Page 18 of Shifting Sands

Once they leave, I quickly head back out. Instead of joining my friends, I make my way to the bar. Just one drink—that’s all I need. With one more drink, I’ll be able to smile, laugh, and pretend I didn’t hear the guy talking to Jena earlier, telling her that I reminded him of his “hot single aunt.”

The bar is busy, with customers standing three deep, waiting to place orders. I wait patiently for my turn when I spot an empty stool at the far end. I hurry down, hop onto the seat before anyone else can, and exhale like I’ve finally come up for air.

A few seconds later, he’s in front of me.

“Evenin’.” His voice is low, warm, and melts over me like honey on a biscuit. “What can I get you?”

I glance up. God, up close, he’s even more striking. Eyes like storm clouds, a scruffy five-o’clock-shadowed jaw, and just the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under his rolled sleeve.

“Pinot Noir,” I say, a little breathless. “If you got it.”

He arches a brow. “We do. But I’ll warn you, it’s not that good.”

I smile despite myself. “Honest bartender. I appreciate that.”

“I figure if a fine lady like yourself is drinking red wine at a place like this, you deserve to know what you’re getting.”

“You saying I don’t look like ashot and beer chaserkinda girl?”

“I’m saying you look like you’ve got taste.”

I raise a brow. “Or that I’m too mature to be hanging out with this crowd?” I quip.

He chuckles. “Don’t put words in my mouth. Besides, I have a niece who acts more mature than most of the knuckleheads in this place tonight. So, pinot, right?”

I shake my head. “Make it a vodka martini,” I decide. “Dirty. Grey Goose.”

“Good choice.” He disappears momentarily and returns with a chilled glass and cocktail shaker. He sets the glass on a napkin in front of me, pours the drink, and then tops it with a toothpick loaded with olives.

I take a sip. His eyes stay on mine just a beat longer than necessary. I set the glass down and try not to fidget.

“I’m Brandee,” I offer.

He leans a hip against the bar. “Nice to meet you, Brandee.”

“You always work the bar on Fridays?” I ask.

He shrugs and starts to answer when a voice booms from across the bar. “Hey, lover boy. You gonna stand there and yap all night, or can a man get a beer?”

“Coming right up, George,” he yells over his shoulder. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.”

He fills a glass from one of the taps, hands it to the old man, and returns.

“Regular?” I ask.

He quirks a brow. “How’d you know?”

“You didn’t ask his order.”

He grins. “I pay attention to good customers and gorgeous women who try to hide at the bar.”

My stomach does a small, traitorous flip.

“Oh, I’m not hiding,” I lie.

“No?”

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