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I scoff.
An answering ‘ugh’ rings out at the same time with just a tad more contempt.
I freeze.
Glance aside.
Find a man looking back at me with amusement and surprise in his intelligent blue eyes.
I smile.
His eyes soften.
“You?” I point.
He shrugs.
I nod.
There’s an instant camaraderie between us.
It’s not romantic, I don’t think.
He’s not exactly my type.
He’s lean. Rough-looking.
Not ugly.
Just… earthy. Like he doesn’t quite give a damn what people think about him.
His red hair, thicker on top and shaved on the sides, has golden highlights. I’m guessing that’s sun-streaked rather than applied in a salon. He doesn’t strike me as the salon type—not with his beard, simple thermal and khakis.
I could be wrong though.
Who says scraggly-bearded mountain men can’t enjoy a nice spa day?
I lean over and whisper, “I bet he’ll ghost her after their second date.”
“You think?” His words are crisp. Carefully enunciated. “I bet she’ll claim it was fate that they met and tie him down to marriage.”
“Harsh.”
“Your guess wasn’t exactly optimistic either.”
“Touché.”
His smirk is barely there. Deep lines form along his lips with the movement, but I still get the impression that he doesn’t smile much.
“Elizabeth.” I offer my hand.
He starts to reach out. Stops. Hesitates. “Brogan.”
I let my arm drop softly to the counter. It’s weird that he doesn’t want to shake my hand, but I’m sure he has his reasons. “Brogan.” I test the name on my tongue. “Is that Scottish?”
“Irish and, before you ask, it has nothing to do with my heritage. Brogan was the name of the street my mother happened to be on when she went into labor.”
“Your parents must have been cool.”
