Page 25 of Someone Knows

The bartender, a woman who looks barely oldenough to drink, slaps a napkin in front of me. She might be young, but she fills out the half shirt she’s wearing pretty damn well. I guess that’s more important in a place like this.

“I’ll take a whiskey. Macallan Double Cask, if you have it.”

Her lip twitches. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

I shake my head. “Not anymore. I take it that means you don’t have Macallan?”

“No, we don’t.”

“What type of whiskey do you have?”

“We got Hendrick’s.”

I don’t bother to inform her that Hendrick’s isgin, not whiskey. I’d drink rubbing alcohol at this point. “I’ll take that. Thanks.”

While Miss Half Shirt searches for the bottle, I take out my Amex and put it on the bar, then look around. This place was a boarded-up bar when I was a kid. I can’t remember what it was called back then, but it definitely wasn’t Liars Pub. It’s a typical hole in the wall—dark so the patrons can’t see the glasses aren’t clean, wobbly wooden stools that need cushions, and a back room with two dartboards and a worn pool table. A guy with a mullet and a receding hairline leans over with a cue stick to take a shot. He catches my eye and proffers a leering smile. I turn away quickly, hoping he won’t think my glancing around is an invitation.

I knock back my first drink within minutes of it being served. It burns as it slides down my throat, worms its way into my belly. I appreciate the occasional cocktail and wine with dinner, but rarely do I allow myself to get drunk. Tonight, I plan on making an exception. It can’t be more than a mile walk to Mom’s. My rental car can stay in the parking lot overnight. Raising my hand, I call over the bartender.

“You want another?” she asks.

“Please.”

A voice behind me catches me off guard. “Put hers on my tab,please, Willow.”

I expect to find the mullet man when I turn, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Instead, there’s a tall, handsome—albeit too young for me—man with a deliciously crooked smile. That smile widens, unveiling a set of cavernous dimples.Oh my.

“You aredefinitelynot from around here,” he drawls.

I swivel and face him for a better look. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“Because the girls from these parts drink one of three things: White Claws, High Noons, or Jack and Coke. And the third I keep away from because that means they’re going to wind up sloppy drunk.”

“I suppose the reason I don’t drink any of those is because I’m awoman, not a girl.”

Dimples looks me up and down. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when they meet mine. “You sure are.”

I chuckle. He’s corny and over the top, but something about him appeals to me. It could be the confidence. There’s nothing I’m drawn to more than a confident man. Which is why Sam isn’t the first cop I’ve dated.

“What’s your name?” I tilt my head. “Or should I just call you Dimples?”

“Name’s Noah.” He smiles, flashes those things like a weapon, and holds out a hand. “And you are?”

“Elizabeth.” I put my hand in his, but instead of shaking, he lifts my knuckles to his lips and kisses just above them.

“Pleasure. Where you from, darlin’?” He waves his head. “Wait. Let me guess.”

“This should be interesting . . .” I cross one leg over the other. Noah’s eyes drop to follow before looking up unapologetically and wagging a finger at me.

“I bet you’re from New York City.”

“Indeed I am. What gave it away?”

“You just have that look about you.”

“And what look is that?”

He grins. “Like you can eata man alive.”

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