Chapter 19 #3
He pushed his mop off his forehead. Fortunately—or unfortunately—his buzzing phone saved him from figuring out his next move.
But caller ID pulled a sigh from his chest. Jesus, he loved his kids, but couldn’t they give the old man a respite for one lousy night?
He wasn’t asking for much. And not that he was old, even though his social track record lately was the pathetic proof he acted like it.
But tonight—maybe with the brassy bartender—he could reverse that.
The kids shared the phone, but he took an educated guess as to which one was calling. “Hey, Twinkle Bear. What’s up?”
“Daaaaaddy!” his daughter squealed, as if she hadn’t just spoken to him in his hotel room ten minutes ago. And despite the fact he had just spoken to her, his heart swelled. “Where are you, Daddy?”
“I’m at the same hotel I was at the last time you called, sweetheart. Is everything still okay?”
She gulped in air and burst into the all-important reason for her call. “Yes, Daddy. I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Binks and Miss Flopsy are having an excellent tea party.”
He held back a laugh. Excellent. Her new favorite word, one her three-year-old tongue had trouble wrapping itself around, unlike the easy way her three-year-old finger had wrapped him around.
“That’s great. Have Nana take a picture and send it to me, okay?” He slid another glance at the bartender, whose back was to him, offering him an excellent view that encouraged his libido. “Listen, Ry-Ry, your dad has an important meeting with his new team, and I need—”
“With the Wizard?”
He chuckled. “Blizzard, Twinks. Yes, that team. I need to meet my new bosses.” Not until tomorrow, which leaves the night open. “But I’ll see you tomorrow when you get to Denver, okay?”
“Wizard,” she repeated stubbornly. “And then we’ll get a house with a pool! But first I get to ride on an airplane!”
We’ll see about the pool. “Can’t wait to see you and your brother tomorrow.”
Looking for a rental would have been far easier on his own, but with the upheaval he was putting his family through, and the fact none of them had a say about where they were moving—including him—he wanted their approval on what house they’d be living in.
And while the team would have put them up in a luxury apartment temporarily, he didn’t want to move them twice.
Instead, he would move them into a rental home where they could spread out, have a yard.
Assuming he’d be in Denver beyond this season, he’d buy the forever one later.
Shit, this trade sucked … for so many reasons.
His daughter’s giddy voice snapped him back. “Me too, Daddy. Love you!” She hung up before he could return the sentiment.
Less than a minute later, the phone vibrated again. He hadn’t even had a chance to take a sip of his Four Roses bourbon. “What did you forget, Riley girl?”
“Not Riley this time,” came the cool voice with a perpetual smirk lacing it. “Your daughter forgot I needed to speak to you before she hung up.”
He rubbed his forehead. Christ! Couldn’t get away from his mother-in-law either. “All set for tomorrow, Dimitra?”
“Yes. A limo will pick us up and bring us to the hotel, where we’ll meet you and go house-hunting.” She dropped her voice. “I just wanted to remind you that while Riley’s heart is set on a pool, which is completely impractical in Colorado, what you really need to focus on is an in-law suite.”
He pushed out a resigned sigh. How many times had they been through this already?
Mustering his frayed patience, he said, “I didn’t forget.
The agent knows that’s on the wish list.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit he’d made it a requirement—why let Dimitra think she always got her way, even if, in fact, she did?
Mac had learned long ago to avoid going into battle against the formidable matriarch at all costs.
“Well, good. Now go relax, Dana dear, but stay away from the bar trolls. How they’d love to get their meat hooks into you, and you, poor boy, are naive enough to let them.”
Mac swallowed the words dancing on the tip of his tongue: that taking a bar troll back to his hotel suite tonight sounded pretty damn good.
A guy who only got away from his kids every now and then needed to take advantage while he could because it wasn’t going to happen at home.
He never, ever brought dates home. Then again, though his wife had died over two years ago, he’d only started dating sporadically the past year and had yet to bring anyone home.
Besides juggling his kids and his stagnant goalie career, he didn’t have the time or the fuel for kindling anything beyond a quick roll between the sheets—not that he’d done that more than once.
More importantly, he wasn’t about to get his kids’ hopes up.
