Page 3 of Come Back To Me

“God, I need a drink after that. What do you have for whiskey?”

He rubbed a hand across his face and I listed off our selection.

“I guess it’s a little early for whiskey,” he said. “What about beer?”

I pointed to the row of beer behind the bar. He chewed his lip while he studied them.

“Can you say each of their names?” he asked.

“What? Why?”

“I like to listen to you speak.” He grinned. “I’m just trying to keep you talking.”

“There are numbers you can call for that sort of fetish,” I told him.

“One nine hundred girls, girls, girls,” he said. We both laughed. Obviously, we’d both seen too many late night commercials.

“Your best IPA then,” he said. His voice was deep and his lips puckered around the letter ‘p’ like it tasted good.

“You’re not a morning person,” he said, thoughtfully. “That may be a problem.” So many ‘p’s—I was staring.

“A problem?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am a morning person. So how will that work?”

I set down the glass I was holding and dried my hands. He wasn’t smirking, I checked twice.

“I’m not following.” My smile was forced—we both knew that. I moved toward the tap, flipped it forward. Beer foamed then turned deep amber. I slid his beer across the counter until it nudged his hand. A gentle reminder to shut the fuck up.

“Our relationship,” he said. “Our marriage. You’re not a morning person. Who will make my breakfast?”

I glanced around to see if anyone else was around to hear this, but it was just the two of us. Again. The guy was a loon. I’d let a loon duct-tape my splinter. He was completely serious too.

I rested my elbows on the bar, adjusting my face so that I looked more amused than raged and leaned forward.

“Are you drunk?” I asked. I hoped he was because then I could forgive him.

He widened his eyes and shook his head like I was the one saying something absurd.

“Are you on meds?”

This time he pursed his lips. “For what?”

“Being insane.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m sound.” He reached up and tapped his temple. He was wearing fingerless gloves.

I nodded. “Okay,” I said, slowly. “You’re just the type of guy who wants a woman around to make his breakfast. But only for six months, and it can’t get too serious.”

I moved away, lifting my elbows from the bar and turning my back on him to survey the bottles of liquor that needed restocking. Enough with this guy, enough with all guys. You could order a dildo right to your mailbox. Men needed to learn how dire that situation was for them.

“My asshole days are over,” he said. “I’ve only been in love for a few minutes, I’m not sure how to handle it. Besides, I broke up with Elizabeth for you.”

I spun around to look at him.

“Dude,” I said—and I’d practiced saying it just like the Americans—“You’re deeply in love with yourself. You’re also drinking beer at eleven o’ clock in the morning.” I pushed a menu into his hands, during which time he never took his eyes off of my face. “I won’t make you breakfast. Not ever. But, Jerry our cook will. He’s a little on the angry side, but his eggs are the shit.”

“I like angry,” he said. “I like you. I’ll take three of Jerry’s angry scrambled eggs and a side of toast.”

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