Chapter 4 Rachel
Currently playing: It”s Raining Men by The Weather Girls
***
The guy moved so he was one stool closer to me. So technically right next to me. As in less than a foot from me.
Something that was painfully obvious as my body became hyperaware of his presence. The clean scent of laundry mixed with a masculine woodsy scent was barely light enough that each time he lifted his drink, I got the tiniest whiff. I kept searching for more tattoos. Unashamedly watching as he’d move his arm and his sleeve would reveal a peek of more. I wondered just how far up they went and if they spread across his chest. I pictured an eagle or something on his back, or maybe a giant axe. In my mind, his whole body was permanently painted like an Old Spice ad.
My interest was clear to him. I was sure of that.
I wasn’t exactly the kind of girl to flirt openly with a stranger, especially one with kids. But I also wasn’t the girl who passed up a good opportunity when she saw one. Besides, the most action I had gotten in the past several months was buying a pack of Brawny paper towels and dipping my fingers into the plastic, ripping the film shirt and imagining it was real. So a girl could ogle if she decided to, and I did.
Our eyes were at the same level, so he wasn’t shorter than me. A huge plus in my book. I liked to wear heels, and since I was naturally on the taller side, it was nice to find someone with enough height that my heels didn’t offend their ego. Not that I was picturing myself and this complete stranger walking down the street together hand in hand or anything.
The whole single dad thing hadn’t ever really done it for me before, but then again, neither had fictional men on household products. I supposed I had reached a new low. Although if this kind of man was what I considered low, then maybe I needed to change course on my standards.
“How old are your kids?” I appealed, taking a sip from my swirly straw of drink number…three? Sure, let’s go with that. My whole body faced him while he spun his stool to face me every few minutes, our knees bumping occasionally.
A low, husky rumble left his throat, as if he was questioning me back.
It was kind of humorous; the more he drank, the more he grumbled. It was an odd contrast to me, since the more I drank, the more I laughed. Like alcohol had some kind of funny bubble juice in it.
“Your kids.” I searched his forearm, craning my neck closer to his personal bubble. “Miles and…Dallo-no, Dallas. How old are they?”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat with a grimace before rubbing a hand along the stubble on his chin. “They aren’t my kids. They’re my nephews. And they turned seven a few months ago.”
“So, no kids?”
“No kids.” He nodded, and my smile grew wider.
Nephews. Even better. I lifted my chin, exposing my neck and pulling my shoulders back.
“Hmm. You must really love them to get a tattoo of their names.”
He grunted, but this one was a little lighter. An affirming grunt. Over the last hour or so, I’d been getting very good at speaking caveman. Our bartender delivered each of us one more full glass. The guy next to me looked at the drinks, as if waiting to make sure I was all right with one more. I was all right with ten more. I just wanted to remain in his company a little longer. It had been a while since I had someone to talk to.
I had friends. Well, friend. Singular. One. But Layla was off living her life, chasing her coworker around like a lost puppy, hopelessly in love, growing at her job, and who was I to get in her way? I could have gone back to our apartment tonight, made a weak homemade version of the drink I was having now, and watched 13 Going On 30 for the fifth time this week. But what good would that have done? If Layla was worried about me, she’d fuss over me instead of visiting her not-so-little crush, and then she’d regret it the next day.
I was sure to have no regrets about Mr. Brawny here. Not with his big hands or the way he listened intently to everything I drunkenly slurred, and especially not with how good he smelled.
This night had turned out much better than I thought it would be.
The thought of any alternative somehow made me giggle again. Then the thought that I’d giggled over essentially nothing caused me to snort. Which made me laugh more.
“Are you…okay?” Brawny asked with a hint of concern in his voice. Even that was hysterical at this point.
Mid-laugh, I opened my squinted eyes enough to see that his lips were turning blue from the last drink I’d made him try. He insisted he didn’t like blue raspberry, to which I’d said that notion was preposterous. He replied that blue raspberry, and I quote, wasn’t even a real flavor. I said something along the lines of I’ll show you a real flavor and pushed the drink in the guy’s face, not missing the way his expression lightened slightly after. His brows didn’t look so heavy, and I liked that. Made my tummy do a little backflip.
