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Nearly kissing—and doing much more with—Jackson Havoc.
Ugh.
I sip the drink, feeling it soak directly into my bloodstream on my empty stomach. A glance down the bar shows me Gray Beard is back to his sports section. But, whatever.
I clear my throat. He doesn’t look up.
“Does Ja..” I frown. “Does Robbie come in here much?”
The man sighs and raises a bored eye to me.
“Johnson. I mean Robbie Johnson.”
He shrugs and then shakes his head once before diving back to his newspaper.
I cringe as it suddenly hits me.
Oh my God, I totally misread this. The guy behind the bar isn’t being an asshole, he’s justnonverbal.
I exhale, glad it’s not just this guy being a prick, like a town-wide epidemic of assholeness. Jackson being patient zero, of course.
“I’m so sorry!” I say cheerily, dragging his gaze back up. “I’ve had a weird day,“ I sigh, shaking my head. “I didn’t realize you were…”
He arches a brow, looking amused.
“You know,” I smile. “Like Robbie.”
“Mute?”
I blink as the word croaks from his lips.
“Excuse me?”
Motherfuck. Nope, he does talk. He was just being dick.
Great little town you’ve got here…
“I said, mute,” he rumbles in a scratchy voice. “Like Robbie.”
I wince, twisting my face.
“Yeah…I don’t think that’ a very PC way of saying that?”
“A what?”
“Politically correct? I don’t think you’re supposed to say that.”
“Mute?”
“Yeah.”
“Since when?”
“I think a while.”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“I think the preferred term is nonverbal.”
