Page 5 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“I’d normally be here with my daughter,” he says, voice low and rough. He pauses, gives a quick glance around, then lets out a sigh. “But...she’s no longer here.”
My hand flies to my mouth. Before I can think, my other hand lands gently on his wrist. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He barks out a laugh—deep, rich, and so unexpected I jerk back a little.
“Oh goodness, no. She’s not dead. She abandoned me for some bachelorette party madness or whatever she’s got going on tonight.”
Relief floods me, warm and fast, and before I can stop it, a laugh bubbles out. “Thank God for that. So, you’re here for a wedding?”
He leans back in his chair, lazy and controlled. One strong arm drapes over the back of the barstool, the other cradling his glass with an ease that’s far too practiced.
“Begrudgingly,” he says, voice like smooth whiskey. “Emotional support puppy duties. I don’t really do weddings, but it’s the daughter of a family friend and my daughter refused to come unless I did.” He lifts one shoulder. “So, here I am.”
The therapist in me perks right up, curiosity sharpening. “Why don’t you do weddings?”
He holds my gaze, eyes dark and unreadable, the air between us suddenly thicker. He studies me for a long, weighted beat, like he’s peeling back a layer to see if I’m safe. And then—slow as sin—a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Because I haven’t been to one since my wife died. Over twenty years ago.”
Honesty. I can get into it.
I tilt my head, my expression intentionally unreadable. “The nerve of her. Up and dying on you like that.”
My humor has always skewed a little dark—blame the New York City foster care system. Or maybe it’s just baked into my DNA. I’ve never fully decided where I land on the whole nature versus nurture debate.
He chuckles and my chest does an odd little flutter. Go figure—he’s a weirdo like me.
“Yeah,” he says with a crooked smile. “Some nerve. Who the hell does she think she is?”
I arch a brow, matching his tone. “Well, lucky for you, there are about a thousand psychics on this strip. Want to go channel her? Ask what the hell she was thinking? Get some closure once and for all.”
He grins, lazy and playful. Then he shrugs. “Already did. Apparently the angel Gabriel’s hotter than me.”
That earns a smile from me. And before I can help myself, I reallylookat him.
He’s got a maddening kind of confidence that doesn’t need announcing. It’s just there. Unapologetic. The silver threading through his thick, slightly unruly hair isn’t a surrender to age; it’s a statement. One that saysearned every damn strand.
His face is all sharp edges and sun-warmed skin—the sort of ruggedness that speaks more of afternoons spent under the sky than boardrooms or camera flashes. A beard, perfectly unkempt with salt and pepper roughness, lines his jaw. It makes my fingers itch.
But it’s his eyes that really undo me. Deep blue to contrast his dark hair but steady and knowing, with just the faintest glint of amusement. They hold mine a beat too long and his gaze is one of those that sees through your first three layers without breaking a sweat.
Still...there’s something about him. Maybe it’s everything about him. All of it completely, dangerously enticing.
And—given the kind of experience I’m sure he has on me—without a doubt, a very bad idea.
I finish the remnants of the drink in my glass before slamming it back down on the bartop. “I haven’t seen this angel Gabriel, so, I’ll just take your ghosts’ word for it.”
He cocks a brow, eyes twinkling. “As in…” He’s absolutely fishing for a compliment.
I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already tugging at my lips. “As in, you’re definitely sexy.”
He grins, cocky and pleased. “Youhaveto say that.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s baiting me into more conversation and because of those eyes and that smile, I bite. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’m the devilishly handsome older guy who’s about to ask the woman way out of my league if I can buy her a drink.”
I tilt my head. “Am Isaid womanin this scenario?”
