Page 4 of The 7 Rules of Moving On
Sneaking down the stairs, still in cat burglar mode, Kissie heard the snarky little asshole that lived inside her subconscious inform her that this was a terrible idea.
Kissie knew the asshole was right. She knew she should go back to bed like a good girl. But for reasons she decided not to examine too closely, she didn’t feel like being a good girl tonight.
TRIG
There was a moment every night near closing when the atmosphere in the bar shifted, the drunken frenzy flatlined, the room emptied out, and the only people who remained were his regulars. Trig called this the ‘time to change your sweaty shirt’ moment. So while Ryan shot the shit with Pudge and Grandma Betty down at the end of the bar, Trig unbuttoned his flannel, pulled it off, and reached behind the cash register for his clean, dry T-shirt.
“You lift weights or just chop down trees? Cuzdamn.”
It wasn’t the way he’d been thinking about Sexy Bar Babe all night, all weekend for that matter, since the first time he saw her big blue eyes when she walked through Mystic’s front door, it was the belief that he’d probably never see her again that glued his feet to the floor. He couldn’t stand there forever, though. He had to choose: turn around before he put his T-shirt on, or after?
Fuck it.
Grabbing his shirt, he flexed his abs and turned toward her while he pulled his shirt up and over his head in a surprisingly technical maneuver.
“Hey,” he said with practiced bartender nonchalance, even though his skin sang and his heart whumped at the sight of her all comfy in sweats and a hoodie, her shoulder-length blond bob a little messy. “Forget something?”
When she hopped up onto the stool, her smile made his trick knee wobble.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She glanced around. “Are you closing soon?”
Needing something to do with his hands, he picked up a bar towel and started wiping the counter. “Not quite.” He nodded down the bar. “Pudge and Grandma Betty usually stay until one. They’re night birds.”
“Living the dream,” she sighed, staring at the older couple. “Are they together?”
“Married fifty years this winter.”
Ryan noticed them staring his way and waved.
She waved back. “He’s Ryan, right?”
“Yep. He’s my best bud. Can I get you a drink?”
“Hi Ryan!” she called down the bar. “Hi Pudge and Betty!”
Trig shook his head while Pudge and Betty beamed back at her. She was friendly, bold, funny, gorgeous. It was like everything about her was tailor-made to turn him on. If the pool steaming through the bar’s windows had been a wishing well, she’d be the woman he’d ask for when he flicked in his penny.
“I’d love a drink. Ummm,” she tapped her lips, “Seven and Seven?”
He whistled. “Sounds perfect. Mind if I join you?”
Her low laughter was like a kitten’s purr. “Not at all.”
“What’s your name?” He’d been flirting with her all weekend, but, of course, the last night she was here was the only one he finally grew the balls to ask her what her name was.
“It’s Kissie.”
“Who’s kissing?” he asked while reaching under the bar for two glasses.
“Me.”
Raising his head, he frowned up at her. Was she asking him to kiss her? A little forward, but he was down if that’s what she wanted. He was down for pretty much whatever as long as it was with her. “Okay. Um, do you want to do it here or?” He angled his head toward the door.
She burst into laughter. “No, not kissing.Kissie.My name is Kissie.”
“Ahhh,” he said while the red-hot, thousand-suns’ fire of embarrassment blasted his cheeks. “Kissie, that’s an interesti—”
“Did you think I was asking you to make out with me?”
