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“Yes, but you never explicitly told me that you liked five olives. That was trial and error and reading the look on your face.”
“I—” She starts, then stops, talking when she realizes that indeed she never told me the number of olives. “Okay. Fine. But still, bar stuff is low-hanging fruit.”
“Okay,” I say, debating what I want to let out now or hold in for a future occasion. “I know that you will eat ranch on anything. I know that you have a self-imposed bedtime of ten o’clock and you’re not a fan of missing it. I know you hate country music despite living in Nashville?—
“That’s not true!” she exclaims. “I’ve gone to watch you sing.”
“Yes, you have. But I don’t think you knew one song.”
She lets out a defeated groan. “I didn’t. But I do like listening to you sing.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. “Now can I continue?”
“Fine…”
I snicker, knowing that this is getting under her skin. “I know you won’t get another cat because you think multiple cats equals cat lady. That when you were seven you broke your arm. That you will only drink iced coffee and you think flowers are overrated.”
“How…how did you know all of that?”
I turn to look at her, the smirk growing on my face. “Sweetheart, I hear everything behind the bar. And I’m observant.”
“Yes, but you have to hear stuff from so many people. How do you remember?”
“I don’t,” I say. “But when it comes to you, I commit it to memory.”
CHAPTER THREE
ANDI
~~ RULE #2: If you’re trying to stay single, don’t stare at his lips.
You’ll want to kiss them. ~~
“Beers, please! He’s buying.”
Max lets out a groan as we sit at the bar inside the bowling alley. “Whatever the lady wants.”
The woman smiles and starts pouring us two beers as we settle in.
“How did you learn to bowl like that?” Max grumbles.
“Aw, did you think you were going to do the cliché stand behind me and show me how it’s done?”
I mean, that’s what I figured he wanted to happen when he pulled into the bowling alley. Little did he know that I was raised on the lanes.
“No,” he says with a pout. “I thought I could bring you bowling, we could get to know each other outside of the bar, and I’d impress you by showing my skills.”
I have to hold in my laugh, but it’s so hard with his pouty lip protruding from his kissable lips.
Kissable lips? Where the hell did that thought come from? This is Max. Your friend. The one who you’ve had a fun day with. Quit staring at his lips. Bad enough you were staring at his butt all day.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say. “Varsity letter in bowling three years in a row. Tournament champion as a kid. Oh, and I don’t lose. At anything.”
The bartender, who is also wearing an apron so I’m guessing she doubles as the cook, sets down our beers and I take a sip. When I put it down, I notice that Max is looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you never cease to surprise me.”