“Your lips are blue,” I stringed together between laughs.
His green eyes lifted up a bit, staring at my mouth. “You should see yours.”
Oh. Yeah, I didn’t think mine would be the same. Probably worse, actually. But I’d had two pink drinks since my blue one, so those canceled each other out on the color wheel, right? I thought that was what my color analysis lady had once said. Then again, she also told me I couldn’t rock a pastel yellow dress, so what did she know, really?
Reaching my hand out, I grabbed my phone and used the black glass as a mirror. Sure enough, blue lips stared right back at me. Which was even more funny, causing me to lean my head back and laugh.
Putting a little too much trust in my barstool, I threw my whole body into the laugh, back arching with my head toss, leading me to almost falling onto the floor. For a split second, the front legs of my stool lifted off the ground an inch, and I saw my life flash before my eyes.
I let myself envision it for a brief moment: Me humbly falling without ruining a centimeter of my makeup. Someone shouting to call nine-one-one. Brawny here would stand and rip open his flannel to show a firefighter shirt beneath it.“I’ll take care of her,” he’d boast with certainty in his gravelly tone. His jaw would clench. My chest would heave, whatever that meant, and he would wrap his arms around me. Then he’d leave his black and red flannel with me for warmth, despite the hot summer night. Strong, tattooed muscles would lift me off the floor, and in a vivacious turn, he would rush me out of the door and into his—
My fantasy was cut short because my stool did not fall back any farther. It was caught by my newest friend. His hand pressed firmly into the back of the chair, catching me before my humble, graceful fall. Two of his fingers rested above the chair, on the exposed skin of my upper back.
“Be more careful,” he grunted.
My lids dropped halfway, and a slow pull of a smile reached my lips. I pointed a finger at him, my freshly painted nail almost caressing his not-flannel. “You are a protector,” I proudly diagnosed.
A sarcastic snort left him, like a dragon puffing out steam. “Habit,” he grumbled.
I let out a tsk and shook my head, but then the room spun, so I stopped and recalibrated my focus on the scar above his brow. “No, you can be one of a few things. A protector, a provider, a nurturer or a…what’s the last one? Calculator?”
“That doesn’t sound right.” He raised the brow under my stare.
“Either way.” My hand waved between us. “You’re a protector. I’m a nurturer. We would make great babies.”
With my blond hair and long eyelashes and his handsome, strong features, I was willing to bet we would raise an army of perfectly beautiful babies.
Brawny choked, coughing and beating at his chest. Maybe babies weren’t first-date talk. Not that this was a date.
I reached a hand out to his broad back, giving rough jabs with my palm like I’d learned in the CPR class I’d taken in high school. The memories of late-night The Office binges hit me, and I began beating his back to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. A classic. I certainly would need to pull out the vinyl soon. Hit number 189 on Rolling Stone’s greatest hits of all time. Part of me got a little caught up in the beat, not realizing the guy was no longer choking.
He glared over at me with a confused frown and cleared his throat, straightening his back under my touch. Glad I could help. I guess all those late nights laughing at Kevin Malone came in handy.
“I wasn’t choking. You caught me off guard.” He corrected my self-fulfillment, sending a sad little womp-womp to my chest.
“Sorry.” For the baby mention. Not the CPR thing. That felt worth it. “Didn’t think I’d scare you that easily.”
His shoulders did a small rise and fall, as if that humored him. It was like watching a puppy use head tilts to show his emotions. I was slowly figuring this guy out.
“I don’t scare easily,” he proudly proclaimed with another sip of whiskey.
An idea, not necessarily a good or bad one, popped into my head at that, and a proud smirk smeared across my face. I licked my lips and leaned into him, staring directly into his forest green eyes.
“Prove it,” I whispered just loud enough for him to hear over the music around us.
Not tearing from my view, his eyes bored into mine. He leaned forward until our lips were mere inches apart. My chest heaved under his stare. I dropped my gaze to his mouth and back, shocked to see a confident sneer from him.
He growled a low mutter, something about I shouldn’t, before his full lips pressed against mine and one hand went to my hair.