Chapter 17
Steph
So, Riley’s here.
My body instantly starts humming with nervous energy at the sight of him bent over the sink, handwashing pint glasses.
I knew it was a possibility when Lucy suggested we have our girl’s night at Aroma’s. I knew he was working here now, but I guess I thought, since it’s a Tuesday night, maybe he wouldn’t be. Supposedly, he only bartends a couple of nights a week, and the rest of the time he’s training with Bobby.
Don’t ask me how I know that.
Okay, fine. I’ll admit my ears have perked up anytime I’ve heard his name come up in conversation lately.
And given our town’s penchant for gossip, the return of Nora’s prodigal son continues to have tongues wagging a whole month later.
So yeah, I know he’s training as Bobby’s assistant manager.
I know he remains estranged from his brother, and that it has their mother distressed.
I also know that the new young vet thinks they have a special bond, and that Mrs. Abernathy is of the mind that if he would only trim his hair and shave his beard, he’d be the most eligible bachelor in town, even with the tattoos and his ‘mysterious past.’ Pretty sure he still is, regardless, because none of the women I’ve heard extolling his virtues seem to find any of those particular qualities off-putting.
Ugh! And maybe I felt a little twinge of something that might be in the same but very extended family as jealousy when I heard Trish Flynn say he and his fine ass were ‘ripe for the taking’ last week in the grocery line.
But it’s hard when your former high-school sweetheart, who once broke your heart and then disappeared for well over a decade, suddenly shows back up and is everywhere.
Especially when your mind tells you to resist his advances, but your traitorous body unequivocally disagrees with that plan.
And when I say he’s everywhere, I do mean everywhere.
Just yesterday, I overheard two of the Mystery Maven ladies at the library near-swooning over the large, rugged-looking man seen jogging shirtless with his little white and black spotted pup—a pup who he’d ended up carrying for much of his run, I recall hearing with amusement.
They then proceeded to discuss his musculature and tattoo collection in surprisingly vivid detail, considering I know for a fact Miss Bethany has full-blown cataracts.
I now have confirmation that the near-sleeve on his arm does indeed wrap the side of his torso, across his chest, and over his shoulder onto his neck.
And, well, I maybe wouldn’t have minded seeing that—the …
shirtless running with the cute dog thing.
You know, for curiosity’s sake. I had been wondering about his tattoos, after all.
Speaking of those tattoos … he’s wearing a t-shirt tonight, and I can’t help but notice how the arms pull snuggly around his biceps.
Sigh.
It’s almost like he’s doing this to me on purpose.
To wear me down. Of course, he had no way of knowing I’d be here tonight, so I’m forced to accept he really is just that effortlessly sexy.
But my point is that his colorful near-sleeve is on full display again.
I say again because he’d been in a t-shirt when we’d run into each other in the school gym, and I may have snuck a look or two despite how unsettling it was to see him there and then to have been caught flirting by my son.
Oh, God. My cheeks heat remembering it.
Not that I’d been doing anything wrong … and the term flirting isn’t quite accurate either. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. Semi-flirting? I guess we’ll go with that, even if I know it’s a mistake to indulge him.
Riley glances up then and catches me frozen ten feet from the bar … and ogling his arms, dammit. He shoots me a pleased and somehow equally seductive grin and gestures me over.
Okay. I’m doing this. Brace for yet another encounter, Steph. Brace for temptation.
I smile back and make my way to where he’s leaning on the counter.
“Seven,” I think I hear him say under his breath.
“What?”
He furrows his brow and shakes his head. “Nothing.” He straightens up and grabs a dishrag from below the counter, making a point to wipe the area in front of me as I perch on the stool before him. “How are you, Sunshine?”
“Don’t—”
“Don’t call you Sunshine,” he finishes for me with a wry smile.
I do not need to encourage this man any more than I already have.
He raises his hands, the rag still hanging from one. “Right, sorry.”
I nod.
“What can I getcha?”
“Um, just water for now. I’m meeting my friends, but they texted they’re running late.
Lucy went to pick Piper up, but then had a bout of morning sickness and is apparently holed up in their bathroom at present,” I say, then immediately regret it.
Why do I keep volunteering information to this man?
Why do I keep opening the door to more conversation?
