Page 5 of Done with You

The bartender placed a drink in front of her, and Aiden knew immediately that it was a Shirley Temple. Non-alcoholic and fruity.

“Not drinking?” he asked.

“I don’t drink very often. And not when I’m out. Only at home or with friends, and maybe one or two glasses of wine. Besides, the adrenaline is more than enough for me.”

He could believe that.

“You ordering food tonight?” Pedro, the bartender, asked Luna.

She nodded. “Yam fries, chicken strips, and chili prawns, please.”

Pedro cracked a smile, then tossed her a wink. “Luna Love appie platter, coming right up.”

“You’re welcome to share my nachos,” Aiden said, sliding the platter normally meant for four people, closer to her. “I could finish it myself, but I probably shouldn’t.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then her gaze fell to his drink. “What’s in the glass?”

“Club soda and lime. I don’t drink—ever.”

Her brown eyes, flecked with different shades of gold, flared and she held his gaze for a moment, then reached forward, grabbed a chip, and dipped the corner of it into the sour cream. “Thanks …”

“Caden,” he said. He liked this woman, but he already knew there was no future for them. He was a broken human being, and she deserved so much better than him. No sense getting attached to real names and torrid pasts. He stuck out his hand.

She took it. “Luna.”

Chapter Two

Caden was good-looking.

Like really good looking.

He hadn’t stood up yet, but she already knew he was tall. His torso was long, and so were his legs. And he had a breadth to his shoulders that she liked. Not to mention those thick arms that were threatening to pop the seams of his long-sleeve white waffle-knit shirt.

Oona spotted him in the crowd during the show almost as soon as he walked in. Which wasn’t easy, since she was basically blinded on stage. But he was off to the side, and, depending on the angle, she could see people standing on the fringe when the overhead lights weren’t trying to burn holes in her retinas. But he had a presence about him that screamed military or paramilitary in some way. His posture, shoulders back, head up, eyes taking in his surroundings—looked like he was scanning for threats. This man probably didn’t know how to slouch.

She couldn’t make out his eye color from where she was on stage, but the man had an intense stare about him that just ratcheted up her heart rate until she was slightly out of breath and the blood in her ears made a whooshing sound.

What she could see from the stage, though, were those dimples.

He didn’t smile much or for very long, but she caught him smiling a few times, and holy nail gun to the face were those babies deep and disarming.

Then he went and whistled at the end of the show, which had her lower belly fluttering and her cheeks flooding with heat as the corners of her mouth pulled up even higher like they had marionette strings attached, and some sadist above her was tugging on them extra hard.

She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she had always been attracted to a man who could whistle like that. Loud and commanding.

Well, actually, she could pinpoint the reason. It was her eighth-grade soccer coach. She’d had a terrible crush on Jaxon and he could whistle like that. He was twenty-four at the time and had a girlfriend, but she’d still say to this day that Jaxon Hannigan had been her first love.

And the fact that Caden didn’t drink was refreshing.

Not that she had anything against alcohol in general, but her ex had been an alcoholic, and … well, now she was really careful about who she spent time with and how much alcohol they consumed.

She would never tell a man to give up alcohol for her, but she also knew that she would never go back to a situation where the person’s disease made her fear for her life.

Her appetizers came and she shared them with Caden while he shared his nachos. She drank her Shirley Temple and he ordered more club sodas and they watched the rest of the hockey game. The Habs won in overtime, which made the entire bar erupt into cheers. People were patting each other on the back and high-fiving like they were the ones on the ice sweating their butts off and scoring goals.

She never could wrap her head around intense sports team fandom and athlete idolization. She understood the admiration and enjoyment of playing sports and watching them, but not the shaping of one’s identity around their favored sports team or athlete. It was another red flag for her, actually. Russell, her ex, had been a passionate Toronto Blue Jays fan and dragged her to too many games to count. And God help everyone within shouting distance if they booed “Russell’s team” or the team lost.

When they lost to the Seattle Mariners one time, Oona ended up with a cracked rib.

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