Page 12 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I give him another glance, squinting slightly as if it’ll help my memory. Nope. Still can’t place him.

Sliding onto a stool in the center of the bar (luckily, it’s one that doesn’t wobble), the worn leather creaks under me as I cross my legs and settle in, propping my elbow on the bar.

And before you go asking what the heck I’m doing at the bar for thesecondtime this week, the answer is simple: grabbing dinner. I’ve had a long day and don’t feel like cooking, and this place makes a burger so good it should probably be illegal.

I open the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering. The bacon cheeseburger is a no-brainer, and their fries? Life-changing. I skim the options anyway, stealing another quick glance at the broody guy down the bar.

The guy at the bar.

His broad shoulders.

He sure is good-looking.

Something about him keeps pulling my attention.

There’s something about him—something familiar. It’s not the way he’s hunched over his drink—which looks like ice water—as if it personally offended him. It’s the jawline, the dark, messy hair, and unmistakable energy of someone who’s mentally replaying every bad decision they’ve ever made.

Like the universe has wronged him recently and he’s still debating how to retaliate.

Huh.

I tap my fingers on the edge of the bar, debating. Curiosity isn’t a good enough reason to talk to a stranger, is it? Then again,what’s the harm in striking up a little conversation?

Before I can overthink it, the words are out of my mouth.

“Rough day?”

He doesn’t react at first; stares at the ice cubes floating in his glass. For a moment, I don’t think he heard me—or worse, he’s ignoring me.

But then he turns, locking his eyes onto mine.

Oh.

Oh…

Okay. Wow.

Did I say good-looking?

I take it back.

He’s…

Wow.

So stunningly similar to Gio Montagalo that I am taken aback.

But. With the ball cap he has on, it’s hard to see his eyes–the bar is way too dim, the lighting throwing too many shadows over his face.

I blink three more times before realizing I’ve been staring. LIKE A WEIRDO.

I swear the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on me.

“Rough day,” he repeats, voice low and gravelly. “Something like that.” Pause. “Roughweek, actually.”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning slightly toward him. “Well. Whatever’s in that glass doesn’t look like it’s helping.”

Ha ha.

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