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I force a smile and shrug easily. “Don't have those.”
“No family?”
“Just me.”
Again, he waits quietly while I fiddle with the wet napkin soaking up the perspiration from the ice in my cup.
“I had them until me and my brother, Kevin, were eighteen. They were driving home drunk and fighting like they always did. Probably because Dad got too handsy with another woman again. They went off a bridge and didn't come back up until the next day. Found scratch marks all over Dad's face from her nails, and both of their alcohol levels were high.”
He nods slowly, then asks, “Twins?”
“Yeah,” I confirm quietly. “Kev and I were twins. But now it's just me.” I finish the statement with a broad smile, signaling the end of that depressing conversation.
He casts an indecipherable look my way but ultimately says, “Come on, I want to show you something.” He nods his head toward the exit. “I don’t want to spend my entire fucking day in this shitty bar.”
Valid. So, I pick up his drink and finish it off.
Whiskey. Gross.
“You’re really rude,” Enzo observes, standing up and looking down at me with an unimpressed quirk to his brow.
He’s so fucking tall. Like, he has a solid foot on me.
“And you’re a mammoth,” I retort.
The bartender—who finally relented and told me his name is Austin—snatches the glasses while passing by without a glance, even as Enzo fishes out his wallet to slip out some bills and slap them down on the bar to cover our tab.
“You’re annoying.”
Not the first time I’ve heard that one.
“Does that mean you’re canceling our date?” I ask, a hint of hope in my tone. As much as IneedEnzo to take me home—I always hate what comes after.
“It’s not a date. But, no, if you want out, then leave by yourself like a big girl.”
God, he’s mean. Why do I like it?
“Whatever. Let me just get the money for—”
“You put any money out and I’ll shove it down your throat,” he warns, his voice deepening dangerously.
My eyes snap to him, round with shock.
“Jesus, if you want to be a gentleman, just say that. Weirdo.”
He ignores me, and brushes past, heading toward the exit without a backward glance. The dickhead just assumes that I’ll follow him.
Well.
He's right.
I’ve never been one to possess self-control. I hop off the barstool and hurry after him, my flip-flops clacking against the sticky floor as I work to catch up to him.
“I appreciate your unreasonably fast pace,” I pant as we emerge into the hot Australian sun. I squint, the blaring light stabbing at my sensitive eyes. “Doesn’t waste any time. I like that. I’m a busy woman, you know?”
I’m already sweating, his long legs eating up an ungodly amount of space far quicker than my little legs can handle.
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
