Page 5 of Wild Card
I nod my agreement when I hear Bash mumble, “Maybe you should sage him instead.”
My eyes widen as I take him in, not finding a single other sign that he just deadpanned a comment like that. So I play along. “Absolutely. I’ll take that under advisement. Maybe if we track him down tonight, I could offer a two-for-one deal and get both of you cleansed up.”
That earns me another scowl, which only makes me laugh.
“So where you headed?” the man asks.
“Toronto. You?”
“Calgary.” I nod, remembering his gate was just beside mine. One quick glance down and my eyes catch on the tag attached to his bag. It would appear “Bash” is short for Sebastian Rousseau.
Even his name is hot, I think to myself distractedly.
Just then, coasters slide across the table in each of our directions and two margaritas unceremoniously plunk down in front of us as the server basically does a drive-by.
Bash glares at the glass of bright-green liquid suspiciously before lifting his dark eyes in my direction. “They’re very…neon.”
I nod solemnly, gazing down at the drink. It’s definitely not reminding me of the margaritas I was enjoying on the beach in Mexico at my yoga retreat only a day ago. “This looks like it’s the from-concentrate juice off the soda gun. It’s a margarita but not agoodmargarita.”
Bash winces. “This is gonna be sweet as hell.”
“Thereissome good news.” His dark gaze flicks to mine, and an airy flutter in my chest distracts me for a beat. “The good news…” I lick my lips. “The good news is that there is tequila floating around in all that sugary juice.”
He nods, not looking away. And though I’m not usually one to squirm under a man’s attention, I feel my cheeks flush as this one looks me over. His gaze is appreciative, and I revel in it.
“That’s a great point. And when stuck in an airport overnight, some tequila is better than no tequila.”
I straighten, propping my forearms against the table as I lean closer. “Absolutely. I’m certain this will make us feel better. What with life giving us limes and all that.”
His stubbled cheek twitches before his fingers wrap around the glass.
His large palm dwarfs it, and I can’t help but notice the signs of physical labor on his hands. There’s a coarseness to them. Calloused on the palms, the odd scar on the backs. One nail with the dark-blue tinge of a deep bruise.
Yeah, this man works with his hands.
I swallow quickly and follow suit, lifting my glass to the middle of the table. “Cheers. To limes.”
Bash gives his head a slight shake before lifting his glass and clinking it against mine. “To limes.”
We both take a sip, and I try not to wince because it really does taste like liquid sugar. Each sip tastes better than the last though, and soon I barely notice that I’m drinking glorified limeade.
A companionable silence settles between us as we nurse our drinks, watching the world go by. But the more margaritas we down, the more that silence morphs into a tipsy, friendly sort of companionship. At the very least we partake in some mutual rubbernecking, tossing the odd comment each other’s way as we take turns pointing out the night’s mayhem—a couple arguing, a child toppling off a seat they were climbing, a man staggering out of the restaurant with bloodshot eyes.
But it’s the father and his young-adult daughter sitting at the bar together who continue to catch my eye. The way she said “Daaad” and tossed her head back when he’d cracked a joke drew my attention, and the friendly ease between them keeps me coming back. They’re each drinking a beer, watching the sports highlights on the screen. Laughing. He even squeezes her shoulder at one point.
Watching them is like digging a finger into an old wound. One that just won’t heal, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much work I put in.
I yearn for that relationship.
And I’ll never have it.
Eventually, the crowd in the bar thins. Other patrons have the foresight to find a place to hunker down for the night. The man and his daughter leave too.
But not us. No, we just keep ordering the shittiest margaritas I’ve ever tasted.
When we’re officially billed and the staff begin to close up shop around us, we still don’t rush. I have too many questions floating around in my head, ones I want to ask Bash now that tequila and sugar have softened him up.
“So what is it you do for a living?”
