No, Bar was quaint, homey almost, with lots of reclaimed wood details. You could sense the pride in ownership through the little touches in the decor. Not to mention, the gallery wall was filled with photos of patrons and their letters, Christmas and birthday cards, and well wishes. It really showed a sense of community.
In my world, community and genuinely giving a shit about people wasn’t a thing. Sure, there were parties and fundraisers where we mixed and mingled, but those events were laced with gossip, debauchery, and betrayal. I couldn’t tell you how many of my mother’s friends’ husbands cheated within their friend group or how much backstabbing went on just to get a seat on the board of some charity claiming to help people. A charity that was often just putting up a front to save face and line their pockets.
I took a sip from my martini; it was a little strong but good, nonetheless. I was used to watered-down drinks at the events I attended, so this was a pleasant change.
Walking into the small back room, I found a pool table with a few couples settled around it. I’d never played before, but judging by what I was watching, it looked like a lot of fun.
God, I wanted to have fun.
I glanced down and realized I’d left my bag at the bar. My haste to get away from Dirty Al obviously made me lose my mind. It was vintage, so I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody had snatched it up by now.
I turned around, deciding I should go check to see if luck was on my side and it was still there, but my progress was halted when I knocked into a hard figure. My drink crashed into the body before me. “Ow,” I muttered as we collided. Fuck, I was so embarrassed. I stepped back to assess the damage. The guy’s button-down was soaked as were his jeans. From the large wet spot there, it looked like he’d peed his pants.
“Oh my God.” My palm covered my mouth. I was mortified. In all my years of drinking, legally and not so legally, I had never spilled a drink, let alone spilled one all over such a handsome guy. “I’m so sorry. Please let me pay for your dry cleaning.” I looked up into his shimmering blue eyes, finding myself captivated by the arrays of colors I saw there.
“It’s okay, really,” he reassured me, as I apologized more. A soft smile spread across his lips, and little creases formed around his eyes as his smile grew. Something about those little lines filled me with calm and warmth. In my world, people didn’t have wrinkles or creasing, striving to hold on to the facade of perpetual youth for as long as possible.
At the first sign of aging, you got Botox, then as time went on, you graduated to facelifts, lip plumpers, cheek implants, andother procedures that made your skin look like a Barbie doll’s, and not in a good way. Plastic, fake, non-moving.
His hair was tousled and not freshly cut. You could tell he wore baseball caps. He had a scruffy beard. As I studied him, I saw that he wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. No, there was something else there—he was comfortably rugged, masculine, but not in an arrogant way or putting on airs to impress anybody. His frame was muscular, and his stance looked like he was a protector, grounded and reliable. His jeans were worn. He looked approachable, like a guy out of one of those cheesy holiday movies that embodied warmth.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” His gaze traveled down my face and then lower and lower still. A look of appreciation, maybe, crossed his features. God, he was sexy and … beautiful?
A blush rose in his cheeks when he realized he was caught checking me out, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at his discomfort.
Shaking my head, I answered him, “No, I’m not. I’m a city girl through and through. Manhattan, born and raised.” I gave him a cheeky smile because why not? I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this excited talking to a guy.
“Seems like you’re in need of a new drink. How about you let me buy you one? I know the owner.” He smiled to himself like what he said was supposed to be funny. He grabbed a napkin off one of the tables and started patting himself dry.
I pursed my lips. “I don’t know. You think it’s a good idea to give me another drink?”
His nose scrunched as he laughed. “Well, you already threw one on me. What else could happen?”
“I most certainly did not throw it on you,” I admonished as he gave me an expectant look. “At least not on purpose,” I mumbled, conceding.
“That’s what I thought.” He outstretched his hand. “I’m Caleb, by the way.”
“Grace.” I took his hand and shook it lightly, unable to hide my grin.
“Okay, Grace, let’s get you a drink.” Caleb threaded his fingers through mine and led me to the bar, where I’d started out. Shockwaves ran through my hand, up my arm, and all across my body.
Caleb waited for me to sit on one of the barstools, and then he opened the bar panel to cross over to where the other bartenders were working. So he was a bartender … interesting.
“You work here?” I asked dumbly.
He nodded. “Yep, what can I get you? Actually, hold on—” Caleb reached down and sniffed his shirt that was still soaked from my drink. “Dirty martini.”
Holy shit! I was impressed. This guy knew his stuff. I flashed him a toothy grin and nodded. “Three olives,” I added, peering up at him through my lashes.
“I know.” Caleb grinned, giving me a panty-dropping smile before walking away to grab the liquor for my drink.
Nicky waltzed over to me as Caleb was distracted making my drink. “Hi, hun. How’s everything so far?”
I nodded politely, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting Nicky to think I was interested—at least not in him. “Everything’s great. The service is top-notch,” I complimented, looking over at Caleb.
“Thank you for letting me know.” Nicky smiled, touching my hand across the bar. “I’ll be sure to tell the boss.” He gave me a wink and went back to cleaning one of the glasses in front of him.
Oh, so was he the owner? He was cute in a sort of clean-cut way. Way too eager for my liking. Nicky honestly would fit in fine with the Wall Street bankers. Very sure of himself but no real substance.
