Maybe he’s worried he’ll lose his job for ducking out on such short notice. Perhaps he has a girlfriend, and he’s worried what she’ll think when he tells her he drove a drunk girl home today.
I think back to my previous comment about him being broody and mysterious. This is an accurate description of him. His brooding discomfort at the mention of certain topics, and his inability to hide it, makes me wonder if I’ll be like that in ten or fifteen years. Or however long it’s been since his dad died.
Will I never get over Elle’s death? Will the mere mention of it always make me physically uncomfortable?
And he’s definitely mysterious. Few men would drive a woman home and ask for nothing in return. Unless he plans to demand payment when we get to my house. For some unknown reason, I don’t think that’s the case.
Maybe it’s the liquid courage coursing through my veins, but he doesn’t frighten me. I’m actually hoping for something—anything—to take my mind off Elle. This gorgeous man would make the perfect distraction.
“Do you really think I’m broody and mysterious?” he asks, and he seems genuinely curious to know my answer.
I chuckle softly at his question, considering I made the comment about him being broody and mysterious a few minutes ago. Has he been thinking about it this whole time?
“Does that offend you?”
His mouth curves into a flirty smile. “That depends. Do you like broody and mysterious guys?”
“It’s probably not ideal, coming from a strange man who knows my home address.”
“Now I’m broody, mysterious, and strange? Maybe I should pull over and get an Uber.”
“No!” I blurt out, and this brings a sparkle to his eye. “I’m not ready to be alone yet.”
His smile widens for a brief second before it recedes. “Good, ’cause I’m not ready to leave you alone yet. And, just to be clear, I wouldn’t have left you. It was a joke.”
My stomach swoops and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of gravity pushing me down into the seat. Something has shifted between us. He finds me attractive, too.
I decide not to say anything else unless he talks to me. I can’t mess this up. I need something to distract me from the aching hole in my chest. I don’t care if this is just a one-night stand. I want to feel something other than pain today.
When he pulls my car into the driveway of our two-story family home in the suburbs, he turns off the engine and engages the parking brake; something I never remember to do.
He taps his phone screen to end the navigation, then he hands me my keys. “Is it okay if I help you inside?”
My face is less numb than it was when we got in the car almost an hour ago. I no longer feel as if I might vomit. But I’ve never felt so emotionally fragile in my life.
I’ve just lost the most important person in my life, and I’m about to enter the home where Elle and I made most of our memories. I can make my way inside by myself, but there’s no way I’m turning down his offer to help. I need him to distract me from the emotional landmines.
“I’d like that.” My hand fumbles for the door handle. “It’s weird being on this side of the car.”
Without hesitation, he reaches across me and opens the door. I draw in a deep breath to take in his warm, spicy scent. I swear I hear him chuckle softly as he exits the car.
He helps me out of the passenger seat and takes the key fob he just handed me a minute ago. Shutting the door behind me, he presses the button to activate the security alarm. I walk ahead of him until we reach the front door. There are only two keys on the ring, so he doesn’t bother asking me which one is for the house.
“Is there an alarm?” he asks as he turns the lock on the deadbolt.
I nod as he drops the keys in the palm of my hand. “You can stay out here while I deactivate it.”
I push the door open, and the alarm beeps its forty-five-second countdown; this is how long we have to disarm it before the authorities are automatically notified. I lift my foot to enter, but I nearly trip over the small step. Luckily, I grab onto the doorknob in time to stop my fall.
“The code is 19267,” I say as he steps past me and heads straight for the keypad on the wall.
The beeping stops, and he turns around to help me inside.
“I already forgot it,” he says, closing the door behind me.
“It’s one for the first number in 1900. Nine for the last name in 1999, the year I was born. Two for 2002, the year Elle was born. And sixty-seven for the year both my parents were born.” I remove my sneakers and put them on the shoe rack by the door. “Now, you’ll never forget.”
He shakes his head. “You are way too trusting.”
“A serial killer would never say they’re a serial killer.”
“That’s exactly what a serial killer would expect someone to think. You fell for the oldest serial killer trick in the book.”
“Inconceivable. Outwitted by a hot bartender with a data science degree.”
He chuckles at our Princess Bride references. “Implying bartenders aren’t very smart… I’ll let that one slide.”
“Speaking of, you need to slide out of those shoes,” I say, glancing at his expensive looking high-top sneakers. “My mom is very strict about that.”
He reaches into his pocket. “I should call an Uber. I don’t mind waiting outside.”
The thought of him leaving is disappointing, but the thought of being alone with my memories of Elle fills me with ominous dread.
“I don’t have to leave,” he says, reading me like a book. “I can hang out for a while.”
“Do you have anywhere else you need to be?” Please don’t tell me you have a girlfriend waiting for you in Seattle. “Like, do you need to go back to work?”
He shakes his head, but he says nothing. And that broody look of discomfort comes over his face again; the one that makes me think he’s hiding something. Maybe he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Maybe he has a boyfriend or a wife.
That would be my luck.
Just when I’m ready to tell him he doesn’t have to stay, that I’ll be fine by myself, he kneels down and unties his shoes.
Oh, thank God.
“Hey, I think my parents keep a few twenties in emergency cash somewhere. I can probably find it and give you $60 for the Uber,” I offer as he places his sneakers next to mine on the shoe rack.
“I really don’t need your money.”
“Oh, I guess you probably make a lot of tips as a bartender, huh?”
“Working the day-shift? Not really. But I don’t exactly need the job. I—” He pauses for a moment as he seems to battle his thoughts again. “I got some money when my dad died. I get access to it when I turn twenty-five in less than a year. I’m just bartending to pass the time until then.”
I cock an eyebrow as I lead him toward the kitchen. “And then… what? Are you going to quit working? Maybe buy yourself an island and disappear?”
“Actually, I was just thinking of buying my own bar and giving the rest of the money to my mom. There was a problem with my dad’s will, and she didn’t get anything when he died.”
I try not to let it show on my face, but the alcohol is wearing off, and the topic of his father’s death is not one I’m drunk enough to approach right now.