Page 15 of Your Place or Mine

Melanie looked around, taking in the wood-paneled walls, the crooked old photos, the battered jukebox that only worked when you begged it, and the giant mounted bass near the dartboard that occasionally spouted prerecorded phrases when its motion sensor decided to work.

"Sweet mother of taxidermy," Melanie said under her breath.

“Is that a talking fish?” the dark-haired one asked, grinning.

“It is,” the blonde confirmed. “Straight from a 3 a.m. infomercial circa 2001.”

I watched them with mild amusement as they approached a booth near the window. They picked the one with a tear in the vinyl and a table that wobbled if you breathed too hard. Drew slid over to them before I could move, menu tucked under his arm, and that easygoing smile plastered across his face.

“Evenin’, ladies,” he said. “Welcome to the Rusty Stag. First time?”

“Is it that obvious?” Melanie asked, smiling up at him.

“Just a guess.” He handed them menus. “I’m Drew. Unless my brother decides to stop brooding and pitch in, I'll be your bartender and server tonight.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t move from my spot.

“I like him already,” said the dark-haired one, pointing discreetly toward me. “Let me guess… that’s the brother?”

Drew grinned. “That’s Callum. Don’t worry, he only looks like he bites.”

“He saved me earlier,” Melanie whispered. “My suitcase almost ran me over.”

Drew’s brow lifted. “Is that so?”

I puffed my chest a little.

“Yup.” She glanced at the brunette, who stared intently at the whiskey selection.

“Does he also own the place?” Melanie asked, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because he didn’t mention that earlier. He only said he worked here.”

“He does,” Drew said, clearly enjoying himself. “So, what can I get you two to drink?”

They rattled off their orders, something fruity for Melanie, and a whiskey sour for the brunette. They added burgers and fries, and Drew jotted it all down, promising to return with their drinks.

I kept one eye on them as Drew passed me behind the bar.

“You’re hovering,” he said low.

“I’m watching.”

“If you say so,” he said, grabbing glasses and sliding over to the soda gun. “The blonde said you saved her life.”

“I picked up her suitcase,” I said flatly. “Her name is Melanie.”

“Heroic,” he deadpanned and delivered their drinks.

I didn’t respond.

Across the bar, the two women had leaned toward each other. I could see Melanie whispering something, her eyes flicking to me again.

Then the brunette froze, her hand halfway to her drink.

Her lips parted.

She looked back at me.

Big, beautiful, brown eyes. Soft.

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