Page 5 of Almost Had You

“For someone who doesn’t drink wine, I’d say this is an A-plus,” Mercer replies, taking a big gulp. “How have you been, Clover?”

Setting my glass down, I rub my hands together to warm them up. “It’s same ole, same ole. You know how this place is. Not much changes.”

Mercer twirls the wine stem in between two fingers. “I didn’t ask how Greenton was. I asked how you’ve been.”

Sighing, I smile. “I sort of am Greenton, Mercer,” I reply, meeting his searching gaze. “I’ve always been Greenton. I’ve never had a choice.”

He winces and smirks at the same time. “I’d disagree with that, but I never question a lady.”

Sipping my wine once, and then again, I try to compile my reply. “I still live in the house on my parents’ property. They’re trying to match me with every suitable bachelor in the state, and I’m fighting like mad against it, against everything.” I turn to him. “Mama and Daddy don’t know I’m fighting it. Sort of avoiding and deflecting.”

Mercer chuckles. “You always have been a pro at diversion.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Tell me something then,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

“Only if I want to,” I reply, smiling to match his.

“I know you’re balancing what’s expected of you with what you want, but at what point do you break protocol and put your desires first?”

Is he speaking in code? Was that a pickup line? I can’t tell and I should be able to. Mercer is my people. Why is he being cryptic? I sip my wine and nod, letting him know I’m thinking about his question.

I meet his eyes and it’s a mistake, because it confuses me even more. “Well, I, ah, I guess I’m waiting for a sign.” That covers all the bases. “Busying myself with everything under the sun to fill up my life. I started a non-profit. It helps women and children in the area get back on their feet after a trauma…domestic abuse, anything really. They can stay as long as it takes to sort life out. I’ve been trying to implement programs to help them find stable work. Greenton is small, though, so it’s a challenge. It’s over on Fifth Street. Where Cranky’s Gym used to be.”

“I know the place,” Mercer says, brows raised. “That’s fantastic. Who knew the Ice Queen had a heart of gold?” He smirks. I don’t take offense to the nickname that was pinned on me sophomore year of high school. Then he tells me about a place in Cape Cod, next to his home base, that offers the same services, and tells me I should get in touch with them because they may be able to help me expand the services we offer. Mercer also said they may have some ideas on where I can find grants. Not only is it nice he’s offering to help me with my passion project, it’s hot beyond all measure. Draining my glass, Mercer reaches over the bar to grab the bottle and goes to refill my glass.

I hold out my hand to stop him. “I agreed to one glass.”

He gives me puppy dog eyes. A look completely out of place for Mercer Ballentine. He’s all hard planes and rugged handsome. He’s the opposite of the suited, coifed men I date. “I’m not worth two drinks?” he asks, batting his lashes. “I bought the entire bottle for you and I just got home from war. Two drinks seem the mannerly thing to do.”

“The whole bottle for me, war hero?” I press a palm on my chest. Mercer’s eyes follow the movement and catch there. “I have to drive. I will take it with me for later when I get home if you bought it for me though.” I bat my lashes back at him, exaggerating. “Using the whole war hero thing softens me up, I guess.”

He laughs. “That’s fair. I don’t like this stuff anyway.” Mercer pulls a face as he reaches for the bottle and cork, and puts it on the bar in front of me.

“Now I’ll look like an alcoholic carrying this out to my car. It’s an open container.”

Mercer shrugs. “I’ll walk you out and put it in the trunk for you.”

I want to move into different territory—conversation that isn’t about myself. “Tell me about it. Your time overseas. Is it awful? Does the news get it right?”

His gaze turns down to the worn-out wood bar, and his shoulders slump. “As awful as you’d imagine, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, that’s impolite of me to ask. I’m not sure what casual conversation looks like if we can’t talk about work. We talked about mine already.” I swallow hard.

“We can talk about your work more,” he offers. “Or how about your dating life. All the bachelors you mentioned.”

I laugh. “It’s just as awful as you’d imagine, sir.”

“Sir, huh? I like that,” Mercer fires back, gaze mirthful—a palpable longing flashing across his features. “Tell me about it.”

I cross my ankles on the other side and shake my head. Not what I want to talk about, but isn’t this better than forcing him to think of war? “I grew up here, you know that, obviously, but even I see how ludicrous the whole process of finding a suitable husband works down here. My mama lists off their career accomplishments like it’s supposed to make me weak in the knees for ‘em. She told me last week that a man she’s fixin’ me up with had good hair. Good hair, Mercer. That is a qualifier in her quest to seal my martial fate. It’s been this way for years and I don’t see any sign of it stopping.” I pause, debating how far I want to get into my personal circus. “Last year, I almost accepted a proposal from a nice businessman who lived in the city. It was our second date; we’d never even kissed! I knew he was gay within the first ten minutes of our first date.” I laugh, remembering the odd, telling conversation. “It would have gotten my parents off my back and I could protect his secret in favor of being able to live my life how I want.” It was more than tempting, most importantly, it would get me off my parents’ property. “A marriage based on love seems like a myth.”

I clear my throat and signal for the bartender. When he stops in front of me, I ask him for a water. Mercer barrages me with questions because he is shocked by my honesty. I answer, trying to keep my tone light. Then he asks, “How many men have you dated, Clover?”

“Since when?” I tease. “Since you left? Since I was deemed an eligible bachelorette?”

He stares at me, his eyes wide. “That many?” He apologizes, explaining he doesn’t mean the question in an offensive way.

“Dating doesn’t mean the same here as it does elsewhere, you know that, right? When I tell you I’ve dated over fifty men in the past four years, that doesn’t mean I’vedatedfifty men in the past four years.” I drink my water as quickly as is courteous because I know I need to leave here as soon as possible. My stomach is in knots and I don’t want to give my secrets away. Not to Mercer.

He smirks, full lips pressing to one side. “It so happens I need dating advice from a pro. You might be the ticket,” Mercer drawls. “Willing to help a man out of practice?”

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