Page 16 of Sin Bin

Please don’t make thisweird.

Yeah, because any ofthoseoptions will go overtremendouslywell.

Praying that he doesn’t read into the situation, I mutter, “I’m sorry. I’ll get that coke for you.” I reach out to grab the cocktail, but he moves it away from my hand at the lastmoment.

“I’lldrinkit.”

“But you didn’t askforit.”

His gaze lands on my face, and maybe I’m crazy (totally possible), maybe I’m imagining things (also possible), but his dark eyes crinkle at the corners as though he’s trying desperately not to smile. “I’ll drinkit,Zo.”

Zo.

His old nicknameforme.

Damn, but I wish it didn’t feel so good to hear him callmethat.

Softly, I say, “Okay.”Do not read into the situation.Somberly, I take their food order and dart back into the kitchen to input it all into the POSsystem.

My dad hollers at me from behind the grill, cracking jokes about the Mackenzies taking over Vittoria. The staff don’t laugh, as they’re deep in the weeds and have that crazed-eye thinggoingon.

I’m pretty sure that I haveittoo.

For the next hour or so, I flit from table to table in Lover’s Lane. I pour water into glasses, and drop off bread baskets. I manage to correctly bring out food, and succeed in not sending mussels cascading fromthesky.

I’m so busy, actually, that I don’t realize that the rush has died down completely until there’s almost no one left in the restaurant. An elderly couple is seated outside of my section, on the other side of the restaurant, and two four-tops have joined forces to sing Dean Martin at the top of their lungs. Since they’re also not in my section, I summarily dismiss them as not myproblem.

But not even I can resist the draw of Dean Martin. I sway a little side to side, enjoying the patrons’ off-beat tempo, a small smile flitting to my face—until my gaze lands on the sole figure atthebar.

Andre.

Even though he’s facing away from me, I recognize his muscular frame in a heartbeat. His dark hair is all disheveled from his fingers (or maybe from Suzanne’s?), and his crisp dinner jacket is laid over the barstool next to his. Against my better judgment, I follow the line of his spine, sweeping my gaze down over his athletic body. He’s seated with one foot up on the barstool’s footrest, while his other is planted on thefloor.

As if sensing my stare, Andre glances over his shoulder, and his dark eyes find me watching him. It’s too late to run, too late to turn away and pretend that I haven’t been standing hereoglinghim.

The man might be an asshole, but he’s the sexiest asshole I’veevermet.

His eyebrow quirks up, an obvious dare for me to comecloser.

And, damn my feet, but I dojustthat.

As if tethered to him by an invisible string, the distance between us dissipates, until I’m standing right in front of him. Since he’s still seated, we’re almost at eye level for once, and there’s no hiding the way he studies me intently, not saying asingleword.

It’s an intimidation tactic I’ve seen him use on his opponents in the rink. Like a lion after its prey, he sits, waiting, prolonging the moment until I give away my ace and he can swipe in forthekill.

Feeling uncomfortable, I focus my attention on his cocktail—another whiskeyandcoke.

Why is hestillhere?

“Where’s your date?” I ask, hating how I sound less ambivalent and more inquisitive. I don’twantto be inquisitive. I don’twantto care, one way oranother.

“Shewenthome.”

I squash the ridiculous slice of hope springing in my chest. Hope I have no business feeling because it’s not like we’re together or ever will be. “Not going for a round two, then, Iimagine?”

“Probablynot.”

I feel my eye twitch. “She didn’t do it for you orsomething?”

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