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And that means trouble.
“What would I be protesting?” I ask, determined not to let the slight tilt of his lips fluster me. Let him smirk.
“I don't know, but I'm about to make you a picket sign if you pass by the windows one more time. If I could figure out what you're protesting. Maybe instead you can wear a sandwich board and bring in some customers.”
“You work here, then?” I ask.
“I do.” He looks me over, top to bottom, assessing me. His gaze feels hot, leaving little trails of warmth over my skin. “Would you care to come in?”
I don’t like the way he raised his brow at the end there. He is flirting. I don’t have much experience with flirting, but I know when a man is doing it. And I know he couldn't possibly mean it, based on the fact that men who look like him are not interested in women who look like me. Unless they are after my inheritance, of course.
I look around the empty street, unsure of what I’m waiting for. Idocare to go in. That's why I’m here, after all. But at the same time, I don’t want to enter that pub. I don’t want to go in more than I have never wanted to do something in my life. Because that will make all of this real.
“I suppose.”
He raises his brow at the defeat in my voice.
The interior is dark, which was not surprising. It's not like people need a lot of natural light to drown their problems in a beer. I tried that myself one night. But after two beers, my stomach felt bloated and sour and I couldn't hold onto the fleeting buzz before the headache came. And then all I had were problems and a hangover. Not really worth the price of admission.
The bar itself is glorious. I run my hands over the glossy wood as I take a seat on a stool. Handcrafted. Well cared for. The bar is a piece of art.
There are two older men at the other end of it watching me very closely. I’m glad to see they have coffee cups in front of them and not beer glasses, so I ask for coffee when Sir Smirksalot gets behind the bar.
He leans over the bar toward me, bracing himself on two very sturdy forearms. He’s not invading my space, he’s edging on it though. My first instinct is to shrink back. But that’s old Tru. “Are you sure?” he asks in a very serious tone despite his laughing eyes.
A warm flush spreads through my body. An awareness that I’ve never felt before about a man spreads that flush lower.
“Yes, I'm sure.” I am also sure I’m going to fire him. He’s smirking at the customers and second-guessing their drink orders. That can’t be good for business.
Although the way his cinnamon eyes flash when he does it might attract more women to the bar.
If they like that kind of thing. I don’t. Not really. Not much.
He puts a cup of coffee, creamer, and sugar in front of me. Also a shot glass of something.
“What is this for?”
“You'll see.”
My hands shake as I prepare my coffee, but the bartender just watches me while he polishes a glass. I should ask him for information about the owner. Maybe after some caffeine.
I sip gently, hoping it isn’t too hot. But then something strange happens. The vile liquid actually attacks my taste buds. It isn’t a fair fight. I shudder and push the offending mug away from me in case it comes back for more. My eyes water and bile mixes with my saliva. The bartender pushes the shot glass toward me and I down it quickly. Anything to get rid of that horrible taste.
The alcohol burns as it goes down, and I cough, hoping not to retch because I know beyond a doubt that the coffee would taste even worse on the way back up.
“Whatwasthat?” I ask when I catch my breath.
“Jet fuel in the white mug. Tequila in the glass.”
“Wha—why?”
“I wish I knew. The only people who ever order coffee are those two sitting down there, and they like it for some reason.” The men raise their cups to me.
“It was awful. It was more than awful. I majored in poetry, and I can't even think of a way to describe how literally terrifying that coffee was.”
“You majored in poetry?”
I stiffen. “Yes.”
