Page 6 of Witchy Chick

His low, self-deprecatory chuckle. “Seafood. Not your favorite.”

“I guess it’s good that you can do the things you love without me.” My stomach churned like I’d drunk battery acid. Was I going to throw up sandwich and bourbon all over the bar? That would be unbearably rude after the bartender had been so appropriately friendly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. It might be a late night.”

“Good. Have as much fun as you can have with Gloria.” The audible sneer at the end.

Because she was so contemptible. Had I thought of her like that, or was it him? He hated all kinds of superstitious nonsense. That she made her living feeding on the hopes and fears of people who paid her to tell them about a good future was deplorable. I thought it was silly, but I didn’t hate it except that she actually believed that she was a fortune-teller, and self-delusions weren’t healthy. Like thinking that someone could actually love me.

“Thanks. You too. Have lots of fun with your…crab cakes.”

He laughed like that was funny then said the ultimate lie. “I love you.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but instead I clicked the button that cut him off and sat there, trying to breathe, trying to swallow, trying not to feel so tangled up inside. Crab cakes. I’d never be able to look at them without thinking of him in bed with that…

“You were looking better, but now you’re all stressed out again. You should turn off your phone for the rest of the night,” the bartender said, pouring more bourbon into my glass and taking away my sandwich plate.

I stared at him. “Should I? But if I get drunk, how will I get home?”

His smile was so warm and nice. “That’s why you call a ride. You clearly have a phone. It should be good for something other than more stress.”

I pointed at him. “You’re a really good bartender, getting me to commit to more expensive drinks.”

He grinned and winked at me. “You’re the kind of woman who carries all the weight of the world. And the PTA. And the neighborhood. And whatever committees you’re in. Something about cleaning up parks and saving the turtles.”

I stared at him. “I do volunteer every other month in the park. If we don’t keep our world clean, who will?”

He put a meaty palm on the bar in front of me. “Sure. But you can keep the world clean tomorrow.”

“Except that if I’m hungover, I’ll be the mess that needs to be cleaned up.”

He leaned over the counter and peered at me with his warm brown eyes. “Sweetheart, did you ever consider that it’s okay to be a mess?”

I stared at him then frowned at the bourbon. I picked up the glass and threw it back. The burn made me wince, but he was smiling as he raised a bottle.

“Why don’t you try some schnapps? You should try different things, not so expensive, for fun.”

I nodded at him, and he poured the liquor into the glass. “For fun. I don’t know what it’s like to have fun.”

“I don’t believe you. Just because it’s not what other people consider fun doesn’t mean it isn’t fun to you. I have a sister who has an absolute blast organizing her socks. She’s a freak, but aren’t we all?” He winked then went to the other end of the counter to take someone’s order.

As I watched the bartender and his mullet, I noticed a man at the bar who was staring at me.

I looked behind me to make sure he wasn’t looking at someone else. No, he was definitely staring at me. He had a thick beard, dark eyes, and long hair. He was absolutely nothing like my husband, and nothing like me. Why was he staring at me? Oh, right. I was at a bar where people hooked up. I’d never do that. Except that I’d never get drunk by myself on bourbon and schnapps either.

The guy stood up and walked over. He slid into the empty stool to my left, still staring at me. He was wearing leather. Like leather pants, leather jacket, and a ribbed black shirt that clung to his body. He was fit enough to be attractive, I guess, but he wasn’t the kind of guy I’d ever look at twice, except that he was looking at me with an intensity that made me feel kind of seen. When was the last time a man had looked at me who wasn’t my husband?

“What are you doing here?” the man rumbled, dark scowl between his brows.

Was he brooding? Was that attractive? I raised my glass and smiled at him. “I’m drinking. What are you doing here?”

He blinked, and his brow furrowed even more. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean? I don’t think it’s a very good pick-up line. You should practice more. Try again.”

He straightened away from me, frowning and giving me a look-over like he was actually checking me out. “Pick-up line? I have a pickup, but not a line.”

I snickered because that was so bad. Also kind of funny. I drank my schnapps too fast and put down my glass, gesturing at the bartender to refill it again. “What color is your pickup?”

“Black.”