Page 22 of Summertime Friends

“Posso tomar uma taça de vinho,” I reply in my best try at Portuguese. I give him a soft smile, hoping that helps.

He shoots me a surprising grin. “Que tipo você gostaria?” What type would I like? Huh, maybe I am better at this than I thought.Go me!

“Surprise me?” I reply in English this time. “Sorry, I don’t speak much Portuguese.”

“Aproveitar,” he says. Reaching forward, I take the glass he returns with.

Taking a small sip, I’m surprised by the freshness of it. “It’s good.”

I set the glass on the bar, digging into my purse for euros. I hand over my money to the waiter, but he swats it away and winks.

Catching the confusion on my face, he flicks his head over his right shoulder, gesturing to my left.

I’m still confused. The bathrooms are in that direction. “Oh no. No, thank you!” In front of my chest, my hands wave no. I think I’m flattered by the offer, but kind of. . strange?

“No. No.” He shakes his head, letting out an apologetic laugh. “He paid.” The bartender points to someone.

“Oh,” I say with recognition of my misunderstanding.

I turn my head slowly in the direction he pointed.

Are you shitting me?

There, over my shoulder, I catch a pair of blue-gray eyes, an irresistible trouble-making smile, and a raised glass.

Running into him again turns something in my gut. It’s like a dusty, old light switch. The one you’d find in your grandparents’ basement that has a chain that you pull. When it’s not been used in a while, you have to tug on it a few times to get the light to turn on. His proximity is pulling on that chain.

What’s in my gut, though? I’m not positive.

Embarrassment that I didn’t show up for dinner? No.

The awareness that he’s somehow here? No.

That I enjoy the way he looks at me and the way it makes my pulse surge? Maybe.

That something dormant in me is thawing? Also, maybe.

This is why I didn’t show up for dinner. Whatever these reactions are, I don’t want them.

I turn my head back to face the bartender.

“Thank you,” I mouth. An anything but delighted smile plastered on my face.

Picking up the glass of wine, I ignore the mystery man and pull to him to find a place to sit.

Across the bar is an open table. I slide into the booth side, which gives me the perfect view for people watching.

My entertainment is quickly ruined when the chair is pulled out, intentionally loud. He doesn’t need to try to get my attention; he’s already captured it.

I stare straight ahead, not giving in to him, at the hand grasping the chair. They are strong, large, hard hands. I would know; they were on me earlier.

I swivel my head slowly, viewing the golden skin jutting from the cuffed sleeve. A slow perusal that moves to his shoulders, broad like his chest. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing no hair and only bare golden skin.

Then to his face.

His eyes darken when ours meet.

“Is saying thank you after someone buys you a drink not common in the States?” he asks me.

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