Page 9 of Wild Abandon

I do a double take. I’ve never had someone read me like that before. You’d think he’d be interested in me, but it’s quite the opposite because, for some reason, it feels like he is purposely moving farther and farther away from me.

Typically, I have a difficult time with trying to make bartenders go away. A single gal having a beer by her lonesome is like the Bat-Signal for psychiatrist-wannabe tenders of the great ale.

I take another sip and look around for a menu. I don’t see one anywhere, nor do I see a waitress.

“Is the kitchen open?” I ask in a rather loud voice, considering he vanished to the other side of the L-shaped bar.

I can’t see him, but I can hear the deep huff of his breath, a cabinet open, glass hitting the wood, and then the crinkle of a package. The cabinet door closes, and seconds later, he comes back around the wall, holding a bowl of bar nuts.

“Kitchen’s closed.” He pushes the bowl toward me. “The bar’s technically closed, but I forgot to lock the door. We don’t open for another thirty minutes.”

If the bar was closed, why didn’t he say so when I walked in?

I look at my phone and see Naomi has yet to text. So far, the first day of my new life has consisted of drinking alone in a closed bar.

I raise my glass and air-cheers the bottles of liquor sitting on the shelves in front of me. “Here’s to my new adventure.”

Peering over the glass, I see Mr. Sociable walking over with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. With one of my brows perched up high, I watch as he pours amber liquid into the two glasses. He slides one across the bar to me and raises the other in his hand.

My hand reaches out midway to take the glass, and then I pull back. I don’t drink whiskey straight, and I don’t drink with strangers.

Oh, what the hell? I reach for the glass and look back at him. “Isn’t it a little early for whiskey?”

“Only the good die young,” he replies just before he shoots the liquor back without even a flinch at the burn.

I can feel my forehead creasing with the face I am making at him. As odd as he is, I am not one to argue with his logic.

The shot doesn’t go down in a ladylike way, so I cough at the tail end and wait for my chest to simmer down.

“First time in Napa?”

I hear the question, but it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.

Of course he’s talking to you. You’re the only person here.

“Oh, yeah. Yes, I just flew in”—I stop to look at my watch—“four hours ago.”

“Here with a guy?” He’s pouring two more shots into the glasses.

“I actually flew across the country to move in with my girlfriend.”

He lifts his glass to his full lips and takes another shot. “Big move. Congratulations to the two of you.”

Congratulations? Why is he—

“No!” I say rather loudly. “No. I didn’t mean it like that. She’s…we’re…when I said girlfriend, I meant, my friend who’s a girl, and she’s married. We’re not a couple. I’m not a lesbian. Not that I have a problem with that. I’m from New York.” I offer that last part up in explanation, as if it’s a valid reason not to be homophobic.

He’s looking back at me with his mouth puckered and his eyes slightly widened, as if saying, Okay, but in the most sarcastic way.

I cross my right leg over the left and adjust my posture. “So…how’s the nightlife around here?”

He frowns and shrugs his shoulders. “Not too much to do. Go to San Francisco if you want the clubs and late-night scene.”

“Where do single people go to meet other single people?”

His perfect brow narrows, skeptically, as he appraises my question. “You didn’t move all the way across the country in hopes of finding love, did you?”

My leg slides down, and my foot hits the bar. “So what if I did?”