Page 10 of When the Walls Come Down
“Atlanta,” she replied and swirled a piece of ice with the drink stirrer in her glass. Still no eye contact.
Small talk. I fumbled for more small talk.
“You have family here?”
“No, I’ve always wanted to get out of Georgia. So, when I landed a job out here, it seemed like a sign.”
Finally, her blue eyes met mine and… Fuck, if I could have just remembered to blink, I’d have been doing well. I feared if I broke the gaze for just a second, I’d never see that color again, because surely it was a mirage of some sort. Like a crystal-blue pool in a desert. The kind of trick eyes could only play on a man who hadn’t been laid in nearly half a decade.
She finished with, “I start on Monday. I guess fate is as good a time as any to take a risk.”I glanced up from my drink just in time to see Shane’s chocolate-brown eyes flicker with something unreadable, but the subtle twitch of his mouth told a story of its own. And I had to admit that it was a really good story. The man was gorgeous. Slightly odd and borderline intrusive, but hot nonetheless.
“A risk,” he mumbled, resting his arm on the bar and leaning in close. Like, too close. The kind that should have changed borderline intrusive to stranger danger, but he didn’t seem threatening. Just uncomfortable.
Weirdo or not, he smelled good.
I swayed away, nearly falling off my barstool in an effort to reclaim my personal space. “Any chance you can back up?”
“Probably,” he replied without making the first move away. He stared at me, slack faced as if deep in thought.
I cleared my throat to recapture his attention. “Like, now?”
After shaking his head out of it, he grinned, and if I hadn’t been preoccupied with trying to remember if I still had that pepper spray Heath had given me in my purse, I would have noted that his grin was even sexier than the lip twitch.
Much to my relief, he righted himself on the stool and lifted his beer to his lips. “Sorry about that. So, um, how old are you?”
“What?”
He swallowed and set his beer down. “You look young. How old are you?”
Seriously. Who the hell was this guy? And why was I still entertaining this conversation instead of running for the hills? Oh, right. Melanie, dazzling boobs, and vodka cranberry.
Shoot me.
However, it was also about boredom and living in a new city where I knew absolutely no one. It was for those reasons I replied, “Nineteen. You?”
Beer sprayed from his lips and the bartender’s head shot up, a murderous scowl contorting his spittle-covered face.
“What the fuck, man?” Chris growled, flicking his gaze from Shane to the row of drinks he had been busy preparing.
Shane dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Sorry. Take this.” He handed him a twenty-dollar bill before sliding my drink away. “And for fuck’s sake, take that before Blake has you neutered for serving a minor.”
Chris’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? I carded her. She’s twenty-four.”
I bit my lip to stifle the laugh. “Did I say nineteen?”
Shane glared at me, unimpressed, but his lip twitched all over again as he used two fingers to push my drink back in front of me. “So I’ve got shitty small talk and you’ve got jokes.”
I shrugged. “One or two.”
“Right. Well, then. I’m glad we got one of them out of the way early, because my small talk isn’t likely to get much better.”
“Out of the way early? How long exactly are you expecting this conversation to last?”
He ignored my prodding and loosened his narrow, black tie. “Hopefully a little longer. You claimed you were from Atlanta. Was that another joke?”
“No.”
“Then where’s that Southern accent?” His chin tipped up, almost as if he were challenging me.
I drained a quarter of my glass before replying, “Because that’s a stereotype about people from the South. News flash: We don’t all say ‘butter my biscuits’ or ‘y’all,’ either.”
He tapped his ear. “Ah. There it is. I heard it on the ‘y’all.’ I like it. It’s cute.”
I scoffed. “You heard nothing. I don’t have an accent.”
“Whatever you say.” He leaned closer to my shoulder again and finished with, “Peach.”
“Oh wow,” I deadpanned. “You went right for it. Straight out of the gate. A woman from Georgia. You call her a peach. So creative.”
He smiled sheepishly. “You’re absolutely right on that. I’m not creative at all, and I have a weak small talk game, but I know when someone introduces themselves, the polite thing to do is return the favor.”
I glared at his too-close-again position, and to his credit, he corrected himself without hesitation.
“I always thought Southerners had the rest of us beat with respect to manners. That’s all. Maybe it’s just another stereotype.”
