Chapter 2
Mark
I’m here because Callum said, “You need to leave the garage,” and then ignored every argument I made against it.
Callum has been doing that for years. Thirty, ex-army, business owner, professional bad influence.
We met at Finley’s tattoo studio, then became friends when I got tangled up in a government contract issue and he gave me advice that was irritatingly useful.
Since then, he has appointed himself equal parts business sounding board and social welfare officer.
Which means he decides something is happening, and I end up wherever he’s picked, drink in hand, watching him flirt with someone who should probably know better.
Tonight it’s a blonde in a red dress.
She’s laughing too hard for a woman who met him five minutes ago.
Callum leans against the bar, relaxed as anything, giving her that attentive look he’s perfected over years of making poor decisions seem charming.
I let him get on with it.
I’m good at being on my own in a room. Always have been. Years of letting my attention move without needing to settle anywhere for long.
The pub’s busy enough. After-work crowd sliding into evening. Groups at tables. People standing two and three deep at the bar. Enough movement to keep my eyes occupied.
I rest my elbow against the wood and let my gaze drift.
People. Exits. Noise. Motion.
Then it stops.
Table in the middle of the room.
Six, maybe seven people.
Work drinks by the look of them. Jackets over chairs. Empty glasses collecting. Everyone louder now than they probably were an hour ago.
And him.
He isn’t the loudest one there.
That’s the first thing I notice.
There’s always someone in a group like that filling every silence, dragging attention back whenever it wanders. He doesn’t bother.
He listens.
Someone says something across the table and he leans in slightly, focused like it matters. Then he replies and two people laugh straight away.
He smiles, quick and easy, like he didn’t need to work for it.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
Blond hair. Goatee. Broad through the middle in a way that looks solid rather than soft. Shirt sleeves rolled once. Tie gone.
Not polished exactly.
Just put together.
But that’s not what keeps my attention.
It’s the way he sits there like he’s part of the group without ever trying to take up the middle of it.
Callum says something behind me to Red Dress and she laughs again.
I barely register it.
My focus stays across the room.
The blond guy says something else and this time the whole table laughs.
He lets it wash over him with the expression of someone used to being thought of as funny without making a production of it.
I take another sip of my drink.
Still watching.
This is getting stupid.
One by one, people at his table start checking watches, pulling coats off chairs, gathering bags. The usual slow collapse of a night out deciding it’s nearly done.
He stands with them.
Takes a hug from one woman, a shoulder clap from another bloke, says something that gets one last laugh.
Even from here I can see the shift when the group starts peeling away.
He smiles through it.
But by the time the last couple of them head for the door, there’s something quieter in him.
Like he was doing a job and has just been left off duty.
Interesting.
He stays at the empty table for another minute, then heads for the bar.
A few places down from me, he orders another lager.
Card in hand.
Waiting.
I watch him because at this point there seems very little point pretending otherwise.
He glances down the bar.
His eyes hit me.
There’s the smallest pause.
Caught.
Before either of us can do much with it, Callum says something low enough that I have to turn towards him.
“You know,” he says, “if this goes well, I expect applause when I leave.”
I snort a laugh. “I expect a written statement from her in the morning confirming temporary insanity.”
He grins.
I shake my head, still amused, and look up into the mirror backing the bar and catch the blond guy looking at me.
This time our eyes meet properly.
Direct.
Blue eyes.
Very controlled face.
He picks up his pint, still looking.
Callum nudges my shoulder. “Heather and I are off to make irresponsible choices.”
“Good luck with that.”
“No promises.”
He claps me once on the back and heads for the door with her.
I barely react.
Because I’m still looking at the man at the bar, and he is still looking at me like neither of us has found a compelling enough reason to stop.
I feel my mouth curve.
Small.
Interested.
He catches it.
There’s the faintest answering smile at the corner of his own mouth.
Well.
That settles it.
I set my glass down and push off the bar.
No point pretending I’m not going to walk over.
By the time I stop in front of him, he is watching me with that same guarded interest.
“Hi,” I say.
That earns me another smile.