Page 2 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
CHAPTERTWO
“My god, are you okay?”
The thin, dark-haired guy sprawled on the floor blinked then blinked again, reminding Arlo of an owl. His heavy glasses had parted company with his face and lay next to him, along with his jacket and the contents of its pockets.
“Errrgg…” The guy attempted to push himself up, but all uncoordinated arms and legs, he flopped back down again.
“Here.” Arlo thrust his hand out to help the guy up, whose grip was strong for somebody who resembled a gangly puppy.
“I am so, so sorry.” The guy tried to straighten out his wonky glasses but though they defied all his efforts, he put them back on; they started to slip down his nose.
It was Arlo’s turn to blink. The guy’s clipped English accent reminded him of the BBC period dramas he binged on.
“It was the chips. I mean the fries.”
“I’m sorry?”
The guy looked down at the squashed fries. “I slipped and… Oh, you’re soaking.” The guy’s eyes, behind the ugly glasses, widened. “Honestly, I can’t apologize enough. Let me get you another pitcher of the house cat’s pi—whoops, sorry. It might be your favorite tipple. Which I’ve inadvertently bathed you in.” The guy frowned, pulling his dark brows into a V, further displacing his glasses.
“What?” Arlo looked down at his sodden shirt and pants. How the hell hadn’t he noticed he was soaking wet? He should be annoyed, even angry, but it had been an accident — and it gave him a great excuse to head for home.
“Let me clear this up for you.” A waitress, armed with a mop and bucket, loomed.
“Just a small mishap and—” Arlo turned to the guy, and stared into the space where he’d been just seconds before. “Where did he go?” Arlo’s head snapped back and forth, scanning the crowd, but the man had vanished. His wet clothes, which were now soaking through to his underwear, were the only evidence the guy had been there.
The waitress shrugged as she quickly cleared the mess before she, too, disappeared.
Arlo pushed his hair away from his brow, his fingers coming away damp with sweat. Drenched in beer, or the local cat’s piss — his lips twitched with a smile, because the dorky young Englishman was right about Randy’s most popular brew — and sweat from the packed bar, it really was time to take off. But not before he found Hank.
About to push his way through the crush, a dark shape on the floor caught his attention, knowing what it was. He swooped down and caught up the slim wallet. It had to be the guy’s, fallen from his jacket which, like him, had gone flying. He’d leave it behind the bar… the guy would realize what had happened and would come back and collect it… he had no reason to open it up and look inside, because he had no wish, no wish at all, to be found rifling through somebody else’s wallet.
He opened it up and stared down at the international driver’s license.
The guy gazed up at him from the photo. He looked about fifteen, his eyes wide and startled, as though he’d been caught out raiding the cookie jar.
“Lucian Arbuthnot Blaxston. Arbuthnot? Who the hell gets to be called Arbuthnot?” Arlo muttered. Posh, dorky, young Englishmen, obviously. A couple of bank cards, and a few notes, and—
Arlo pulled the business card out.
Bibi’s Blossoms, Blooms & Bouquets.
Collier’s Creek’s one and only florist. Did Lucian Arbuthnot Blaxston work there? Arlo snorted. The guy was thin and gangly and didn’t look like he lifted anything heavier than a flower stem or two. He’d hand the wallet in at the bar, and Lucian Arbuthnot Blaxston could collect it tomorrow. He weighed it in his hand. Or, he could drop it around to the flower store in the morning… He shoved the wallet into the back pocket of his pants, just about the only part of him that was dry, the decision made almost before he was aware.
Arlo made his way over to the table, where his friend sat waiting for him. Hank raised his brows.
“So, Randy’s Rodeo Grill & Bar is out of beer?”
Arlo laughed, and called over one of the roving waitresses for a pitcher, and quickly told Hank what had happened. “Which means I’m going to take off. I’m soaked through.” He plucked at his shirt, now stuck to his chest, which in the heat was drying and stiffening up.
“I thought I’d heard every excuse from you to either get out of coming to the Creek’s finest nightspot, or leave early, but having beer thrown over you by a Brit is the most inventive of all. Sure you didn’t upend it over yourself?” Hank grinned, as he poured them each a glass from the just arrived pitcher.
Arlo pushed his glass towards his friend. It was thin, tasteless stuff, maybe not quite the cat’s piss the young English guy had claimed it to be, but not too far off. He had some good artisanal gin at home; a glass over ice with tonic, with one of his BBC dramas was beckoning … A light shove on his shoulder claimed his wandering attention.
“You still haven’t said if you’re coming over next Sunday. For Francine’s birthday BBQ?”
“I can probably swing by.”
“She’ll be mortally offended if you don’t, which’ll make my life difficult. You’re my oldest friend, so don’t you want to save me from that?”
