Page 19 of Since We're Here
“Can you even see out of those glasses?”
“No. I cannot.” I get distracted by a giant drop of water dripping from the end of my nose and go cross-eyed watching it slide down.
“Jaysus. Come here, then.” He slides off his stool and reaches behind the bar for a dry towel, seems to consider approaching me, then holds it out. “It’s clean. Dry off and try to stop flooding my pub.”
That accent.I’m not one to swoon over accents—wait, that’s a lie, yes I am, as my ninth boyfriend, who I desperately try not to think about, is proof of that—but the way he saysJay-suscauses a flutter in my belly.
Or maybe I’m just hungry.
I reach for the towel, drying my face first, then attempt to clear my glasses. It does not work. He sighs again and holds his hand out. I hesitate for just a second before passing the glasses over.
“To summarize: you went for a bike ride, in the pouring rain...” He grabs a tissue from the box next to the stack of iPads. “...with glasses on and completely inappropriate clothing?”
“Affirmative.”
“Were you wearing a helmet?”
I scrunch my face. “...at least I’m not wearing a dress?”
He scoffs and hands me clear, dry glasses. “At least. You need to wear a helmet when riding a bike.”
“Next time.” My eyes flicker longingly to the beer taps. “Can I have a pint, please?”
“Yes.” Patrick slips behind the bar and expertly pours a pint of Slea Head Golden Amber.
I pull out a moist credit card and hand it to him.
“No,” he simply says, watching as I reach for the pint. A tiny fluttering disturbs my chest.
“Thanks.” Friends let friends drink for free, don’t they? Maybe there’s hope for us yet.
I lean against the bar and take a giant gulp of the ale, sighing with pleasure. “So good. Do you have an IPA?”
“Not yet.” He walks back around and pauses next to the barstool he occupied when I walked in. “We have three—Golden Amber, Slea Head Stout, and a dark brew called Devil’s Dark.” Patrick gestures to the Slea Head taps lining the bar, next to handles of Guinness, Smithwick’s, Kilkenny, and New Dingle.
“What brewery doesn’t have an IPA these days?”
He glares at me. “It’s coming. Soon.”
“IPAs are my favorite.”
“Wonderful. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Hmm.” I drop it for now, although I’m very tempted to find out why his jaw is suddenly clenched. “Where’s everyone else?” I look around the quiet pub. No one is behind the bar, and there are no customers.
“Beth—one of my managers—just quit to go work for New Dingle Brewing.” His face darkens. “So now I’m short-staffed.” He leans one elbow on the bar and watches me drink. “You need to take that soaking wet sweatshirt off. You’re going to get sick.”
“You don’t actually get sick from being cold. That’s an old wives’ tale. Are you an old wife?”
“Are you always such a pain in the arse?”
“Yes.” It’s so easy to get him to roll his eyes at me, I kind of love it. I slide the beer on the bar and struggle to strip the wet hoodie from my body, leaving me wearing a thin t-shirt, my dark sports bra clearly visible through the moist fabric. But it’s a sports bra and a plain t-shirt. There’s nothing less sexy.
I hop up on the barstool, some warmth returning to my frozen fingers. I don’t miss the way Patrick’s eyes dart down to my soaking shirt.
“Keeping staff is hard. I was a restaurant manager in my old life.”
He doesn’t respond, but keeps his eyes locked on me. My cheeks burn under his assessment. I let myself check him out in return.
