in my seedless watermelon, a pebble of indeterminate origin in my shoe.
Rex had nursed his first pint for a full half hour before gesturing to me, again without looking up, and ordering another. I was happy to provide a refill as it was a timely opportunity to (avoid his eyes and breathlessly) say, “We close in about twenty minutes. Are you sure you want another?”
“Yes, please.”
“I'll just close you out, then.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He hadn’t moved his credit card from where I'd set it earlier, so I grabbed it and cashed out his tab. Swiftly, I placed the receipt and the pen on the counter along with his card, hopeful he'd sign, finish his beer, and leave, and then I could forget about the jarring disruption and pretend it had never happened.
But that is not what occurred.
Each table, one by one, cashed out. Even the Larsons, who typically sipped their one drink for six hours and dawdled until they were Rickrolled out of the place. They’d left at least ten minutes ago.
In high school, I hadn’t minded how Rex’s presence seemed to draw all my attention, distracted me from whatever I was doing and whoever I was with. But now I found the distraction bothersome. Unwillingly, I’d kept one eye on Rex while I cleaned, put away glasses, checked the liquor levels, and retrieved new bottles from the back. Never willing to actually look directly at him, nevertheless, I’d been acutely aware of his lack of movement.
I mean, he’d moved a little. He’d finished half his second beer but hadn’t touched the pen or the paper or his card. He definitely made no move to put on his coat or walk to the door. Nerves built inside of me, weaving a tapestry of anxious dread.
What if he did recognize me? I’d convinced myself I didn’t think it would happen, but we’d gone to school together for thirteen years, and I had been exceptionally tall, my one defining trait as far as my classmates were concerned. Maybe, instead of just “tall girl,” he did know my name. Would I then be expected to speak to him? I didn’t want to speak to him. I wanted to continue admiring him from afar, as I’d done forever. I didn’t want anything to change.
I’d twisted myself so tightly, frustrated at my lack of calm, that when the lights flipped on, the abrupt intro of Rick Astley's “Never Gonna Give You Up” made me jump. I almost dropped the napkin dispenser I’d been wrestling.
Pressing a hand to my sternum, I ceased fighting with the napkins and blinked against the sudden brightness, blowing out a long breath. I need a drink and my bed and three days off.
“You okay there, hon?” Ingrid bumped my hip as she walked past, splitting her attention between me and the mess I was making with the napkins.
“Peachy.”
Facts were facts: I couldn’t concentrate while the one guy I'd compared all other men to—nay, all other humans—sat just thirty feet away. And he still hadn’t sheathed those forearms.