Chapter 18
Finn
Istood next to Chase’s table, having just stopped him from leaving.
The only problem now was that I had no idea what to say.
My brain—which had been working at lightning speed for the past four hours—had apparently decided now was a good time to shut down.
I could hear Pac-Man’s death tones, and all rational thought winked out of my head.
Say something. Anything.
“So,” I managed. “The Penalty Box?”
Brilliant opening, Finn. Really stellar.
Chase blinked up at me, startled from my sneak-attack interruption. But . . . his lips were curled up in . . . amusement? “The Penalty Box?”
I pointed to the empty plate. “Your food. The thing you ordered. How was it?”
I fidgeted with the bar towel over my shoulder. When had I started fidgeting?
Stop fidgeting.
My mouth moved again. “Rod likes feedback. He’s very particular about his food.”
“It was incredible,” Chase said, and the sincerity in his voice made something warm unfurl in my chest. “Seriously. It was the best thing I’ve eaten all week, maybe all month.”
“That’s great. I’ll tell Rod.” I was still standing there like an idiot. “He’ll be happy to hear it.”
I should go back to the bar or to the kitchen to tell Rod about his happy customer or check on Jacks and the glasses or look at our social feed to make sure the posts—
“The bar seems busy.” Chase saved the man drowning before him. He then glanced past me toward where Mark was wiping down the counter and very obviously pretending not to very obviously watch us. “Looks like business is picking up.”
“Yeah. The weekend was nuts. We’ve got all these ideas about promotional nights and karaoke and sports watch parties and more gay TV show nights.
Priya thinks trivia’s overdone, but Jacks loves the idea, says he played a lot with his team when he was in college.
He played football. Tight end or some other sexual-sounding position.
And Wednesday nights are a thing now. I don’t know if this’ll translate into baseball season when hockey is over, but we’re sure going to try.
Guess I need to buy a Rays jersey. Do you like baseball?
I never watched much . . . except for the World Series.
I always watch that. My dad was obsessed.
He even wore a cap inside out just to help .
. .” I was rambling. Oh, God, my mouth wouldn’t stop.
Why was I rambling? I was a smart, well-spoken adult who apparently needed mouth Imodium.
Did they even make Imodium for the mouth?
Was that too much mixing up of the ends? Fuck, I was doing it again.
Chase’s grin now showed a pearly set of teeth. “Sounds exciting.”
I nodded like a Labradoodle on crack. The only thing missing was a pair of floppy ears. “We had like sixty people for the game, ran out of Yuengling in the second period and had to switch everyone to Cigar City, which worked out because it’s local and people seemed to like it . . .”
I stopped talking because the skin around Chase’s eyes was crinkling in the most adorable way. Was he smiling at me? With me? Was he amused or horrified or . . .
No, it wasn’t just a polite smile. It was a genuine, crooked grin that made my stomach do something complicated.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m—it’s been a long night.”
“Want to sit? You can share my beer. It’s a little warm, but I like Cigar City at any temp.” Chase’s hand motioned to the empty booth across the table. My head tracked the line, as though I might find an angry adder flicking its nasty little tongue.
“Uh, yeah, I’d love to, but I’m working, you know. Bar and shit.”
Chase spit beer across the table. He’d just taken a long pull when the words “bar and shit” crapped their way from my brain and out my fucking blowhole.
“Oh, fuck . . . I mean shit . . . crap . . . I’m sorry.” I fumbled for my towel, dropping it to the ground before bending down to grab it, then banging my head on the bottom of the table. By the time I made it upright, Chase was laughing.
And damn it, the sound was a glorious, low rumble. He might’ve spoken like a tenor, but his laugh—it was all kettledrum and whiskey.
I tore my eyes away and dove at the spattering of beer. My towel moved in a panicked blur.
“Don’t apologize. I like hearing about it.” Chase glanced toward the bar again, where Mark was now aggressively organizing bottles and definitely still watching us. “I think the old man might want you back behind the bar.”
I looked back at Mark, resisting my own urge to laugh at him being called “old man.” That would come in very useful later.
The moment our eyes met, Mark made a very pointed gesture that I interpreted as either “sit down and talk to him” or “I will murder you if you come back here right now.” It was always hard to tell with Mark.
I turned back to Chase and shrugged. “Mark threatened my life if I didn’t take a break and come talk to you.”
Chase’s brows raised. “Did he now?”