Any woman he dared bring home and put through Dimitra’s scrutiny would surely become a candidate in his kids’ eyes for their new mommy.
Not to mention that exposing women to take-no-prisoners “Dragon Dimitra” was a surefire way to send them running.
Dimitra was a real-life suburban version of Christine Baranski, the actress who portrayed cool and cynical to a T.
Dimitra would never tolerate an interloper—Christine probably wouldn’t either.
“Interloper” in Dimitra’s book was any member of the opposite sex he might look at more than once.
Hip-checking her daughter’s memory to the boards.
Upsetting the perfect order of the little family she managed like a drill sergeant—not that he was complaining because, God, he needed it.
Or at least he had. Now was his chance to get his life back.
Moving to Denver did have a silver lining because here he could hit the reset button.
New town, new life. New encounters with women, getting laid more than the once.
Not that he hadn’t had opportunities now and again, but that one time had felt all wrong …
maybe because it had happened in Philly, where memories of Becca lingered.
So yeah, Denver might not be such a bad place to start up again …
like tonight, with the bartender. As long as she wasn’t looking for long-term, they’d be good—assuming she’d give him a shot.
Someone slid onto the stool beside him, and he felt a gaze blatantly travel up and down his frame.
When he turned, he looked into brown eyes topped with two slashes for dark eyebrows.
“Are you hoping to make time with the bartender?” Judging by the look on the woman’s stony face, she was dead serious.
Busted. But what the hell? “Uh …”
“Thought so.” She gave him a smug head bob, then leaned into him conspiratorially and whisper-shouted, “Trust me. If she’s flirting, it’s only because she wants a big tip. You’re welcome.”
She glanced down at her phone as if dismissing him.
Wow! Nothing like putting the old ego back in its place.
Unsure what to make of her, he unabashedly coasted his gaze over her the way she’d done to him.
Brown hair that fell a little past her shoulders, a straitlaced, button-up blue blouse under a black suit jacket with pants to match, and plain black heels.
Not tall, not short, not round or skinny.
An average businesswoman sitting in an average bar looking …
better than average. Better than the bartender even, though they shared similar coloring.
The bartender sauntered over with an empty shot glass, a bottle of Buchanan’s Select 15-Year, and a smirk. “The usual?”
“God, no,” his stoolmate gusted. “After today, I need a boilermaker. Or three.”
The bartender—Allison, according to her name tag—arched an eyebrow and wordlessly poured the Buchanan’s into the shot glass, blatantly disregarding her customer’s wishes.
Ms. Boilermaker nodded. “Thanks. Care to join me?” This she directed at the bartender, not him. Damn.
“Not while I’m on duty.” Without asking, Allison pulled the handle on a beer tap and filled a pint glass, placing it on a coaster in front of Ms. Boilermaker.
“How about we start you out with a shot and a beer instead? Then you can graduate to the boilermakers—after I know you have a ride home tonight.” Allison turned to wait on other customers.
Mac ran his eyes over Ms. Boilermaker one more time, noting a turned-up nose, high cheekbones, and a tiny mole on an apple cheek. No way could this girl hold more than the shot and beer in front of her. He’d lay odds that if she chased them with a boilermaker, she’d keel over.
Ms. Boilermaker picked up the shot glass. “à votre santé!” she mumbled in perfect French to no one in particular. Put it to her lips and threw her head back. Swallowed the whole pour in one go. Brought the shot glass down hard with a satisfied “Ahhhhh” and swiped her mouth.
“Et à votre santé aussi,” he toasted back in really awful Canadian French before taking a hefty gulp of his drink.
She looked up at him. Doe eyes the color of toasted coffee beans blinked. And blinked again. He shoved his hand at her and blurted, “I’m Mac.”
She shook it, her hand small but strong, and dropped an elbow on the bar with her head in her palm. “Nice to meet you, Mac. How long are you in Denver for?”
Dismissing the fact she hadn’t offered her name, he said, “How do you know I’m visiting?”
She lifted her head long enough to flick her hand. “Just … I know things.”
“Same way you know the bartender’s only angling for a tip?” He tried but failed to inject confidence into his voice, instead coming off as cocky. Yeah, sounding a little full of myself here.