My plan involved a full-blown immersion in “me.” Within reason. I talked him into a couple of coffee dates, invited myself jogging even though I hated it, and stopped by The Rusty Nail a few times to nurse a beer and chat with him in between customers. The public nature of our “dates” made it difficult to do anything sexy. Stolen kisses and the occasional make-out session were nice, but I wanted more.
In case I wasn’t clear, I had a thing for him.
And I had it bad.
It started soon after Derek and Gabe hired me in early December, before they opened Bonne Terre. I wouldn’t say it was lust at first sight. All I knew was that something in me responded to Drew. I was aware this sounded hokey as fuck, but I swore it was like our bodies communicated on another level. If he touched me in passing…a hand on my shoulder or a brush of his elbow while we worked side by side—my palms got clammy, and my heart did a funny somersault.
I responded to the surprise buzz of adrenaline in my usual dorktastic way…I started talking and couldn’t shut up. Or I did something to get his attention. I mixed chocolate croissants with almond croissants, switched the signs on the black and herbal iced teas, or showed up to work in my water polo parka and flashed my Speedo. As one does. I couldn’t help it. I was hungry for his sweet lopsided grins and “You’ve got to be kidding me” eye-rolls.
Who could blame me? Drew Hartley was fucking hot. Not that my attraction was all about his fine exterior. Sure, I appreciated his toned, lean bod, and I liked that his longish dark hair made him look like a rock star. But the man himself…his patience, his presence, his confidence…got to me like nothing and no one ever had.
Look, I’m not an idiot. Drew was older, more mature, and miles out of my league. I would never have brought up that I was bi since our acquaintance was bound to be a short one…but after he found the photo, the cat was out of the bag. Crazy enough, he was interested.
But he didn’t want to be.
I could almost see his internal struggle when he laughed at one of my lame jokes, then covered his amusement with a cough or by walking away. One of the best places to catch him was when he bartended at The Rusty Nail. He couldn’t walk away from me easily there.
Don’t worry. I wasn’t a total stalker. I stopped by twice during off-hours when I was “in the neighborhood.” And both times he looked genuinely happy to see me. But a veil of suspicion descended before I could say hello. Of course, that made me nervous, and when I got nervous…I talked. I tried different conversational tactics about work and the weather that required some input. His stiff-arm game was strong, though.
I finally gave up and went for the direct approach.
“I like you,” I whispered, lifting my glass to my lips.
Drew paused in the midst of wiping down the bar and gave a lopsided grin. “I like you too. Against my better judgment.”
“Good judgment is boring. Slightly off-kilter choices keep life exciting.”
“Are you a slightly off-kilter choice?”
“Me?” I pulled a funny face with bugged-out eyes and a wacky expression to make him laugh.
He snorted. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a lot?”
“Once or twice,” I admitted nonchalantly. “Stop overanalyzing, Drew. Thinking too hard ruins everything.”
“I know. Unfortunately, I’m really good at it,” he groused.
“Get outta your head, man. Tell me about this place.” I glanced around the mostly empty bar. “Who’s your favorite customer here?”
“Mikey,” he replied without hesitation.
“Mikey? Is he hot?”
Drew’s laughter bounced cheerfully off the wall of top-shelf alcohol. It sounded light and unfettered.
“Mikey is eighty-five. He comes in every night at five o’clock on the dot. He sits on the second barstool from the wall—right next to where you’re sitting now. He orders a vodka martini straight up…shaken, not stirred, with two olives in a frosty glass. All the bartenders watch for him and try to have his drink waiting for him when he wanders in. He acts like it’s the world’s best card trick. He thanks us profusely while he pops the olives into his mouth, and then the real fun begins. He tells story after story…about his family, his time in the army, the girl who broke his heart when he was twenty-three, the woman he married, his kids, his grandkids. It never ends, and he never tells the same story twice. I ask for that shift twice a week.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause people like him make you feel…significant. You have a gift for that too, you know. Mr. Molino lights up when you open the door for him at six a.m. and greet him as though he’s literally made your day simply by showing up.” Drew smiled as he folded the dishrag in his hand. “I think I get that same look every time Mikey hops on that stool, greets me by name, and says an Irish prayer, blessing me for remembering his drink.”