Page 7 of Common Goal
“I’m not.”
Carter raised both eyebrows, then took a sip of his beer.
“I’mnot,” Eric insisted.
“Okay. You having fun at all?”
Eric shrugged. “Sure. I’m glad they’re finally getting married, y’know?”
“It should have happened a year ago.”
“I think it’s smart to wait. You should know for sure it’s the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.”
“I’m pretty sure Scotty knew within a week.”
Eric couldn’t argue with that. His own marriage had taught him that rushing into a commitment to someone was a bad idea, but evenhesaw the hearts in Scott’s and Kip’s eyes when they looked at each other.
“How are you holding up?” Carter asked. The playful glint in his eyes softened to something more like concern. “Is this hard for you?”
Eric took a moment to consider his question. He liked to consider every question before answering. “A little. Maybe. Not that I’m not happy for Scott, but I’ve been thinking about my own wedding, I guess.”
The teasing sparkle was back in Carter’s eyes. “You can remember back that far?”
“Shut it.”
“I forget. Was Holly a war bride? Was she your nurse after the Germans shot you?”
“All right, I’m going home.”
Carter nudged him. “Seriously, though. I’m sorry if this is rough for you.”
“It’s been a year, almost. I’m over it. Really. I don’t miss Holly, but I do miss...” Eric shook his head.
“Regular sex?” Carter guessed.
“Companionship,” Eric finished with a glare at Carter. “Holly and I didn’t spend much quality time together the last few years, but it was still nice to have someone to talk to at night. When we were both home.”
“I’ll bet we can find someone who wouldn’t mind being yourcompanion,” Carter said, making the word sound dirty.
Eric’s gaze found Kyle again, his tray now heaving under the weight of empty beer bottles and pint glasses. Eric could see the bulge of his bicep straining the fabric of his white T-shirt. He had an athletic figure—not jacked like the other bartender, but slim and toned. Eric wondered if he played any sports, or if he just worked out a lot.
“I think I’ll head home,” Eric said, because checking out the very young man tending bar was definitely a sign that it was time to leave.
“Gotta rest those old bones,” Carter joked.
“Yeah, yeah.” Eric retrieved his long, black wool coat and olive-green cashmere scarf from the back of a barstool.
As he was wrapping the scarf around his neck, Kyle returned and plunked the heavy tray down on the bar. He brushed the strands of blond hair that had fallen over one eye back into place with his fingers. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” Eric glanced at his watch, as if the time was any kind of justification for leaving a party right now. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.
“Past your bedtime?” Kyle’s voice had dropped into a sultry, husky timbre, which Eric knew was meant to be teasing, but it sent a surprising jolt through him.
“I’m not really a party guy.”
The thing Kyle was doing right then, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed, one shoulder raised just enough to make the hem of his T-shirt ride up to reveal the barest half inch of his flat stomach, probably worked on a lot of men. It was undeniably alluring. Eric tore his gaze away from the strip of pale skin, shaking his head as he buttoned his coat.
“I remember when you used to be fun, Benny,” Carter said.
