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Been there, done that.
But even when I take a pause to remind myself of those things, it doesn’t stop me from falling right back into flirting with him when he rounds the counter again and sits down next to me.
It’s late, though.
Really late.
I have an oversized, extremely warm flannel nighty waiting for me back at the cabin. Plus, Queenie. And I’m fine to drive, now that the alcohol’s left my system. More importantly, if I stay here for any longer, I might do something I regret.
I know Parker won’t let me pay, but manners dictate that I try anyway. So, when he returns to the stool beside me, I place my credit card down in front of him. “Hey, bartender. Think I could settle up my tab?”
“You leavin’?”
I have my purse already in my lap. I pull my fleece off the back of the stool. “Yeah, I should get to bed. Queenie’s a cuddler.”
“It’s dark out. I’ll drive us.” He pushes the credit card back to me, then hops off his stool and puts his hand to his mouth. “Hey—guys!” he calls out. “We’re closing early tonight. You got five minutes.”
Frankie, between songs now, shouts a loud “Boo!” and his wife seconds it.
The thinned crowd stirs, sipping down the last of their drinks, wriggling into jackets.
I slip my card back into my wallet, which I tuck into my purse. “Icandrive in the dark, you know,” I say to Parker, once he’s behind the bar again, but within earshot.
He collects a few empty glasses along the countertop and sets them in a sink. “I know you can, but I want to drive you home.”
“You can’t just close early because you feel like it. Won’t you get in trouble?”
He grins as he accepts a couple dollars from a customer. “Do I look like I’m worried?” He fits the cash into the register.
“No, butI’mworried. This is your job now and I’d hate for you to lose it because of me.”
“I won’t lose it.”
“You don’t know that.”
Around us, customers call out goodnights and goodbyes. Parker drifts toward the register again, and I watch him pull out the drawer and then disappear into the back.
By the time he comes out again, we’re alone in the bar.
Parker switches off the lights by the door. Outside, I watch the tail lights of the Mountain Shuttle get smaller as it carries Pines Peaks locals toward their beds. I can make out the shuttle’s cow-print paint and smell exhaust.
I stick close to Parker’s side.
As we walk into the parking lot off to the side of the tavern the last of the cars pulls out.
Now the only vehicles are my Prius, across the way, and Parker’s hulking truck. There are no street lights here in the lot. The sky above is dark and dusted with twinkling stars. The moon isn’t up yet. I can barely make out a whisper of white, my breath, hanging in front of me as we walk. To the side, the string lights lining the bar’s roofline sparkle.
When we reach his truck, he walks up to the passenger door. He opens it.
“You need a hand up?” he asks.
“That bar thing helps.”
In the darkness, I see the corner of his mouth inch up. “You mean the grab bar. Yeah.”
I take a step forward.
The truck’s grab bar.
