Page 55 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

I check behind me. Nobody new has entered the bar. “I don’t think these are for me.”

“Sure they are,” she says, already looking at her phone again. “That’s what you ordered.”

Apparently I suck at reconandgetting beers.

When I slide into the booth a second later, Tasha’s smothering a laugh so hard she’s tearing up. “I heard the whole thing,” she manages to say. “Your small talk could use some work, but you definitely did not order those drinks.”

“Should I—”

“No!” she says, still laughing. “This is perfect.” She takes a big swig from her pint and sets it down with a smile and a thick foam mustache. I can see every freckle sprinkled across her face. She grins at me, and my stomach flips over, so actually...? I’ll come back and do recon another night, because this is way better. I just hope I don’t fuck this up.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I realize I’mdefinitelygoing to fuck it up. Then I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’m going to fuck it up. There are, literally, an endless number of things I could do wrong.

I take a very long pull on my beer, which helps, but only a little.

“Are youallowedto have a beer right after a heart attack?” Tasha asks as one side of her mouth quirks up.

“It’s part of my treatment plan,” I say. “The doctor said I actually had a beer deficiency.”

“Well, we can fix that here.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, and we clink our pint glasses together. This beer is going down faster than usual because I’m so nervous. After another long drink and a moment of terrifying silence, I add, “You were right, by the way. It was just a pulled muscle.”

“I’m so glad,” she says. “Muchbetter than a heart attack.”

I lean in to her. “So, government hotshot, what’s it like knowing things?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “You know things.”

“You get what I mean,” I say. “Secret nerdy government things. The seedy underbelly of Chicago.”

“Are you talking about Manhole Mondays again?” Tasha asks with a wicked smile. “Because I’ve noticed you have a real thing for manholes. I saw you checking out those three.” She waves toward the sports guys.

“Not really my type,” I start, but I’m suddenly unsure about the subtext of this conversation. “I mean, I have in the past. But I also have an appreciation for...”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

But the beer’s got me now.

“...ladyholes.”

We blink at each other for a second and I turn a Crayola shade of red as she bursts out laughing.

I have no idea which way this is going until she finally catches her breath, and in between gasps for air, she says, “Well, thank goodness, that answersthatquestion.”

Chapter 17

Several beers later, the baseball game is over and the old guys have left. The other couple is long gone. A few new people have arrived, and they drink in small clusters at scattered tables, but it’s still pretty quiet.

Approximately half the drinks we’ve gotten have not been what we ordered—it’s like we stumbled into a game of Bartender Russian Roulette.

But, most importantly, I have not fucked it up.

It’s Tasha’s turn to grab drinks, and she comes back with a couple of shots. This time she slides in next to me and places a shot glass in front of each of us. Her leg is against my leg and I think I really like it there.

“Okay, this time, I made sure we got what we ordered,” she says.

“No way,” I say to the shot. “This is such a bad idea.” The floor is tilting, and I don’t actually remember how many beers we’ve had.