Chapter 4 #2
“Hey there, what can I get started for you?” the bartender asked, handing over a food menu. “We’ve got a great mulled cider. It’s got a real kick to it, but ideal for this weather.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect. And Pops at The Snowdrift suggested a burger. Which one would you recommend?”
He smiled. “Any allergies?”
I shook my head.
“In that case, one Greek burger coming up. Lamb, tzatziki, and feta. It’s outstanding.”
My mouth watered at the thought. After putting in my order, he stepped away, tending to the other patrons.
I passed the time nervously awaiting a ping from Megan as I watched the signal bars jump from zero to two and back again.
When my food arrived, I pocketed my phone and dug in like I hadn’t eaten in days.
“How is everything?” the bartender asked, smiling at the animal way I attacked the burger.
“So good,” I mumbled with a full mouth, hand covering my face.
He laughed and refilled my water glass. “Another cider?”
What the hell. For better or worse, I was stuck here, and I suppose I was already preparing myself for bad news. If this was the last time I was ever in Maplewood Creek, I had better make the most of it.
“Hit me,” I said.
After demolishing the burger, and most of my second drink, I turned on my stool to watch the band play a little.
That was when I noticed him. He was playing pool and chatting animatedly with some other people in the billiards area.
Every few minutes, he would send a furtive glance my way, just a subtle tilt of his head in my direction.
I thought at first it was my imagination, or he was just waiting on a long-overdue drink from the bartender.
I’d never been quick on the uptake when it came to deciphering signals from guys.
Case in point, it was Hannah who had to tell me when the hot UPS guy 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’t look like an Eleanor.”
“What does an Eleanor look like exactly?”
“Well, my Eleanor, 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.
“Cheffing for a family on the mountain.” Because under no circumstances would I be adopting the title of chalet girl.
“A private chef?” He sat up straighter and played at smoothing the creases of his shirt. “Very fancy.”
I laughed, a little embarrassed. “Stop.”
He had tall-man confidence, which was good, to a point.
It was surprisingly difficult to find a guy at the optimal height.
I was on the taller side myself, so guys shorter than me often got a complex about it.
And guys taller than me tended toward arrogance.
Neither was attractive. Charles, so far, was edging toward the Goldilocks zone.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to cook,” he said.
“What’s stopping you? Even cavemen mastered the basics.”
“Suppose I’m just unusually unteachable.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a self-deprecating smirk. “Except for macaroni and cheese. It’s the one thing I can competently manage.”
“You can tell a lot about a person by their signature dish,” I told him.
“Yeah? What does mine say?”
I took another swig of my drink and shook my head. “Let’s say . . . it’s stalwart. Conventional, but in a comforting way. If also a little bad for you.”
“Huh.” He finished his beer and held up his hand to the bartender for another. “You got all that from mac and cheese?”
I shrugged. “Off the top of my head.”
“Alright, let me give it a try.” He furrowed his brow, concentrating, as he motioned for me to lob him the pitch. “What’s yours?”
“Osso buco.”
He rubbed his chin, seeming to think on it a good long while, until he threw up his hands and admitted, “Yeah, I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s an Italian dish. Veal shanks braised with white wine and vegetables. Usually served over something like risotto or polenta.”
His brows perked up. “Okay, that sounds amazing. You’ll have to make it for me sometime.”
“Oh yeah?” I said over the rim of my drink. “Angling for a second date already?”
Charles winked. “I like my chances.”
“What if I said that now I’m completely turned off?”
His smile widened, full of perfect white teeth.
“I’d say, don’t write me off before you’ve tried my mac and cheese.”
We talked for nearly two hours, about everything, anything, and nothing at all.
Our conversation was effortless. And as we sat there, his body gradually slid closer to mine, our knees touching between our stools, his hand finding reasons to brush my arm or graze my leg.
Our faces grew closer and closer until barely a cocktail napkin could fit between us. The whole room seemed to shimmer.
“I suppose you’re staying nearby?” he said.
Maybe it was the drinks, or the way his navy flannel fit perfectly over his broad shoulders, but as the bar began to thin out and edged toward closing time, part of me desperately wanted to take him up on the implied invitation.
“I am,” I said, glancing at the clock on my phone. “And I’d better get back. One way or another, I have an early morning.”
Whether I would be meeting my new employers or making the long drive back to Denver, I had to get some sleep tonight.
“Just a nightcap then?” He gave my knee a playful squeeze and held up his hand to the bartender for the check.
“I really wish I could.” I put some money down on the bar and slid my jacket on. “It was very nice talking to you. You don’t know how much I needed the company.”
“Can I at least walk you home?” he offered, frowning at the cash on the bar as he stood.
“Trust me,” I said. “You did everything right. And under normal circumstances, I might even let you carry me home.”
I reached up on my toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. When I did, he gently wrapped his arms around my waist and held on.
“No pressure, but I’d at least like to get your number,” he whispered in my ear. “Let me call you tomorrow. Breakfast.”