Page 3 of Kiss Me Tonight

His thin lips flatten—all the better to play the role of grumpy old bartender—even as his dark eyes light with humor. “That might be the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.”

Before I have the chance to respond, a guy three stools down from me summons Shawn with an empty glass hoisted in the air.

I wave Shawn off with the promise to behave.

“It’s not your behavior I’m worried about,” he tells me, his tone as dry as the Sahara. “In case you haven’t noticed . . . no one’s come to welcome you back into the fold yet.”

No need to rub my lackluster reality in my face quite so bluntly.

Ugh.

Peering over my shoulder, I meet the eye of an older gentleman who used to sit front row at my high school football games. He hasn’t changed at all—aside from his shiny, bald head and the Wildcats T-shirt that’s been swapped out for a flannel button-down. “Him,” I say, just short of pointing at the man as I swing around to look at Shawn, “I remember him. What’s his name again?”

Shawn grumbles under his breath. “Elia Woods. Don’t initiate conversation.”

Don’t initiate conversation?

Sounds like a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.

I stare at Elia a little harder, keenly aware that I’m balanced precariously on the edge of my bar stool. “What? Does he have fangs now? Claws? Some sort of air-transmitted disease?”

“Heya! Shawn! I need a refill, man!”

Shawn taps me on the top of my head with his knuckles, the same way he did when I was a kid waltzing in every spring to sell him Girl Scout cookies. “Not Elia, Levi. He’s had it rough the last few years.”

That’s great. Okay, notgreat. But that gives us something to talk about. I have my divorce and shitty ex-husband and he has . . .

Well, time to find out.

I slip off my bar stool and land on my sneakered feet without a hitch.

Around the pub, unwanted attention swivels in my direction. Elia himself lifts his head from where he’s drawing in a notebook—on second thought, it looks more like a crossword puzzle—and stares at my face.

Oh, goody.

Eye contact.

Giddiness (and Guinness) swims in my veins. We’re off to a great start.

My hand finds the back of the chair opposite Elia’s and, below the gravelly undertones of Steven Tyler belting his heart out from the jukebox, the wooden legs screech like a banshee as I pull the chair out.

Be friendly. Smile big. Be the girl they all used to love!

Riffing off my mental pep talk, I wave at him like a lunatic even though I’ve already invaded his space. “Hey there! Elia, right? I’m not sure if you remember me. I used to play for the Wildcats years ago.”

I sit down.

Elia promptly stands up, confirmed crossword puzzle in hand, and moves two tables over.

Like I don’t even exist.

The tiny hairs on my arms stand up in a melee of dejection and embarrassment.

Tipsy me thinks it’s a great idea to try again, but just as I clamber to my feet to make my move, a deep voice calls out, “Figures you’d only come home when it was time to take your dad’s old job.”

Oh, boy.I should have known news would travel fast.

I find the source of the voice, then rack my brain for the accompanying name. Stuart. Stewart?Doesn’t matter. He was two years behind me in school and we played football together during his sophomore and my senior year. From what little I’ve seen of him on social media, he married his high school sweetheart and popped out a brood of dark-haired children.

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