“Apparently I’m ‘wound tighter than a drum’ and ‘need to remember how to be a human’ and ‘for the love of God, Finn, just go talk to the hot lawyer before he leaves again.’” I realized what I’d just said. “I mean—he said that last part. Not me. I didn’t call you—I’m not saying you’re not—”
“He thinks I’m hot?” Chase’s smirk returned. “Maybe I should go sit at the bar and talk to him.”
My mouth opened. I blinked. Then blinked again.
The kettledrum caught me off guard that time as a smooth hand reached out and gripped my forearm. “I’m teasing, Finn. There’s someone else here I would much rather get to know.”
My eyes kept doing that dumbfounded blinking thing, but my mouth finally worked. “There is?” I asked like the idiot I was, a surge of something annoying warming my skin. I then looked behind me as though searching for the aforementioned object of my lawyer’s affection.
Chase’s grip on my arm tightened, then released. “Are all Irishmen this bad at flirting?”
My head spun, and my eyes locked onto Chase’s. “We’re a right happy people, thank you very much.”
Chase snorted into his beer glass, then looked at the empty seat across from him and pleaded his case. “Your Honor, please direct the witness to answer the question I asked, not one he prefers.”
“I didn’t . . . you . . . that’s not fair.”
“Never said I played fair. Lawyer, remember?”
I slung the towel over my shoulder, feeling the sting of it snap on my back. Chase’s eyes sparkled at my discomfort.
I stood there for a moment, still hovering next to the table, him looking up at me with those hazel eyes that I’d been thinking about for three weeks straight.
Again, Chase gestured to the booth seat across from him. “You’d better take a seat. Mark doesn’t look like a man who makes idle threats; and I do family law, not criminal cases. Can’t help you if Mark murders you for being chicken.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and the tension shattered as I slid into the booth.
“So,” Chase said. “Looks like you’re on a break now.”
I nodded. “Guess so.”
“How long do you have?”
“Until Mark decides I’ve fulfilled my human interaction quota for the day.” I glanced back at the bar. Mark gave me a double thumbs-up and a grin that suggested he was absolutely going to make fun of me for this later. “Could be five minutes, could be an hour. It’s hard to predict with him.”
“That’s very scientific.”
“He’s not a scientific man.”
“I gathered that from the whole ‘threatening your life’ thing.”
I smiled and tried to stop my fingers from folding and refolding the towel I’d taken off my shoulder when I sat.
I hadn’t done this—hadn’t flirted with a guy—in over a year, maybe longer.
I couldn’t remember. The Tampa dating scene had proven frustrating at best. It was a good town.
There had to be good men in it. But all I’d come across were guys who were more interested in hookups than conversations—or overgrown boys who wanted to party every night and couldn’t understand why I’d rather stay home and watch Stranger Things.
The few dates I’d gone on had been exercises in disappointment, men who looked good on paper but couldn’t hold a conversation past surface-level small talk.
But Chase seemed different. His eyes didn’t dart away or search the door whenever it opened. His attention was focused on me and never wavered. When I spoke, he leaned forward, just enough that I knew he was committed to whatever I might say.
It felt . . . good . . . talking to him.
When was the last time it felt good to just talk with a guy? I mean, someone other than Mark. He didn’t count since our own little dating experiment had failed so spectacularly.
“You’ve been here three times now,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing. “That’s—that’s a lot for a new bar.”
“The food’s good.”
“Just the food?”
“You’re close to my office. I work late, so that’s . . . helpful . . . especially since I forget to eat most days.” Chase’s lips twitched. “The beer selection is decent, too.”
“We try.”
“And the atmosphere is nice.” Blond hair shifted as he glanced about the bar. “It’s sportsy, yet gay, without being aggressive about either. You know, gay-friendly without shoving a rainbow flag where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I grunted. “They do that?”
“Do what?”
“Shove flagpoles up their asses? I mean, I’ve heard some crazy things, but a pride flag?”
Chase spit beer again, this time all over me.
“Oh, shit, man. I’m sorry.” He leaned across the table, snatched up my towel faster than I could register, and began dabbing my tank top. “Here, let me get that.”
I watched him, looked down and watched his hand as it pressed against my chest, then looked up to find him staring. His hand froze . . . still pressed against me.
“It’s okay,” I breathed, unable to raise my voice above a rasp. “I already smelled like beer. It’s kind of an occupational hazard.”
Chase still didn’t move.