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“I’ve never seen it this packed,” I said, having to speak directly into Avery’s ear to be heard.
“Look,” she said, and her gaze landed behind the bar.
I couldn’t see at first until one person shifted and the man in question stood upright as if he’d been talking to a patron and wasn’t anymore.
“Nate Bowmen,” I mumbled.
Nate Bowmen was an MLB pitcher, born and bred here. Mitch Bowmen, my daughter’s father, was his brother.
“Are you sure you want to stay?” she asked.
“Screw him. He’s washed up and now works at a bar,” I said, feeling the frown on my face.
Okay, “washed up” was a stretch, but the news didn’t cast him in a favorable light. But Mitch hadn’t ended up being the stand-up guy I’d thought he’d be, because he and his family refused to acknowledge my daughter as one of theirs. I didn’t have warm feelings regarding any member of their family.
“I doubt it. He’s probably doing the owner a favor. No way he goes from making millions to being a bartender. Let’s just find a table.”
That seemed highly unlikely, as it felt like everyone who lived in Mason Creek was here.
We didn’t find a table, but Avery flagged down a server and ordered us some beers. “Just this one,” Avery said after she paid the server, who’d come back quicker than I expected. “Round one is on me.”
We were on our second beer when an announcement came that it was open mic night. Then the house lights dimmed more than they had already been.
“You should go up there,” I urged, shooing her toward the stage.
Avery’s eyes glittered, and she winked. Apparently, she was feeling good after two beers. She didn’t drink a lot because her dad was an alcoholic, but two was enough to loosen her up. She headed toward the stage.
I went to the bar to get another beer, since I wasn’t driving. When a clear spot opened, I moved in with my wallet in hand. A male voice came over the speaker. One glance at the stage and I saw that Nate Bowmen had beaten Avery there. I didn’t catch more because a certain gorgeous man stepped in front of me.
“Hello again.” It was him, Mr. Fancy Pants.
“Hi,” I said and turned away to hide the flush that stained my cheeks.
“I can go,” he said with that amazing accent of his.
“No,” I said, finally facing him. “You can stay.”
The bartender came over with my beer. Before I could pick up my wallet from the counter and pay, Mr. Fancy Pants held out his card to the bartender. “Another one of those for me.”
“You didn’t have to,” I said when he looked at me.
“I did. I’m trying to impress you.”
That only made me grin harder. “By paying for a beer?”
The music kicked up, and he leaned in to be heard. “By showing you I’m a gentleman.”
I moved closer, my mouth just near his ear. “What do you think you’re buying with that beer?”
When I pulled back, his cocky grin made my stomach feel like a score of butterflies were taking off. “Hopefully, I’m buying your goodwill and a chance to prove I’m a nice guy.”
My heart wanted to believe a guy like him would want a girl like me. But my experience couldn’t quite trust it. I’d learned a hard lesson with Mitch Bowmen. This time when I got close, the skin of my cheek brushed against his, creating electric sparks. “Why me?” I asked.
He shifted, and our mouths were too close. There was a pull I had to fight so as not to embarrass myself by kissing him. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Such a flatterer.”
He held out a hand after leaving his untouched beer on the counter. “Care to dance?”