He grabs a glass from under the bar, grunting.
“Heard she was pregnant. She’s seeing Aidan’s partner, right?”
“Mm-hm. Noah. He’s—” but I cut myself off. I do not need to go into details about my friends and their personal lives.
Riley pauses for a moment, the glass outheld, waiting to see if I’ll say more. When it’s clear I’m not going to, he asks, “Ice?”
“Yes, please.” I watch him scoop a generous amount of crushed ice and then fill the glass from the bar gun. He flicks a cardboard coaster with the Aroma’s logo in front of me and places the drink down with a flourish.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“So … girls’ night, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What, uh … what happened to Katie?” he asks, then cringes as though realizing he shouldn’t have brought it up.
“We grew apart.” I shrug. Getting pregnant and dropping out of school to raise a child when all your friends want to do is drink and party will do that, but I refrain from elaborating.
“Sorry.”
I give another half-shouldered shrug. “It happens. She left town after college. We exchange the occasional email, but we have very different lives now.”
“I get that.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say, not without a hint of bitterness in my tone.
He sighs. “Steph—”
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s alright. I—”
But I cut him off once more. “Seriously, let’s not.”
He nods, his expression solemn. A motion down the other end of the bar catches his eye, and Riley excuses himself to go serve another patron.
The bar is quiet tonight, not unsurprisingly for a weeknight in late fall.
There are a handful of people in the booths by the front windows—mostly couples enjoying a late dinner.
Several other groups congregate around small high-top tables near the rear, and then there’s me, and the older gentleman at the end.
Riley finishes up with him, pulling a perfect pint and sliding it across without spilling a drop.
He glances up to find me watching, and my face heats.
Again. He smirks and makes his way back to where I’m seated, cocking a hip against the counter and crossing his arms.
He watches as I sip my water.
My gaze drops to his forearms, sinewy and tanned, and conveniently crossed at eye level.
Even without the tattoos, they’re extremely sexy.
I didn’t know that was a thing until I heard Lucy once call it forearm-porn.
Riley’s are veiny, with a light dusting of hair, and under my scrutiny they bunch and flex, the tendons pulling taut.
So … yeah. I totally get the appeal now.
He hums a noise, low in his throat, and I look up to find him smirking once more.
“You have lots of tattoos,” I blurt. My cheeks are positively burning now, and I know without looking they’re a flaming crimson.
“I do,” he agrees, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Can I … see?” I ask hesitantly.
“Sure.” Grinning, he shoves up his sleeve so his entire arm is exposed to his shoulder and then props his elbow on the bar, putting it on display before me. My hand reaches out on its own, and before I even realize it, I’m caressing the colorful artwork.
Oh, God.
I snatch it back as though burned, sucking air through my teeth.
Riley lets out a choked laugh. “It’s alright. You can feel me up any day, Sunshine.”
My eyes snap to his face, finding him biting his lip. When he winks at me, I don’t correct his use of the old pet name.
I am in so much trouble.
Still, I reach out, glancing up once more in question, before running my fingers over this patterned skin at his nod.
“Oh!” I exclaim in surprise, never having felt a tattoo or even seen one this up close and personal before. “It’s actually slightly raised.”
“Some are,” Riley agrees. “Depends on how old they are and how well they healed. Some were done in … let’s say, less than reputable establishments, and have more scar tissue.”
“Huh,” I say, more to myself than to him.
I wonder where those less reputable places were and why he went there.
I continue to feel up and down his arm, tracing the lines, taking note of the varied designs.
Some appear to be connected—larger artworks depicting things like vines and barbed wire woven together.
Others are smaller individual designs I suspect were done at different times.
“What do they all mean?” I breathe out, slightly alarmed at how entranced I am.
“Most represent different places I’ve been. Things I’ve done and locations I’ve called home. The vines and wire were added later to make it appear more cohesive once my collection started growing to encompass much of the arm.”
I look up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“This one, for example,” he says, pointing at a mermaid whose tail winds around the barbed wire, “is for a boat I worked on briefly near Bar Harbor called the Siren’s Song. I didn’t last long there.”
I pass my fingers lightly over the mermaid, watching in awe as goosebumps rise on his skin in the wake of my touch. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one so affected by these interactions.