“Or maybe I made it into a bigger deal than it was,” Jordyn said, considering that he’d never asked for anything more than her name.
“Maybe you did,” Tristyn allowed. “But you won’t know for sure until you see him again.”
* * *
It was almost two weeks later before she did.
Ten days to be precise. And not a single one of those days passed without her thinking about him at least once. After the first week, she considered stopping by Valentino’s—just to see if he was working—but she’d ignored the impulse.
Because if he was working—what then?
It was her inability to answer that question that kept her away from his family’s restaurant. But it didn’t stop her from thinking about him.
On Tuesday night, just a couple hours before closing, he walked into O’Reilly’s.
She was wiping down the bar when she looked up and saw him come through the door.
Even from across the room, she felt the hum of something between them—or maybe, nearing the end of a double shift, she was just overtired.
He nodded to her as he took a seat farther down the bar.
“Hey, Jordyn,” Bobby Galley called out, snagging her attention. “What’s your number?”
For the first six months that she’d worked at the bar, every night that Bobby came in, he would ask for her number. And every night, she would refuse.
The familiar banter grew tiresome after a while, until one night, when he asked for her number, she said, “One hundred and forty-six.” He’d blinked, wary of this unexpected response, and she’d told him it was the number of times he’d asked her out and she’d turned him down. Not that she’d actually counted, but her recital of the random number sounded credible.
After that, it had become something of a game. Although he hadn’t stopped asking, he had given up hope that she would ever answer him with her actual phone number.
She took a moment to consider the request. “Thirty-eight,” she finally told him.
“I know that’s not your age,” he said. “I’m hoping...maybe...it’s your bra size?”
She shook her head. “Wrong again—it’s the number of months that I’ve been serving you from behind this bar.”
“Which only proves that we both need a change of scenery,” Bobby said. “Let me take you away from here.”
“If by ‘away’ you mean ‘Hawaii’—keep talking, Bobby. If you meant something else, then I’ve got other customers to serve,” she said, and moved toward Marco.
“What can I get for you?”
“A draft beer.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” she said, indicating the array of faucets bearing the labels of a dozen different brands.
“I’ll try a Smithwick’s,” he decided.
She picked up a pint glass and angled it beneath the tap.
* * *
As he waited for his beer, Marco glanced around, noting that despite the lateness of the hour, about half a dozen tables were filled and there were few empty stools around the bar. He suspected that the popularity of the seating in that area had more to do with the pretty woman working the taps than the two small screens showing sports highlights, especially when the Bar Down—a popular choice for die-hard sports fans—wasn’t too far down the road.
“How were your wings the other night?”
“They were great—thanks.”
“How are the wings here?”
“You checking out the competition?”
He shook his head. “I’m sure there’s some crossover between our customers, but I wouldn’t consider O’Reilly’s and Valentino’s to be in competition.”
“Our sweet-and-spicy honey barbecue are my favorite,” she said, setting a menu beside him. “But the dry-rub salt and black pepper are popular, too.”
“If I order the honey barbecue, will you share them with me?”
“No.” She smiled. “But thanks.”
“You’re good at that.”
She selected a clean glass and began pouring a Harp for another customer. “What am I good at?”
“The brush-off.”
“I work in a bar.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s a necessary job skill.”
“So I shouldn’t take it personally?”
“I didn’t say that.” But the words were softened by another smile that made his heart do a slow roll inside his chest as she carried the draft to the end of the bar.
“Did you want those wings?” she asked when she returned.
“Do they come with your phone number?”
“No.”
“Not even the first digit?”
“No.”
“The last digit?”
One side of her mouth quirked at the corner. “No.”
“So the only thing I get if I order the wings is the pleasure of sitting here and making conversation with you for a little while longer?”
“That’s not true,” she denied. “You also get the wings.”
He smiled. “Sold.”
“Honey barbecue?”
“Sure,” he agreed.
She keyed his order into the computer that linked to the kitchen. “Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
She nodded and moved away to check on her other patrons, exchanging a few words here and there, smiling or laughing on occasion.
“What brings you in to O’Reilly’s?” she asked.
“I was looking for you.”
“Well, now you’ve found me.”
His smile was quick. “Can I keep you?”
“You wouldn’t want to,” she told him. “I’m very high maintenance.”
“In my experience, most high-maintenance women don’t realize they’re high maintenance.”
“See—I’m challenging your perceptions already.”
“About more than you probably realize,” he acknowledged.
“How did you find out where I worked?”
“You don’t believe it’s a coincidence that I decided to stop in here for a beer?”
“No.”
He grinned at the blunt response. “My sister, Renata, told me I’d probably find you here.”
“Renata and Craig,” she realized. “He’s the firefighter who plays third base for the Brew Crew.”
He nodded.
“Small world.”
“And strange that our paths never crossed until recently.”
“Or maybe not so strange considering that we probably work similarly unusual hours,” she countered.
The blonde waitress who was taking care of the tables