Page 48 of Running with Direwolves
Suddenly his attention lifted from the label of his beer bottle which he’d been poking at and settled on her. He bit down on his bottom lip and drew his heavy eyebrows together as though studying her the way she had him.
Jenna quickly looked away. Sure, she could appreciate a handsome guy, enjoy a few muscles, but she wasn’t interested in any more than that. Tomorrow she was heading out to Iraq to serve her country. There was no time for any romantic nonsense.
The barman nodded at her empty glass. “Another?”
“Please.” She smiled and made a point of not looking at the dark-haired stranger again.
When her half-pint glass was full, she paid and returned to her seat. She’d compose an email to Melanie, fill her in on the gossip and find out what baby Jack wanted for his birthday. She’d miss it, of course, but she was used to missing important events. That’s how it was when life was dictated by superiors.
And she was happy to do it.
Before she sat, she retucked her white cotton shirt into her pale denim jeans and took a sip of her drink. A glance outside told her dusk was approaching and a street lamp flicked on. For a moment she paused and admired the shards of orange stretching like fingers over the sky. It would be the last English sunset she’d see for a while.
Determined not to get melancholy, she flicked open her laptop and thought of Melanie. What would she like to hear about? Life at home with a baby was the polar opposite to how ithad been and she craved all the details of Jenna’s life, or at least that’s what she said.
“Would you like company?”
Jenna looked up, then up some more. The guy from the opposite side of the bar was standing next to her table holding his bottle of beer.
“I’m, er … busy actually.” She nodded at her screen. “Catching up, you know.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugged. “Have a nice evening, ma’am.”
He turned and she got a good view of a damn cute ass encased in tight dark jeans.
“Wait.” Something about the way he’d said ma’am and had accepted her brush off with so little fight intrigued her. Men were usually considerably more insistent—long curly blonde hair and a curvy figure did that.
He stopped, but didn’t turn.
“I can catch up later.” She frowned at his back. What was she doing? She’d had her evening planned out, and then a handsome face, a set of broad shoulders, and she was throwing it all up in the air.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb you.” He faced her again, but made no move to sit.
“You already have.” She closed her computer and picked up her drink. “So you might as well carry on for a bit.”
He chuckled and set his bottle on the table. “If you’re sure.”
“Sit.” She nodded at the chair.
He pulled it out. “I just figured as we’re the only two people in this grotty old place sitting alone, we could pass the time of day.”
“It’s not that grotty.” She looked at the lampshade hanging above the table. A dust mote connected it to the ceilingand a ridge of grime sat on the rim.
He pointed at the carpet. “First off, who the hell thought sickly yellow and putrid green went together, and then in a swirling pattern? Definitely not someone working on commission.”
“You could be right.” It was true. The carpet was particularly horrible. “I had a pie, though, that was decent.”
“Can’t argue.” He took a sip of his drink. “The pies are the only reason I come to this place.”
“You think they really are the best in the county?”
“The steak one, yes, the chicken and mushroom, I’m not so sure.”
“Sounds like you know your pies.”
“I like having a choice of what I’m going to eat.”
His voice was deep and rumbling, she couldn’t quite place his accent because it wasn’t strong and he was well spoken. Oxford perhaps, or more likely local to Brize Norton.
