7. Chapter 7
seven
Noel
A group of guys in flannel shirts hold the door open for me as I step tentatively into Jamie’s bar. Alone. Kate declined my invitation-slash-pleading to come along. “Sorry, Noel,” she said, “I’m not crashing your first date with Mr. Destiny. That’s seriously messed up.”
I’d snapped that it wasn’t a date even though I knew she’d said it only to irritate me.
“Why are you so nervous, then?” she taunted.
I don’t know, Kate. Maybe I’m afraid of having some sort of psychotic break in public.
It was the other thing she said, though, about not being able to avoid it, that I couldn’t get out of my head.
I replayed it over and over until it morphed into Nana’s voice.
I could almost see her puttering around the kitchen, dish towel tossed over her shoulder, doling out cosmic advice in a sing-songy voice: Something wants the two of you together.
I decided facing Jamie Bishop was easier than facing that memory-slash-hallucination. Though now that I’m here, I’m not so sure because wow. Here it is. The manifestation of what happened that night.
I rub my hands over my arms and look around.
The bar is all cement and wood with rippled antique glass windows and a spray of round tables and black metal chairs across the floor.
The walls are painted navy blue with a colorful logo that takes up one whole side.
A wreath of pinecone shaped flowers, pale green and white, with a block font, gold F in the center.
An impressive wooden bar stretches along the entire back wall, and I head toward it. Even the taps are colorful and interesting, like a mini art display.
The bartender stops in front of me, hands on her hips. She shares my unimpressive height but her short, purply-black hair and lip ring tell me she doesn’t let it hold her back. “What can I get for you?”
A banner above the bar announces that there’s a new fall ale being launched, and I assume that’s what Jamie meant when he said it was a big night for him.
I know from my due diligence internet stalking that he’s maintained the head brewer position despite the astronomical growth of his brand over the last two years, which means he’s kind of the head beer chef.
Brewing is a more creative process than I realized, and I wonder if his recipes are as personal to him as my art is to me.
“I’ll have the fall ale,” I tell her.
While the bartender pours my beer, I fidget with a little pop-up tent on top of the bar that says a portion of tonight’s proceeds will go to a local children’s learning center. A smile I haven’t agreed to bubbles up. I guess I have to give Jamie points for philanthropy.
She slides the glass of dark beer across the bar, her gaze lifting over my shoulder just as a warm body steps into the air behind me.
“Put it on the house, Em.”
A shiver wiggles down my spine at Jamie’s deep, honeyed voice.
Slowly, I turn around, somehow unprepared to see him again despite getting myself dressed and into a car to do just that.
With a flush of heat to my cheeks, I’m reminded what Jamie looks like when he’s not in a hospital bed.
And let’s be honest, he looked pretty darn good there too.
Tonight, though? Even the butterfly bandage on his brow and the purple beneath his eye can’t dull how handsome he is. His hair is perfectly mussed, wavy pieces sticking up every which way like the surface of a lake on a windy day.
Those dimples carve in deep, and it takes everything I have not to turn tail and run for the door. If the universe knew me at all, it would accept that I am far too awkward to handle a man with this kind of presence.
“You came,” he says.
“I said I would.”
“I know.” He laughs. “I guess I’m still not sure you’re real.”
Ha! I know the feeling.
He opens his arms as if to hug me hello, but I dodge it by lifting my pint glass in a dorky cheers motion.
My body feels like it’s bracing for impact just being in his space.
If these visions are real, I still have no idea how they work.
What triggers them. I do know that I don’t want it to catch me without any warning.
Hence why I’m acting as if Jamie’s a metal pole in an electrical storm.
He nods over his shoulder. “Let’s sit.”
I follow his slow trek across the room. He’s only using one of his crutches tonight which means he’s either feeling better or being negligent in his recovery. First impressions tell me it could be either.
Jamie lowers himself onto one side of an empty booth, the only free one in the place, and I sit across from him, hands folded in my lap. I look like I’m at a job interview, tucked tidily into myself while he man-spreads across the entire bench. I’m a kitten staring at a tiger.
“So what do you think?” His mouth edges up on one side—hesitant, hopeful. He’s looking for my blessing, a grade on what he’s accomplished with the information I gave him. My God, this is weird.
