Page 29 of Hometown Touchdown
Thebarstoolwobblesbeneathme as I shift, trying to pretend I haven’t been sitting here for nearly twenty minutes. I glance down at my phone again. Still nothing. Not even a “running late” text from my date, Eric. The cat dad. The one who “has a great job at the bank” and, according to mymother, is “emotionally available and doesn’t wear toe shoes.” High praise.
The bartender swings by and gestures toward my half-empty glass. “Another mojito?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Make it strong.”
He grins like he’s heard that line too many times tonight and starts muddling lime and sugar with the efficiency of a man used to Tuesday-night letdowns.
I exhale slowly and glance toward the door again. Still no sign of a man who looks like he names his playlists after scented candles and pet rescue hashtags.
But instead of Eric the Gentle Loan Officer, the door swings open—and in walks Knox Dalton.
Wearing a soft navy button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Jeans that fit a little too well. Hair freshly trimmed and pushed back in that effortless way that makes me irrationally angry. His expression? Somewhere between confused and haunted, like he just walked into a surprise party hosted by all his exes.
He spots me immediately and pauses behind the empty stool beside mine.
I blink. “Seriously?”
His mouth twitches. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Let me guess,” I say as he slides onto the stool beside me. “Random Tuesday-night craving for overpriced cocktails and personal regret?”
“Blind date,” he says, glancing sideways.
My stomach dips. “What?”
“Supposed to meet someone here. Lindsey. Friend of my mom’s cousin. Has a dog named Muffin.”
I stare at him. “I’m waiting on Eric. Banker. Owns a cat named Biscuit.”
We look at each other. Then away. Then back again.
He mutters something under his breath. I take a long sip of my drink.
“You think…?” I start.
“I’m not even going to say it,” he replies. “Saying it makes it real.”
“They wouldn’t.”
His look says he knows exactly whattheyare capable of.
He signals for a beer, settling into his seat. “It’s a little suspicious, though. Same bar. Same night. Two mysteriously absent dates?”
“I thought Biscuit was code for social anxiety,” I murmur.
He laughs under his breath. It’s not a full laugh, but it’s familiar in a way that shouldn’t still feel like comfort.
We sit quietly for a beat, both nursing drinks and pointedly avoiding eye contact. Eventually, he nudges his bottle closer to mine.
“Well…we’re already here.”
I glance sideways. “Are you trying to salvage the night?”
His eyes flicker. “Are you saying you don’t want to?”
Damn him.
I shrug, playing it cool. “Fine. But I’m picking the appetizer.”
