Page 28 of Wild Abandon

He laughs.

It’s not a big or boisterous laugh. It’s not even audible. It’s visual, only seen through the jump in his chest, the rise in the sides of his mouth, and the slight parting of his lips.

My heart skips a beat.

“You hanging out for a while?”

I nod my head. He leaves his station in front of me and starts taking orders.

I turn my stool away from the bar. This move has two purposes. One, I want to finish watching the band, and more importantly, two, it will keep me from staring at him all night.

It’s bad enough that he’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his incredible arms. They’re well defined and strong. Yes, I have a thing for arms. And by thing, I mean, an obsession. But that’s probably the most attractive thing about him.

He’s emotionally unavailable and on a completely different playing field than I am. Where I’m interested in love, marriage, and a baby carriage, he’s swindling it up at a bar. I mean, he’s a grown man who works in a bar. Not that I have anything against bartenders, but a single guy in his early thirties—I presume—who is against love and works at a bar doesn’t exactly scream, I can’t wait to be a bridegroom!

And, fine, he has a good-looking face, if you like the strong jaw with a five o’clock shadow, refined nose, and full mouth. At first glance, he almost looks pretty boyish, but then you take in the buzz cut, the hardness of his body, and the overall aura, you know he is rough, rugged, and a wall of solitary.

Looking over my shoulder, I see him talking to the crowd. Girls are flirting with him, but he doesn’t give them a lick of attention. Bartenders are supposed to be flirty in order to get more tips. Clearly, Nate didn’t get the memo.

Watching him move about, I catch a glimpse of something on his arm. A tattoo. On the inside of his left wrist is an infinity sign etched over the vein that leads straight to the heart.

If there’s one thing I hate on a man, it’s tattoos. They’re unsightly and usually have some ridiculous meaning. I mean, why would someone put a tribal tattoo around their bicep if they’re not part of an actual tribe? Or a Tweety Bird tattoo on their calf? Or Thor on his thigh? It’s just heinous and—let’s not forget—permanent.

But this tattoo is kind of nice.

It seems odd to me. An infinity sign as a lone tattoo on the inside of the wrist. But what do I know? I wouldn’t even dare risk getting a piercing on my body, aside from my ears.

I turn back to the stage and spend the next hour and a half listening to the band and drinking my bourbon. I haven’t had to ask for another. When one is finished, another is waiting on the bar in its place.

The Barge Poppers complete their set, thank the crowd, and pack up. Looking at my watch, I see it’s after midnight, and the bar is starting to empty out.

I lean to the side and grab my bag when a large body takes a seat next to me, draining a large gulp from the beer in his hands. His Adam’s apple bobs with the movement, causing me to swallow, too.

Nate puts his beer on the bar and holds his palm face up. “Phone me.”

Tentatively, I hand it over and watch as he goes into my dating app.

“Men want a girl who is fun, flirty, and down for a good time,” he states, typing into my phone.

I push my shoulders back. “I’m not a good-time kinda girl.”

Nate smiles and continues to type. “I can tell.”

“Hey!” I hit him in the arm.

He carries on, unaffected.

I wait a few moments, just staring at his profile, waiting for him to finish. When he does, he hands the phone to me, and I look down at the words he’s written.

Gone is my old profile, and in its place is, Sarcastic, passionate music lover and impulsive traveler. Girl-next-door type by day. Badass cellist by night. Not here for a hook-up but am looking for someone to enjoy a drink and some laughs with. If you are, too, I give you permission to rescue me from online dating. Plus, meeting in person is always better. ;)

It’s cute, flirty, and exactly me.

“Badass cellist?”

“I saw your occupation. Why would you dumb down what you do? If a man is intimidated by a concert cellist, then he doesn’t have the balls to date you anyway.” He takes another swig of his beer.

“This is perfect, but as I’ve learned many times, some guys don’t even care about the profile. Just last week, my date acted like he hadn’t even read it.”