I spin my gaze around the room again, taking in the energy.
It practically has its own pulse. “This is… impressive.” I’m not exaggerating.
Portland doesn’t lack for eateries and watering holes.
But with the crowd here tonight and the articles I read, this looks like making it.
I take a sip of my ale and it’s really freaking good, so I’m sure that helps.
“The internet told me you were successful,” I say. “But you know what they say about believing everything you hear.”
He grins at that. “You looked me up.”
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t a burglar since you know where I live.”
“Good thing I took ‘burglar’ out of my LinkedIn profile,” he says, tapping his temple.
I roll my eyes. “Please. Everyone lies on LinkedIn.”
He laughs, eyes sparkling. “Why wouldn’t I have burgled you last night if I were a burglar?”
“You could barely stand last night. But you could come back.”
“Right. Can never be too careful.” He tips his water glass to safety before sipping. The gulp I take of my beer is bigger.
“Seriously, though. Congratulations, Jamie. This is amazing.”
“It all started with you.” The look he’s giving me is positively reverent, and it makes me squirm. “I looked for you after that night, you know. Not in like a creepy way, but I asked around. It was like you just disappeared.”
Oh . Here I’d been praying to forget the name Jamie Bishop, and he’d been out looking for me? I wonder what would have happened if he’d gotten in touch with me before now. If he’d run into Kate and she’d given him my number. I probably would have blocked him.
“I guess I kind of did disappear,” I admit. “I’ve spent every summer here with my grandmother since I was a kid, but the last couple of years I, ah, haven’t been able to make it.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s a spin, and the smile I hang on my face to pull it off feels like it’s made of plaster. Fragile and hollow inside.
“Oh, shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face. “Was your grandmother there when I passed out on your porch?”
He looks so adorably mortified, and I wish I could laugh, but instead I’m back to spiraling over the blankness I feel when I say, “No. She passed away in July.”
I’ve said it like a robot, and there’s a flicker of curiosity in his expression. “I’m sorry, Noel.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “I’m here on sabbatical, actually.”
“That’s right. You said that on the porch. Is it like an Eat, Pray, Love type thing?”
I fake a pout even though I’m inclined to laugh at myself. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I promise I’m not.” He lays his hand over his heart and the gesture wiggles something open in me. I’m talking to a man who built a whole life around a psychic vision. I guess I shouldn’t have expected him to judge me for a silly Find My Feelings mission.
“It’s more of a work thing.” I bite my lip at another white lie. It’s a pretty big me thing too, being broken this way. “Anyway, I’m here until the end of the year.”
His eyebrows jump, which looks painful with that cut. “What do you do?”
“I’m an artist. Graphic designer. I can work from anywhere, but my boss actually gave me some time off.” I leave out the part where it wasn’t my choice.
“What a coincidence.” He waves a hand over his midsection. “My boss gave me some time off too.”
I chuckle into my beer.
“Well, it sounds like an adventure,” he says, still grinning at me with something like fascination.
But my face falls at that word. I’ve hated it since I was a kid, when Mom used adventure synonymously with recklessness.
It’s a perfectly-timed reminder that this man has that same recklessness written all over him.
I’ve thought so since that very first night when he smiled at me from the edge of a roof.
I feel like I’m on that edge now, teetering into dangerous territory.
Chasing magic can’t be without consequences. He called me an angel, but he could be an actual demon for all I know. The kind that tricks you with their sexy jawline and soft eyes until you’re taking your clothes off in their apartment-slash-sex dungeon.
Oh my God, Noel . He drives a Honda and lives above a bar. He’s not a demon.
I’m losing my mind, but I knew that when I agreed to come tonight.
“Look, this place is great, Jamie. I’m just not sure why I’m here.”
“Right.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob with a thick swallow.
Jamie’s face is like a slideshow of boyish expressions—the aw shucks grin he gave the nurse, the playful smile he beamed at me that night on the roof—and if I had to label the one I’m looking at now, it would be guilty mischief.
“The truth is I was, um, kind of hoping you might do it again.”
“Do what again?” I’m genuinely curious because he obviously doesn’t mean read him. I was pretty clear on my stance on that.