Page 26 of Breaking the Ice

My heart rate kicks up a notch when Isabella pushes the door open. Standing from the table, I wave to her until our eyes lock and a tiny smile spreads across her face when she sees me. Weaving through the tiny circular tables and stools, she makes her way through the crowded space to me. The lights are turned up higher than normal so people can see, and the usual Irish rock isn’t blasting my eardrums. I guess it wouldn’t work with Sing-O.

“Hi,” I say, as awkward as if I’m attending my first middle school dance. I want to hug her or kiss her soft cheek but how would she feel about that? Instead of doing either, I look her up and down and take in her tight high-waisted jeans and cozy, cropped gray sweater. Her curves make my mouth water, and I want to reach out and touch her coppery hair. It hangs in waves almost to her butt. “Um, you look nice.”

“Oh, thanks.” She glances at her outfit, then around at the bar. Guinness adverts and Irish flags pretty much cover every inch of wall space. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Really?” The word pops out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to catch up, and the hurt expression that crosses her face lets me know it was the wrong thing to say. “I mean, that makes sense. You just moved back here. I was only surprised because it’s hard for me to fathom that. My teammates and I hang out here at least once a week.”

She raises a brow. “Is it that great?”

“Not exactly, no. You must not have been to many places in Lafayette yet if you have to ask. But the guys love it.”

Isabella slides into the seat across from me. “Why?”

“Nostalgia, I guess? Lotta memories here.” I sit, too, and wave for our waiter. The dude is wearing a kilt, and it’s fun to watch Isabella’s eyes bug out of her head when she notices.

“I’ll have a Boilermaker, please,” I tell him. “And an order of Irish nachos to share.”

“Magners?” Isabella asks and is rewarded with a nod.

He leaves the menus and we spend a few silent minutes reading over them before our nachos—served on delicious Irish potato rounds instead of tortilla chips—arrive.

“What’s good here?” she asks me over the top of her menu.

I shrug. “Usually I just drink or get pub fare. For Sing-O, they add tables. It feels more like a restaurant tonight than the packed bar we party at after games.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s no help. I guess I’ll try the stew. You?”

At least she didn’t try to order the salad like at La Bamba’s. That feels like progress. Honestly, she can eat whatever she wants. I scoop up a circular potato bite loaded with shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese. “Sounds good. I’m gonna get the fish and chips.”

Our waiter returns with our drinks, then takes our orders and leaves our Sing-O cards.

“Wanna look over our song titles?” I ask her.

But Isabella points to my drinks. “What’s that?”

I bob my brows. “My favorite. Watch.”

I proceed to drop the whiskey shot into the beer glass, and then down the whole thing in one long draw. The whiskey burns my throat, and the yeast from the hops coats my tongue as I set my mug down.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” she asks.

“I mean, yeah, kinda.”

At my candor, she bursts out laughing. “Well, that’s not exactly the way to my heart. But maybe you’ll be great at Sing-O.”

She leans closer across the table to compare the bingo cards the waiter delivered, and I can smell her perfume or maybe it’s her shampoo. It reminds me of strawberry shortcake, and I want to taste her. I swallow and grab my card, trying to focus on the words in front of me.

“Do you have a favorite genre of music?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the table.

Isabella bites her lip, which makes my stomach swoop. “That’s too hard to pick.”

I laugh. “I didn’t ask for a favorite song. Just a type.”

She shakes her head. “Different genres are used for different things.”

“How so?” I lean my head on my hand, loving the way her eyes light up when she talks about something she likes.

“Well, show tunes are for singing in the shower.”