Page 8 of Graves

“What can I get ya?” I ask the scruffy-looking man who reeks of malt liquor as he teeters on the barstool.

“Whisker, er. Whiskeyer. Whatever,” he slurs.

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow as I shake my head.

“Not gonna happen, buddy. Stumble outside to the corner, grab a Seattle Dog from the cart, and when you sober up, you can have a drink.”

He grumbles in irritation, but does as I say, bouncing around like a pinball between the tables beforehe’s out the door. I honestly don’t see the appeal to the things. A hot dog smothered in cream cheese and grilled onions? I’ll pass, but people seem to love them. One night, I actually saw a woman full-on fight a group of men over the last one. Nothing like downtown Seattle at three in the morning.

“You tell him, honey.” Bonnie, one of our regulars, cackles before she takes a healthy sip of her boxed wine merlot.

I laugh with her as I suddenly notice a large man sitting in the booth tucked away in the furthest corner. I didn’t see him come in. I honestly don’t know how I could have missed him. The guy is massive. I’m five foot eight, but it still looks like I would come up to under his shoulder if I stood side by side with him.

His eyes lift from the phone in his hand, clashing with mine instantly. A feeling rips through me from my head to my toes. There is something in those eyes, so deep and heavy. The way he watches me is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. He watches me like he’s been waiting for me his whole life.

Mkay, Blake. That is the last time you fall asleep to some Hallmark bullshit on TV.

Shaking the ridiculous thoughts out of my head, I make my way around the bar top, moving to the corner where the man sits before I stop a foot or so short.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t see you come in. What are you drinking?”

The deep browns of his eyes flick between my own for a moment. I expect him to make a face or look away, but instead he continues to stare. It gets to the point where I think he’s amute before he finally answers.

“Scotch, neat.”

“Gotta favorite brand?” I ask.

“Whatever you think,” he says, still not taking his eyes off my own.

“That’s a dangerous game. You don’t ever trust a woman to pick out your liquor,” Marty, another regular, shouts from the table beside him.

“Shut the hell up,” I scoff with an eye roll before turning back to face the man in front of me.

His mouth twitches just slightly, like he wants to smile but won’t let himself before he nods.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Something about the low timbre of his voice sends a shiver up my spine. I nod softly as I turn on my heel, my normal confidence dimming softly as I feel his eyes track my every move. Slipping behind the bar, I grab some Blue Label and pour it into a fresh glass before carrying it over to him.

I set it down in front of him before giving him a quick smile. “Let me know if I can get anything else for you.”

He nods as he lifts the glass to his lips, taking a small sip before humming his approval. He doesn’t verbally say anything, but that hum has vastly inappropriate images flickering through my head.

I do my best to get back to work, but for the rest of the night, every time I steal a glance in his direction, he’s already watching me. It’s both unnerving and exhilarating. The customers begin to wean out as closing time approaches fast, with every singleperson leaving except for him. His drink is untouched apart from the single sip he took, and something like disappointment dips inside me at that. It’s not like I made the scotch, so I don’t know why the hell I’m disappointed.

“Did you not like it?” I ask.

His eyes move down to the full glass before lifting it up and tossing it back in one go. He swallows easily before looking back at me.

“I did.”

I nod at that. Not sure if he did that to spare my feelings or not, but either way, does it matter?

“Good. We are closing soon. Anything I can get you?”

“Wasn’t last call half an hour ago?” he asks.

“Well, yeah. I just…you’re still here.”

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