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She tilted her head with a knowing smile. “What?”
“Just surprised me, is all.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hayley was wearing faded jeans with huge holes in the knees, and her blue-and-white-checkered shirt was rolled up at the sleeves; she wore it unbuttoned over a white tank top. There was something in the way she carried herself, something about the touch of eyeliner he hadn’t noticed before—she knew she looked good, but she hadn’t dressed for anybody’s approval. Nick had focused so much on protecting himself around her that he was just now realizing how utterly comfortable Hayley was in her own skin. He was still recovering from his walk from the car, aware of his balance and his grip on the walker, hoping fervently he’d stop sweating now that he was standing still, but none of those things would ever be worries for Hayley. She simply stood there, eyes boring into him. He couldn’t gauge her mood, or what she wanted from him, but he liked the way she was making his pulse speed up.
“Hey,” he started brilliantly. “We need to—”
“We need to do pickleback shots,” Hayley told him. “You’re buying.”
He blinked, his mouth stuck in mid-sentence. “I don’t know what those are.”
To his astonishment, she grabbed his forearm to pull him forward. “Now.”
Nick let himself be towed to the bar, where Hayley flagged down Elliot. “Two pickleback shots,” she said. “On the rock star’s tab.”
He went for his credit card. “You’re not working tonight?”
“Nope.” Hayley shook her head. “I am off duty.”
“Here for the karaoke?”
“No.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Nick went with, “Ah.”
“Kevin,” she pronounced, “is at Vivez.”
“Ah,” he said again. “And how do we feel about that?”
“Great. Peachy keen.” Hayley thanked Elliot as he delivered four shot glasses, two of which she shoved toward Nick. “Go for it, rock star.”
Nick refused to go for it. He had prepared an apology, and he realized now that he had put an absurd amount of time into that preparation, but he was not about to let Hayley demolish all his careful planning without knowing what the hell was going on.
Which was why he asked, because he had to start somewhere: “What’s with this rock star stuff?”
Her stare said he didn’t want to cross her. “Drink.”
“Which?”
“Shot of Jameson first, then you drink the pickle juice.”
Picklejuice? “Why would you—”
“Damn it, Freeman, raise your glass.” He surrendered. “To dancing with your heart,” she said.
“Um, to dancing with your heart.” He grimaced a bit at the whiskey’s burn. “Pickle juice!” she commanded. He braced himself, tossed it back, then looked at the empty glass, surprised. It actually wasn’t bad.
“See?” she said. “It washes down the whiskey.”
“It really does.”
“Want another one?”
“No, thank you.”
“Sopolite.” She drew out the word. “Go to your booth.”
