Page 6 of A Major Puck Up

The bartender slides her drink toward her and then gets to work on mine. While I wait, I keep my eyes trained on her. It might be creepy, and I should probably stop, but if the way those gold flecks in her eyes are dancing are any indication, she’s amused rather than bothered by my attention.

I’m used to being the entertainment, the funny brother, so I don’t mind in the slightest being hers.

The music starts up again—this time it’s John Mayer. The room grows quiet, as often happens when Benny plays. For a Boston crowd, this one is subdued. This is exactly why I frequent this bar. I appreciate Benny’s relaxing vibe after a long day. There’s no one waiting for me at home, so most nights, if I’m not at a hockey game or watching the local MLB team—my older brother’s baby; I oversee the Bolts, and he oversees the Revs—I either drag my brothers out or end up here by myself.

When my new drink is placed in front of me, the woman to my left angles herself toward me and presses her lips together in a hint of a smile as she waits for me to take a sip.

I can’t stop the cringe that overtakes me the moment the tangy sweetness hits my tongue. “Oh god. That’s awful.”

The bartender’s eyes go wide and panicked.

Coughing, I hold up my hand. “It has nothing to do with your skills. But fuck, I don’t like that.”

The woman beside me giggles, then turns back to face the bar—away from me.

I wince. “It’s not that it isn’t a good drink, it’s just?—”

“Not for you.”

The bartender slides a glass of water in front of me, so I snatch it off the bar top and down it.

“Yes. It’s not for me at all. Sorry,” I say, nodding at the man behind the bar this time.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “’Nother whiskey?”

I sigh. When was the last time I drank anything other than Hanson whiskey? “You have a menu?”

“You seemed to be enjoying your whiskey,” the woman beside me says.

“What’s your name?” I ask her, shifting her way.

She assesses me, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, as if to say why the hell do you want to know?

“I’m Gavin,” I offer.

She shakes her head and picks up her glass. “Not interested.”

I cough out a surprised laugh. “I was just being polite.”

“No you weren’t.” Her cranberry-painted lips tip up into that knowing smirk. “What’s with the drink menu? We both know you’ll only end up with another drink you dislike. Clearly, you are a man of habit who always drinks whiskey.”

Amusement flits through me. “You been spying on me?”

She delicately licks the edge of her glass, her tongue peeking out just enough to swipe at the salt, then hums and takes another sip. I realize then that her eyes aren’t truly brown. As the light hits her perfectly, the golden specs seem to blend together, revealing a rich, mesmerizing rose gold. They fix on me as she sets her drink down again. “No. Just know your type.”

“Well, you happen to be wrong, witchy woman. I am a man who likes to try new things.”

She smiles. “Witchy woman?”

“That was you playing when I came in, right?” I play dumb, as if I didn’t know precisely who she was the minute she sat down.

She presses her hands against the edge of the bar and pushes back, as if she’s going to leave. “I don’t play games, Gavin. Have a good night.”

On instinct, I grasp her elbow, holding her in place.

She looks down at my hand, and her brows furrow before she looks back up at me.

Stomach sinking, I let her go, holding my hand up, fingers splayed. “I’m sorry. I just—You were incredible up there.”

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