Page 5 of For the Record

I knew something had to be wrong because he didn’t even flinch. There wasn’t a single hint of a smile or a small pull of his lip. He always liked my jokes. Even if it had taken a couple of years for him to admit that verbally.

Adam lifted his fingers to mine, fidgeting and shakily raising my left hand in front of my face. My confusion sank even further when I saw an enormous diamond ring on my hand.

“No…I am definitely not pregnant. But we did get married last night.”

Currently playing: It's Raining Men by The Weather Girls

***

The guy moved so he was one stool closer to me. So technically right next to me. As in less than a foot from me.

Something that was painfully obvious as my body became hyperaware of his presence. The clean scent of laundry mixed with a masculine woodsy scent was barely light enough that each time he lifted his drink, I got the tiniest whiff. I kept searching for more tattoos. Unashamedly watching as he’d move his arm and his sleeve would reveal a peek of more. I wondered just how far up they went and if they spread across his chest. I pictured an eagle or something on his back, or maybe a giant axe. In my mind, his whole body was permanently painted like an Old Spice ad.

My interest was clear to him. I was sure of that.

I wasn’t exactly the kind of girl to flirt openly with a stranger, especially one with kids. But I also wasn’t the girl who passed up a good opportunity when she saw one. Besides, the most action I had gotten in the past several months was buying a pack of Brawny paper towels and dipping my fingers into the plastic, ripping the film shirt and imagining it was real. So a girl could ogle if she decided to, and I did.

Our eyes were at the same level, so he wasn’t shorter than me. A huge plus in my book. I liked to wear heels, and since I was naturally on the taller side, it was nice to find someone with enough height that my heels didn’t offend their ego. Not that I was picturing myself and this complete stranger walking down the street together hand in hand or anything.

The whole single dad thing hadn’t ever really done it for me before, but then again, neither had fictional men on household products. I supposed I had reached a new low. Although if this kind of man was what I considered low, then maybe I needed to change course on my standards.

“How old are your kids?” I appealed, taking a sip from my swirly straw of drink number…three? Sure, let’s go with that. My whole body faced him while he spun his stool to face me every few minutes, our knees bumping occasionally.

A low, husky rumble left his throat, as if he was questioning me back.

It was kind of humorous; the more he drank, the more he grumbled. It was an odd contrast to me, since the more I drank, the more I laughed. Like alcohol had some kind of funny bubble juice in it.

“Your kids.” I searched his forearm, craning my neck closer to his personal bubble. “Miles and…Dallo-no, Dallas. How old are they?”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat with a grimace before rubbing a hand along the stubble on his chin. “They aren’t my kids. They’re my nephews. And they turned seven a few months ago.”

“So, no kids?”

“No kids.” He nodded, and my smile grew wider.

Nephews. Even better. I lifted my chin, exposing my neck and pulling my shoulders back.

“Hmm. You must really love them to get a tattoo of their names.”

He grunted, but this one was a little lighter. An affirming grunt. Over the last hour or so, I’d been getting very good at speaking caveman. Our bartender delivered each of us one more full glass. The guy next to me looked at the drinks, as if waiting to make sure I was all right with one more. I was all right with ten more. I just wanted to remain in his company a little longer. It had been a while since I had someone to talk to.

I had friends. Well, friend. Singular. One. But Layla was off living her life, chasing her coworker around like a lost puppy, hopelessly in love, growing at her job, and who was I to get in her way? I could have gone back to our apartment tonight, made a weak homemade version of the drink I was having now, and watched 13 Going On 30 for the fifth time this week. But what good would that have done? If Layla was worried about me, she’d fuss over me instead of visiting her not-so-little crush, and then she’d regret it the next day.

I was sure to have no regrets about Mr. Brawny here. Not with his big hands or the way he listened intently to everything I drunkenly slurred, and especially not with how good he smelled.

This night had turned out much better than I thought it would be.

The thought of any alternative somehow made me giggle again. Then the thought that I’d giggled over essentially nothing caused me to snort. Which made me laugh more.

“Are you…okay?” Brawny asked with a hint of concern in his voice. Even that was hysterical at this point.

Mid-laugh, I opened my squinted eyes enough to see that his lips were turning blue from the last drink I’d made him try. He insisted he didn’t like blue raspberry, to which I’d said that notion was preposterous. He replied that blue raspberry, and I quote, wasn’t even a real flavor. I said something along the lines of I’ll show you a real flavor and pushed the drink in the guy’s face, not missing the way his expression lightened slightly after. His brows didn’t look so heavy, and I liked that. Made my tummy do a little backflip.

“Your lips are blue,” I stringed together between laughs.

His green eyes lifted up a bit, staring at my mouth. “You should see yours.”

Oh. Yeah, I didn’t think mine would be the same. Probably worse, actually. But I’d had two pink drinks since my blue one, so those canceled each other out on the color wheel, right? I thought that was what my color analysis lady had once said. Then again, she also told me I couldn’t rock a pastel yellow dress, so what did she know, really?

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