Page 27 of At First Smile
“Rowan! There you are,” Lola shouts across the bar, waving with one hand and carrying a tray of drinks.
Pen breaks eye contact with Harley, scanning the space. A giant grin brightens her features. He doesn’t make her smile like that.I do.
Buoyed, I straighten my spine and saunter to the table. “Lola.” I tip my head to the woman, then turn to Pen. Placing my hand on her shoulder, the caress of her bare skin against my palm shoots warmth up my arm, I bend and whisper, “Pen, you look lovely.”
“Thanks.” That rose in her cheeks deepens. “You look nice too.”
Taking Wes’s advice – sort of – I paired a black button-up with blue jeans, the fitted shirt accentuates my muscular physique. My sleeves are rolled to my elbows, just as Wes suggested. I felt foolish talking to him about wardrobe options, but seeing Pen’s appreciative gaze sweep over me, I let go of that embarrassment. Thanks to the chandelier above the table, there’s enough illumination for her to take me in.
Hand still resting on her bare shoulder, I straighten and face the knockoff crooner. “You must be Lola’s nephew, Marley.”
“Harley,” he says, right eyebrow arched.
I give him a “like it matters” look. My expression is similar to the face I wear for games. The one that lets competitors know whose house this is. Yep, I’m being a territorial dick. I should be embarrassed. Mam would scowl at my caveman antics.
“There’s an empty table beside ours.” Harley motions to a table a foot away.
“Thanks.” I drag the chair over and place it beside Pen.
Lola’s blonde eyebrows lift into her hairline as she looks between me and Harley. No doubt we look like bucks ready to lock antlers over an innocent doe.
“Drinks,” Lola clucks, handing a bottle of water to Harley, then a flute to Pen. “Here you go, sweetheart.”
“Champagne?” I smirk.
“I like bubbles.” She bats her long eyelashes.
“And a Guinness for you,” Lola announces, reaching across the table with a frothy pint.
“How?” My head tilts.
“Pen said you’d be joining her and would want a Guinness.”
Pen winks. “I knew you’d come.”
“Guinness, though?”
“I guess I buy into Irish stereotypes.” She sips her drink.
“Perhaps I can assist with your education on Irishman.” My low voice rumbles.
“Perhaps.” A tiny hitch steals her breath. “Is Guinness okay, though? I can always get you something else.”
“It’s perfect, luv.” I take a swig and let the liquid cool my simmering blood.
Based on Pen’s reaction to being called luv, I decide in that moment I’m going to use that endearment as much as possible. Her wide eyes twinkle like starlight. That radiant smile invades every inch of her face, not a single feature untouched by that mixture of delight and bashfulness.
“Pen, what song did you win with?” Harley jumps in.
Oh yeah, this fucking guy.I drag my stare to the douche-canoe with the guitar sitting across from us.
She taps her fingers against the table’s smooth surface. “It was a slow acoustic version of Whitney Houston’sI Wanna Dance With Somebody.”
“I know it. Join me on stage. Make your Michigan debut.”
She guffaws, covering her face with her hands. “Nobody needs that.”
“You sing?” I ask.
