Page 14 of Strike Zone

“The chair is mine. You offered it to me,” I say. Ignoring the dimpled smile on his stupid face, I turn toward the bartender and attempt to get his attention. I’m desperate for a drink.

Wyatt takes note of my failure in flagging him down. Of course he does. He will likely take advantage of any moment to rub my shortcomings in my face. Little does he know, I’m well aware of all of them.

Placing one hand on the back of my chair, he leans closer, crowding me. His other hand flicks in the air like he’s hailing a cab. It must be a secret signal because suddenly there is a bartender in front of us clearing chicken bones off the bar and Wyatt is ordering another beer for himself and a drink for me.

I’m only slightly disturbed he remembers my drink order from a few months ago when we sat in this very spot together.

Turning my head to say thank you, the side of my face grazes his chest. Does he really have to stand so close? I know the bar is crowded, but damn.

His body tenses and muscles ripple against my skin. Wyatt smells like leather, amber, and someone else’s bad decision.

I lean back, shifting in my seat slightly. “Thanks for that.” I wave a hand toward the bartender.

“No problem.” From this position I have a closeup of his face. I can admit that he is handsome in the traditional sense, except for his ridiculous mustache. His eyes are symmetrical and line up with his lips, which are fine if you like them full and well moisturized.

He should apply whatever he is using on his lips to his hands because it is working for him.

It’s his nose that makes his face interesting—it has the slightest warp, making me believe it’s been broken at least once. I’m going all in guessing he’s been punched. I doubt I’m the only person who’s been tempted to raw knuckle his nose once or twice.

I take a long sip of my tequila and Sprite once it’s set in front of me and let out a long sigh. It’s perfect.

“You like it?” he asks, teasing me.

“Yes.” I place the glass down on the napkin and maneuver the tiny paper square until the logo of the bar is right side up and legible. Wyatt’s deep chuckle has my face heating in anger. “Something funny?”

“Not a thing.” He takes a sip of his beer to hide his smirk.

“You text people in excess. I like things to be evenly spaced and orderly.” I gesture toward my drink. “We all have our quirks.”

“Texting is not a quirk. It’s called communicating. My texts are a gift. You should consider yourself lucky to be on the receiving end of them.”

“I most certainly do not feel lucky. I feel annoyed.” And off kilter. Each chime of my phone makes my eye twitch. It’s a nuisance and unnecessary. “There’s a texting etiquette.”

“There is not. You are making that up. You can’t create all these rules and just expect people to follow them.” He takes another sip of his beer.

I stare at his Adam’s apple as he swallows, imagining how much fun it would be to karate chop it in half.

“Does your brain not think in complete sentences? Is it really too much to request you type an entire thought before hitting send?”

“I can. I’ll do better just for you.” He picks at the label on his beer. His nails are short and surprisingly clean after playing in dirt all afternoon.

“It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” What? No I won’t. There will be no more texting with Wyatt. I don’t need to talk to him anymore after tonight. “You said you had a good practice today. How so? What made it so great?” I ask to cut off the rambling in my head.

The ice in my glass spins, mixing the tequila and Sprite as I swirl the tiny straw around. I’m going to need another one of these if Charlie doesn’t message me back soon. I should have known she would give me the slip.

I am supposed to be pushing her to him. How did she manage to pull a role reversal on me? I need to get this back on track.

Wyatt’s eyes are wide, staring at me. The mask of confidence he wears slipping momentarily out of place. He acts like I’m the first person who ever asked him something trivial about his day.

Everyone knows it’s common courtesy to follow-up. It would be rude not to ask.

“I did,” he says, still looking at me like a curiosity in a cabinet.

“You’ve given me so many details. It’s like I was right there with you.”

His hand grips the top of the bar a little tighter making the tendons in his forearm flex. “You have a sarcastic little mouth on you. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

The ruckus of the crowded bar drowns out the loud beats of my racing heart.

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