“Can't I, though?” I tucked a drink menu under my arm.
Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, but I’d never been one of those people who needed to learn a lesson more than once. One and done, that was my motto, especially when the “one bad experience” had ended in jail time.
“You must get back on the horse, Abby.”
“Must I, though?” I tapped my chin.
“Yes you—” Finally recognizing my attempt at deflection, she snapped her mouth shut and gave me a flat look. “Your dense barrier of sass notwithstanding, you know getting out there, putting yourself out there, would be healthy.”
Kaylee hadn’t been there for my marriage, but she’d witnessed the aftermath. She’d watched me struggle under the mountain of debt and sorrow and anger and helplessness. Why couldn’t she just drop this? And even if I hadn’t barely survived my divorce, I’d heard and seen enough sad stories from bitter and depressed bar patrons to convince me that desire was a scam, soul mates were a lie, and the only thing romantic love did to your heart was break it.
And then send it to bankruptcy court and jail for your ex’s massive—I mean impressively colossal—debts and Ponzi scheme that you had NO IDEA about when you’d gotten married at an impressionable eighteen years old.
“Why can’t you let me live my best life, Kaylee? Maybe my best life is eating scrambled eggs every day and never dating.” Legit, I loved both scrambled eggs and never dating.
She scowled, but her words were teasing, “This is a good time to tell you. I, and others, consider your perpetual contentment with life a personal attack.”
I laughed. “Here, let me go serve this hot guy real fast and then you can continue to beat this dead horse that you insist I take for a ride.”
Utilizing her ninja skills, she grabbed my wrist before I could move away. “Wait. Wait.” Her eyes darted to the end of the bar and then back to me, whispering, “What if, instead, you flirt with the hot guy?” Kaylee indicated to the man with her chin, like I wouldn’t know to whom she referred. The man’s presence seemed to inhabit one tenth of the available space in the bar, there was no missing him.
I blinked at her. “Why would I do that?”
She searched my face. “If you flirt with him, I won't bring up dating again for—for . . . a month.”
Typical Kaylee. Life was one big bargaining opportunity. She was only happy when she was negotiating or arguing.
“One flirting encounter buys me a month?”
“I promise.” She drew a finger in the shape of a cross over her heart.
“Make it three months and we have a deal.”
“Deal,” she said quickly, her eyes brighter, happier, like my agreement was a victory for her. “Three months. And maybe unbutton the top button of your—”
I twisted my arm from her grip. “I can flirt without showing my boobs.”
“Yeah, but you have really nice boobs, and they deserve to be admired by someone other than me.”
“So noted.”
“And take off that ring!” she loud-whispered.
Grunting, I did remove my grandmother’s ring from my left ring finger, my shield against handsy and aggressive patrons, but I did not adjust the buttons of my shirt. I slipped the antique ring onto the middle finger of my right hand and walked down the long galley to the giant stranger. Obviously, if I got any creeper vibes from him—any at all, even a smidgen—the bet was off. Better to be safe than sorry.
If he was perturbed by my lack of attentiveness thus far, he showed no outward signs. The man's eyes were on the screen of his phone, his arms braced on top of the bar, shirtsleeves rolled up, broadcasting some seriously tantalizing forearm action.
Hmm. Maybe I should’ve undone the first few buttons of my shirt.
Exposed male forearms, in my opinion, were the equivalent of exposed female cleavage. Tits for that, er, tat. I meant, tit for tat.
“Hey, what can I get you?” I asked, placing a drink menu and the square napkin on the bar while studying what I could see of his features.
Dark blue or dark gray dress shirt, top three buttons undone, tie loose and slightly askew, a bright white undershirt beneath. He’d pulled off a heavy coat and it hung haphazardly on the back of his stool. His hair was short on the sides, longer on the top, and either light brown or dark blond. The color was impossible to tell given the dimness of the room and the orange glow of the Halloween lights decorating the liquor shelf behind me.
He had a nice forehead, what I could see of it, but his face and focus remained fastened to the screen of his phone as he responded in a monotone, “Beer. Whatever amber you've got on tap, please.”
“Sure thing. You want a pint or—”
“Pint is fine, thanks.”
Polite. I'd say he had a nice voice except it had remained monotone.
Stepping to the side, I grabbed a pint glass and positioned it under the tap of our most popular amber.
Somewhere to my right I heard the distinct and obnoxious sound of Kaylee clearing her throat. Sliding my gaze to the side, I found her eyes wide with meaning. Sensing her dissatisfaction with my lack of flirting, I shrugged, like What can I do?
She waved an exasperated hand toward her chest, then at the big guy, her eyebrows high arches, and then tugged at the neck of her top, mouthing a word that looked like buttons but it might have been boobs.
I pressed my lips together, removing my eyes from hers. Again, what could I do? The guy was into his phone way more than the idea of flirting with a female bartender. I wasn't currently, and never had been, in the habit of forcing men to pay attention to me. Live and let live, I say!
The glass filled, I placed it on the napkin near his elbow. “Hey, you want to start a tab?”
“Please.” Still without looking up, he set down his phone, pulled out his wallet, and placed a credit card and his driver's license on top of the bar. I swiped up both, my brain telling me to look at his birthdate even as my eyes strayed to his photo and the name beneath it.
“Be right b—ba—ack.” My mouth fell open as I stuttered, ending my sentence with a silent gasp, my eyes bolting to the stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all. Gaping and caught within a snare I’d fashioned years and years ago, I was quite literally stupefied.
Oh dear Lord in heaven.
Rex.
I gaped. I gaped and gaped and gaped, stared and stared and stared, my mind reeling. But how? And when? And how? And—
“Uh ahem, ahem, AHEM.”
Kaylee’s obnoxious throat clearing snapped me out of my stupor, and I quickly turned before Rex spotted my shock-trance. I stared blankly, not sure what to do next, not remembering whether I was coming or going, my breath tight in my lungs, my heart racing.
Hells bells.
Rex McMurtry.
CHAPTER 2
“You'd rather make up a fantasy version of somebody in your head than be with a real person.”
JENNY HAN, TO ALL THE BOYS I'VE LOVED BEFORE
Yes, before you ask, he was that Rex McMurtry, the star defensive end for the Chicago Squalls, philanthropist, and sexiest man alive according to all the lists. Here. In my bar. Technically, it wasn't my bar, but it kinda was my bar because I'd worked here since my junior year of high school as a dishwasher, then busser, then server, now bartender. Therefore, I liked to think of it as my bar.