Page 2 of For the Record

He wasn’t really my type. I typically liked pretty boys, more handsome than able to physically lift me kind of thing. The kind of guy who had a golf membership and never used it, or who could go fishing but would never bait his hook. I liked control, and going out with a guy who was on the less-masculine side typically meant I had the upper hand.

This was not that guy. This man certainly baited his own hook. I doubt he had ever even been near a golf course. Rugged features, strong nose, cut jawline. His hair was a bit of a dark mess and scattered all over. Yet it worked perfectly for him. A tiny scar sat across his right brow, a stroke of white against his tan skin. There was a smudge of dirt along his chin, and I felt the urge to lick my thumb and clean it off. I would bet my money this guy owned a tool set. Or that he knew what an oil change consisted of at the very least.

Everything about him screamed man. He even had cargo pants on, something that had never done it for me. Who needed that many pockets? Then again, the guy was a dad, and I would think being a parent required snack pockets.

I finally landed on his eyes, dark green pools staring back at me. The one spot on him that looked soft, that looked longingly back at me. A boost of pride hit my chest at that.

“How do I know you’re not going to poison me?”

He looked from his drink to mine. It was almost comical how his had a tiny umbrella in it. What business did Arnold Schwarzenegger here have drinking something frozen and pink with an umbrella in it? But then again, what business did I have drinking whiskey straight?

“I wouldn’t poison my own drink.” He lifted the glass to his full lips and took a sip as if to prove his point.

I shrugged. Touché. My mouth watered at the sight of the frozen cocktail. Sweat had formed on the glass, and it was melted enough to have a rim of liquid at the top that looked full of sugar and rum and everything nice.

“Okay, we can swap. But if I don’t like it, you owe me something else.”

He didn’t smile, but his face twitched with slight amusement. Like he’d gone from a nine to a six on the unapproachable grump scale.

“All right,” he rumbled and moved his pink drink my way.

I happily took it, and since the guy made me feel a little flirty, I placed my lips on the rim exactly where his had just been. Smooth, sweet, cold relief poured down my throat and left a spread of warmth in my chest. Peaches and oranges danced in my mouth.

I sighed and took another sip. To my right, the guy’s shoulders dropped. Either in relaxation or disappointment that he didn’t have to get me another, I couldn’t tell.

Unashamedly, I twisted my stool so I was facing the tattooed man. I smiled to myself when I saw that he was already looking at me. His eyes shifted from my drink to the bartender in the corner to my lips. I fluttered my lashes a little and gave my sweetest I am but a fair maiden in need of rescue, sir knight kind of look.

The base of his neck turned red right above his black tee, and I quickly found him even more endearing. The stranger turned back to his own drink, taking a swig of the whiskey and not even flinching.

“Heavy drink for someone who’s not used to it.” His voice poured over me.

My shoulders slumped, my heart falling into a sad rhythm. “My day felt worthy of it.”

He tapped his finger against the glass, and I mocked his movement against my own. We each took a sip.

“Do…you want to talk about it?”

My eyes circled his face. He seemed mostly unapproachable, with his short answers and no hint of a smile anywhere to be seen. But then again, I saw his gaze drop to where my thighs met my skirt and stay there for a while, so maybe he was hoping to appear to be interested in my day. It was working. Well, that in combination with his scruff.

“You don’t seem like the talking type.”

At that, the corners of his lips pulled lightly and set back down. Like a small glimpse of light through the crack of a doorway.

“That’s why I asked if you wanted to talk about it.”

I laughed at that. This whole macho-man, big, tattooed, muscles, and strong jaw kind of thing was starting to work on me.

I crossed one leg over the other. “My favorite job in the world is considering closing up shop.” My only job, really. One of the two things I loved and cherished most in this world. Half of my whole life had a fifty-fifty shot of being ripped out of my hands.

My fingers reached for my glass, and I took a larger sip in hopes of forgetting. Verbalizing it made me feel somehow better and worse at the same time. It was such a first-world problem, but I was still allowed to be upset, right? I mean, sure, things could have been a whole lot worse, but was I not at least a little entitled to be emotional about it?

Dad always said feelings were like water. They could bow and flex to their surroundings, but they could also be like a pressure washer, forcing themselves into your chest, flaking off all the loose bits in your heart and leaving only the steady stuff. It felt more like a pressure washer tonight.

“It feels stupid when I say it out loud.” I scoffed, rolling my eyes at myself. “It’s not like it’s my family’s place or anything. I just really love it there, and now…I don’t know where I’ll go if they do end up selling.”

“That’s not stupid,” he grumbled, like he was fully prepared to argue with whatever part of my brain had caused me to believe it was. It was almost enough to make me smile again.

“Thanks, I guess.” My shoulders slumped still, and I twirled the cute blue umbrella floating in my drink with my pointer finger.

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