Page 3 of Here's to Now

The voice reaches my ears like a slow, smooth drop of honey working its way through my veins. It’s sweet, hits the spot, and makes me want more.

I fucking love honey.

I turn my gaze toward the voice, briefly wondering whose eyes I’m going to collide with.

It takes me a moment to gather myself when I meet the same green eyes I held earlier. This close, I can see they’re swirled with various hues; they’re not as cut and dried as I had assumed. It starts with a darker forest green then switches to a grassy green, ending with more of a subdued lime color. They’re a little intimidating, the way she’s staring at me.

Shaking myself from my thoughts, I glance down to her outstretched hand. She’s holding the napkin I threw at Tucker. It’s crumpled and streaked with grease and ketchup from the fries we shared earlier. I’m honestly surprised she’s even touching it.

“I did?”

A smile curves her lips. “You did. Littering is a nasty habit.”

“So is picking trash up off the floor.”

Her eyes laugh at me well before the sound leaves her lips. She sets the napkin down on the table carefully, as if it were something breakable and not just a wadded up piece of garbage. I notice the slight shake to her hands, a little amazed they’re all that’s unsteady after having drunk so much. She’s not even wobbling, though I know for a fact she’s well above the legal driving limit.

“You’re welcome,” she says quietly, turning around to leave.

“You want me to thank you for picking up my trash?”

Turning back to me, her eyes narrow and her lips set into a firm line. “It is customary to thank someone when they make a kind gesture, is it not?”

“Why should I thank someone when I didn’t evenaskfor it to be done? That shouldn’t require a thank you. It should be done out of the kindness of one’s heart with nothing expected in return.”

One of her brows quirks up, her lips pursing together like she’s thinking. She takes a step closer to my table. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Now, I’ve met enough people in my life to know when you call someone out on their bullshit, you’re likely to get an argument in return, no matter if you’re right or not. I’m surprised when this mystery woman doesn’t argue, and even more shocked when she agrees.

“What’s your name?” The question leaves my lips before I can catch it.

Shock glints in her eyes. “I’m not one to share such information with strangers.”

“You touched my trash. I’d hardly call me a stranger at this point.”

She laughs, and it’s not like her earlier one. This one is…full. Boisterous. Uncontained. And almost…obnoxiously happy.

God. I sound like a total jerk.

“Haley,” she says quietly.

“Haley,” I repeat, testing out how her name sounds. “I like it.”

“And yours?”

“My what?”

“Your name,” she insists.

“I didn’t pick upyourtrash, Haley. You’re still a stranger.”

When her laughter hits my ears, this time the gleeful sound doesn’t affect me as it did before. It feels a little more natural now…not that I know her well enough to discern her laughs, but I do know women—or so I like to think—and that laugh was pure.

I watch as Haley casually pulls out the stool Tucker recently abandoned and makes herself comfortable, folding her hands together on top of the table. “I don’t think that’s a game I want to play, Mystery Man.”

“Games? Oh, I don’t play games. Not my style.”

“No? Then what do you call this?”

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