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“Oh no, I’m fine.”
“Not even another beer?” she goes on, quirking her eyebrow.
I hover my hand over the lip of my glass. “Still working on this one.”
Bea smirks. “Suit yourself, Sheriff.”
I don’t love being called sheriff while I’m off-duty, but Bea really sells it.
Once she waltzes away, Ed elbows my side. “She likes you.”
“Oh, shut up, Ed,” Colleen growls and smacks him on the arm. “You think a woman breathing in your direction means she’s flirting with you.”
Ed’s eyes widen. “I do not! I’m married, thank you very much.”
Colleen shakes her head. “Don’t listen to him, Rory. You’re not Bea’s type.”
“Is that so?” I ask. Now I can’t help but like a little challenge.
“Bea and I have been friends since kindergarten. When she found out I was going to the police academy, she thought I was a sellout. I mean, the nose piercing alone should give you an idea of her type.”
I smile. “She likes bad boys, huh?”
“Not bad, just less buttoned up.”
Ed reaches for the collar of my flannel, snatching one of my buttons. “He can be less buttoned up.”
I try to flick him away, but he’s successful in undoing one of the buttons on my shirt. “Hey!”
“See?!”
Colleen sighs and smacks her forehead with her hand.
“I don’t think she meant it so literally, boss,” Stewart says, dipping a chicken finger in barbecue sauce.
I knock off the rest of my beer. “Well, don’t worry, Colleen. Not really in the market anyway.” I’m still getting acclimated to small town life. Sure, it would be nice to have someone to share it with, maybe show me the ropes, but the last thing I want is to get too attached to someone and make them my whole world only for it to go sour. Baby steps. “I’m going to get another, anyone want anything? Stewart? A Shirley Temple?”
“Yesh please,” he says through a mouthful of chicken.
I slide off my stool and approach the bar tentatively. Don’t want to give Bea the wrong impression on the off-chance sheisflirting with me. I just want another beer. And it doesn’t hurt to get to know the locals, endear them to me at least a little.
As soon as she notices me, Bea’s eyes flick up from her work cleaning a beer glass with a microfiber cloth with so much precision you’d think this is the Walnut Room, not a local bar and grill. She doesn’t speak, an appraising smile on her lips.
“Guess I should have taken you up on that beer,” I say, setting the glass on the bar.
“Well, you’re very lucky, we haven’t run out yet,” she says.
I chuckle and sink down onto one of the vinyl bar seats. Not a single one has had to be patched up with duct tape.
I watch as she takes the freshy cleaned glass and places it under the tap. She’s a pro, her technique resulting in a perfectly heady beer. And she does it seemingly without thinking. Clearly these reflexes are innate at this point.
I glance to my right and spy an elderly man at the end of the bar doing a crossword puzzle. “Interesting activity for a bar, huh?” I say.
Bea slides the glass toward me and follows my gaze. “That’s Thad. He comes here every night. It’s like his version of a coffee shop.”
I smile. “That’s nice.”
She nods. “Yeah, it is.”
