Case in point, it was Hannah who had to tell me when the hotUPSguy was interested. Apparently, when a guy came into the coffee shop every day “to use the bathroom” it was code for he liked the girl behind the counter. Meanwhile, I’d just thought he had a weak bladder.
Two ciders in, I was feeling pretty relaxed. Maybe too relaxed, considering my life’s ambition might’ve already slipped through my fingers, ripped away by a poorly timed blizzard. Mr. Pool Player, with his dark blond, tousled hair and piercing eyes, fully captured my attention. Leaning against the billiards table, he rolled up his flannel sleeves to reveal strong, muscular forearms. I watched the way he lined up a shot, sliding the cue through long fingers.
Was it warm in here?
Like he could hear my thoughts shouting at him from across the room, his eyes found mine once more. His lips curled into the slightest smile. He took his shot and missed, laughing at himself while his buddies ribbed him and ordered him to the bar for another round. Empties in hand, he sauntered toward me with the slow, practiced stride of a man who was skilled at bar-flirting.
“Who’s winning?” I asked when he came to stand beside me.
Casually, he leaned on the bar. “Let’s say, me.”
He flashed another smile that brought out two deep dimples in his cheeks. I guessed that he was just a few years older than me, with the first hints of laugh lines around his mouth. What struck me most, though, was his eyes. Light brown with flecks of black peppered around the center. The kind of eyes that held on and didn’t let go.
“Let’s say,” I repeated, smitten with the sight of him. As eye candy went, the guy ticked all the boxes.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Go for it,” I replied, gesturing to the stool beside me. “I’m Eleanor.”
I held out my hand for him to shake and he took it firmly. A good sign. I hated when men limp-wristed me, like I was a delicate flower they might crush. To me, a good handshake was as sure a sign of things to come as the bread in a restaurant. Because crappy bread never failed to predict a disappointing meal.
“Funny,” he said, holding on to my hand just a second longer than necessary. “You don’tlooklike an Eleanor.”
“What does an Eleanor look like exactly?”
“Well,myEleanor, I call her Nan, she’s about five feet, zero inches, and feisty. Shocking white hair and drinks like a fish. She also has a tendency of pinching my cheeks so hard that I look like I’m wearing makeup.”
“So, I have the same name as your grandmother,” I said, narrowing my eyes as I bit back a grin.
He opened his mouth and snapped it shut again, bashful. “You know what? Forget I said that. Let’s start over.” He held out his hand to shake mine again. “Hi, I’m Charles. I’d love to buy you a drink.”
“Well, Charles, I’m Eleanor. Which is a perfectly fine name. And I’m already on my second cider, but if you insist . . .”
The bartender was quick on the turnaround and already had one on deck for me. We were becoming fast friends.
“So, now that we’re acquainted,” Charles said, “what brings you to Maplewood Creek?”
“Work. Theoretically. If I’m not fired already.”
His brow furrowed with concern. “Why’s that?”
Sipping my drink, I waved off the question. “Nothing. No point dwelling on it.”
I didn’t want to be a buzzkill. Whatever happened with the Hawthornes tomorrow, it was out of my control. I’d only tie myself in knots worrying about it now.
“What about you?” I asked.
“I guess you could say I’m in the family business.”
“Ooh,” I hummed. “Mysterious. Care to elaborate?”
Charles shrugged. “I promise it would be terribly boring.”
“Ah, well. Then don’t.” I clinked my glass to his and took another gulp.
The cider really was very good. I was relaxed now, as our banter all but erased dread of Megan’s phone call. Almost.
“So, this job you probably don’t have in the morning,” he said.
