"That's so cliché and overdone. Having a nice six-pack usually translates to 'conceited asshole,'" I answered, sweeping the lip gloss Tressa handed me across my lips. "Thanks," I told her, handing the wand back. I tried not to focus on the irony of my new friends having no qualms about sharing their makeup with me. Back home, most people refused to touch anything I had touched. They were all assholes. What I had wasn't contagious.
"You better get back out there before Mr. Blue Balls thinks you ditched him," Tressa interrupted, giving my back a light shove toward the bathroom door. "Text us if he turns out to be an asshole."
"And make sure he bags his junk," Brittni piped in.
Giggling at their advice, I twisted around before exiting the bathroom and threw my arms impulsively around both their necks. "I love you guys," I said, knocking their heads together from my exuberance.
"Okay, we love you too," Brittni complained, trying to extract my arms.
"Yep, she's toasted," Tressa commented, rubbing her head where it had knocked against Brittni's.
"Maybe we should hang around to make sure she doesn't embarrass herself," Brittni mused.
"No way, you guys promised," I reminded them. "If I'm doing this, I'm going in without a safety net.
"Fine, but your scrawny ass better text us first thing tomorrow morning, or we're sending out the armed forces to take down Mr. Seximist," Brittni warned, giving me a quick hard hug.
"Don't worry, Brit, he looks harmless enough. Besides, I've taken at least twenty pictures on my phone. We'll nail that bastard's ass to the wall if he hurts her," Tressa said from behind me as I pushed open the bathroom door.
"Don't worry, my head will make a beautiful mantle piece," I threw over my shoulder as I sashayed across the room toward the bar.
"Hey stranger," I said, boldly sliding onto my barstool.
"Whoa there," Mr. Hotness said as my ass misjudged the middle of the seat and teetered on the edge, making the legs of the stool wobble. Hotness reached over and grasped my arm to steady me.
"You're hot."
"Why thank you," he said chuckling.
"I mean, your hands are hot...no, I mean, your touch is hot...shit. Never mind," I mumbled as he chuckled next to me.
"It's not the first time I've been called hot, sweetheart."
"Vanity isn't a virtue," I pointed out, picking up the shot glass that had magically filled itself in my absence. "So, what do you do Mr. I Know I'm Hot?" I asked, realizing that in all our flirting we'd neglected to exchange names.
"Nathan," he answered, holding out his hand for me to shake.
"Ashton," I parroted as his hand engulfed mine. His touch was sure and sensual at the same time, making my poor hand feel bereft once he let go.
"I'm a freelance journalist."
"Freelance journalist? What does that entail?" I asked intrigued.
"Lots of traveling and a knack for being able to dig out the truth. I've been fortunate enough to be able to pick my assignments," he answered, turning on his barstool to face me. His knees knocked against mine, which my body was keenly aware of as our legs settled, intimately touching each other. "I'm actually on my way to my next assignment. What about you?"
"Right now, I'm working at Smith's General Store over on the corner of Main and Stetson," I answered defensively, waiting for his judgments. I didn't bother to mention the barely dried ink on my B.A. in Human Psychology, or the fact that up until four months ago, I had been planning my internship at the local hospital back home. Those were need-to-know facts that he didn't need to know.
"I think I met the owner when I arrived today. Fran, right? She's quite an old card," he replied warmly, surprising me.
"Yeah, she is. Don't let her age fool you. She's sharper than people a quarter of her age. That store has been in her family for more than a hundred years. Each generation it's passed down to the next. Fran should have passed it down like fifteen years ago, but she claims hell will freeze over before she allows her 'sniveling, no-good, lazy nephew to run it into the ground.' She says she reckons she'll stay until she breathes her last breath or her nephew finally decides to man up. She says she won't be holding her breath on the latter…" I rambled on. Obviously, the multiple shots had turned my tongue into a nonstop chattering mess.
"That sounds like the person I met," he said, chuckling softly. "So, have you lived here all your life?" he asked as Joe set another round in front of us.
Running my finger around the small base of the shot glass, I weighed his question, contemplating how I wanted to answer. "No. I moved here four months ago after my dad died," I lied, giving him the standard answer I'd given everyone else when I moved to town.
"Really?" he asked, studying me critically.
I was slightly taken aback by his response. I'd been greeted with nothing but sympathy when I'd let the lie slip on previous occasions. I always felt a twinge of guilt over it, but knew in the end it was necessary. "It was quite sudden," I answered defensively.