Page 2 of Wood Riddance
I smiled, enjoying how nervous he looked. “Get. The. Fuck. Out,” I said slowly, swirling the wine in my glass.
“Don’t be hostile.”
“This is me playing nice. Leave. Now.”
I looked at him coolly, determined to retain my composure. Castrating him with a butter knife was oh so tempting, but I wouldn’t make a scene. He wasn’t worth it. There was no salvaging this. He didn’t see me as worthy, and I had learned a long time ago not to beg people to accept me or love me.
Sipping my wine and staring out the window, I ignored him as he walked out. I refused to give him any indication that I cared about his flat, pompous ass.
The waitress appeared, looking nervous. “You can take his beer,” I said, picking up my menu and giving her a quick smile. “I’ll be ready to order in a minute.”
She nodded and scampered off.
Another day, another insecure, unworthy man. Story of my goddam life.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t put myself out there. I’d joined the apps, and I went out of my way to leave my small town and head to where there were more options. I wore makeup and made small talk and attempted to be less scary.
But at five-eleven and with a traditionally masculine job, as well as a complete inability to suffer fools, most of the male population was scared off on sight.
I was beginning to lose faith. My mom and dad had adored each other, and they’d loved each other fiercely for almost forty years. I’d grown up witnessing the love they had for one another every day of my life.
So I knew it was possible. Companionship, love. Granted, my two older brothers were also chronically single, and my youngest brother, Remy, had an awful fiancée we barely tolerated. So maybe the soulmate kind of love was skipping this generation.
I wanted to hold on to my hope that someone would see the real me. But so far, every guy I’d met had decided I wasn’t worth it.
As soon as I was certain he had left the parking lot, I took a look around. I’d order dinner and then cross my fingers I could get a ride share to take me all the way back to Lovewell. If not, I’d swallow my pride and call one of my brothers.
The bar area was bustling with people chatting and drinking as the sun began to set outside. It was one of those industrial style places, with exposed duct work and water served in mason jars. Not really my style, but I was hungry, and I’d be damned if I let shithead Blake ruin my evening.
And then I looked up and met a familiar set of dark brown eyes.
Fuck me sideways.
Finn Hebert. At the bar. Staring at me. I reflexively reached for the butter knife on the table. Of all the cocky asshole shitheads to witness me getting dumped. Why did it have to be him? Was Mr. Canton, my sadistic eighth grade math teacher, unavailable? Did Ritchie LaVoie, who’d taken my virginity and then joked about it with the whole school after, have a previous engagement?
Because while tonight had been humiliating as it was, knowing a Hebert, andthatHebert, of all people, had witnessed it, only made it worse.
All while looking especially handsome. His long hair was pulled back into a man bun. He was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose the tats on his forearms, and his dark jeans were molded to his legs. The man wore clothes really well.Bastard.
Finding clothes that fit my tall frame was always a challenge. But this asshole was NBA-player tall and looked like he’d stepped out of a hot Viking lumberjack magazine.
He picked up his beer and sauntered over far too gracefully for someone who was the size of a baby giraffe.
“Everything okay?” he asked, looking down at me.
“Yes.” I glared at him. “My date had an emergency. I’m trying to enjoy my glass of wine.”
“Great. I’ll join you.”
Before I could protest, he had taken Blake’s chair and was leaning over to clink my glass with the lip of his bottle. I held my middle finger up against my wineglass.
He ignored my rude gesture, instead looking around the space. “I’ve never been here,” he said, bringing his beer to his lips.
I watched the muscles of his throat contract and raised one eyebrow. Why was he being so nice? Had he used all his dad’s money to buy a better personality? I was in no mood for chitchat, especially with this overgrown frat boy.
Briefly, I fantasized about whipping off one of my heels and throwing it across the table so it lodged in the middle of his smooth, tan forehead. My aim was impeccable. There was a reason I had won so many axe-throwing tournaments. And I knew I could do serious damage.
But then I dipped my chin, taking in my flats. Blake was self-conscious about his height, so I’d stopped wearing heels—though I had quite a collection—in order to appease him.
