Page 4 of What I'm Looking For

“Okaaay. Don’t have a cow.” I set the glass on the bar and cross my arms. “Sheesh.”

He points at me. “Wait here. Do not leave.”

“I said okay.” It’s like I’m on a schoolyard, fighting with a little boy I have a crush on. Not that I have a crush on this guy. Thereissomething about him that has me wondering if I should take my sex drive out for a spin for a change, but I don’t have time for crushes.

Anyway, what’s wrong with ordering a wine spritzer? Isn’t that what women drink these days? Curiosity has me craning my neck to watch what he’s creating. I swear I’m not trying to check him out, but he’s bent over getting something out of a cooler, so I admire the view. Faded Levi’s hug blue-chip glutes like they’re made for each other.

This guy isn’t a sharp-suited swaggering Hot Steve. Instead, he moves with an easy confidence. When he straightens to pour a series of liquids into a glass, his wrist flipping bottles theatrically, I note an even distribution of muscle. Not rangy like a runner, not bulky like a body builder. He’s kind of a JFK Jr. with blue eyes. He’s actually even better looking than JFK Jr., if you can believe it.

He spins to grab a lemon and a knife, shoulders bobbing in time with U2. Bono still hasn’t found what he’s looking for. Just like me. Even so, I’m not sure this bartender is my type. He seems to enjoy standing out in a crowd with his paisley vest over a white button-down and a striped tie loosened at his neck.

Drink in hand, he turns my way, and my heart races around the perimeter of my ribcage. The last time I had this kind of reaction to a guy had to have been during Reagan’s first term. I dive into my handbag and pretend to search for something, hoping to hide the look of lust on my face.

“Try this.” Invitation colors the rich tones of his voice in a way that is not at all irritating.

“You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble.” I’m talking to the bottom of my purse, but he’s waiting for me to take the glass. So I do my best to get things under control before reaching for the drink. Apparently my best isn’t enough, as is too often the case. I literally lose my grip and some of the drink sloshes onto the bar.

I reach for a napkin. “Ugh, I’m such a dweeb.”

“No problem, I’ve got it.” Calmly and efficiently he grabs a rag, wipes the glass and then gently dries off my hand.

“All good?”

I nod. If only he knew how good. How to reallocate the frisky feelings stirred up by this goofily dressed guy? Maybe just focus on the drink. A thick-bottomed squat glass holds ice and some sort of pale brown liquid that admittedly looks like the kind of thing a Brad/Mark/Steve would drink. “So, what is it?”

He leans on the polished mahogany bar. “It’s my own special recipe, developed for a customer who can’t drink alcohol anymore. It’s barley tea, bitters, and simple syrup with a lemon twist. A new-fashioned old fashioned.” His smile is proud. “You can look like you’re drinking like a big boy but not get drunk.”

My hand itches to touch the light sprinkling of hair on his forearm. Instead, I raise the glass and take a tiny sip.

“What do you think?”

“This is actually pretty good.” I take another gulp, hoping it’ll cool me down. “Thanks, uh…sorry, did you say your name?”

“Will. Will Talbot at your service.”

“Well, thank you very much, Will Talbot. You have provided excellent service. But—” Remembering the reason I’m here, I quickly check out the huddle of my coworkers. Thankfully, all eyes are still on the Celtics game. “This stays between us, right?”

He bows formally. “‘Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, and breath of life, I have no life to breathe what thou hast said to me.’”

“Come again?”

“It’s fromHamlet. What I mean is, I won’t reveal your secrets.” His smile reveals a dimple, but only on one side, making it somehow more winning than Hot Steve’s symmetrical ones.

I scan my stalled frontal lobe for an appropriate response. “Oh. Well. Thanks.”

Really, I should just walk away right now, cut my losses. I would, if his big blue eyes weren’t holding mine prisoner. The blue of the sky on a perfect spring day. A blue we’ll hopefully see here in Boston someday soon. It was a long, cold, lonely winter. All I want in this moment is to get closer to those eyes, to those wickedly grinning lips, and… and?…

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I was just distracted because?…” Panicking, my eyes skitter from brow, to lips, to eyes, to dimple, to dark curly hair, each in and of itself not so special but in defiance of economic theory, the total effect far outweighs the sum of individual parts. Something shiny catches my eye. “Uh, that… thing, on your—you know?…”English language, anyone?“Tie clip!”

He lifts his tie to peer at the pin. “It’s the logo for the Boys and Girls Club. I got it for volunteering with them for five years straight. I teach after-school classes at the South End Community Center with my company.”

“Ah.” Ever so articulate, I nod like a bobblehead doll bouncing on a bumpy road. Does he teach bartending to kids? Asking seems insane. “Um. Thanks for the special drink.”

“Anytime.”

I should move but I seem to have forgotten how.

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