Page 31 of Wild Abandon

“No,” he states simply. Then, he gets up from his chair.

I follow him with my eyes as he goes to the back of the bar and comes back with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two shot glasses. He takes his seat again, pours two shots, and then holds them up in front of us. I grab one, and we cheers before downing the shots.

“How did you know I’d want a bourbon?” I nudge my bluegrass cocktail in front of me.

“I thought it would go well with your performance. That was very good, by the way.” Nate’s body is facing the bar, his knees hitting the wood beneath, but his torso is turned toward me, his right forearm resting on the bar. “Matching people to their drinks is just something I know how to do.”

I slightly squint my eyes.

“You have a vast knowledge of booze.”

“You can tell a lot about a person by what they drink,” he states matter-of-factly. “You can pinpoint personality traits based on what kind of beer a person buys.”

Sitting back in my seat, I tilt my head to the side. “Okay…then what does it mean when someone orders a Budweiser?”

Nate answers easily, “All-American beer, so the person is patriotic, would even venture to guess they’re Republican.”

I purse my lips. “That’s ridiculous! Just because it’s an American beer? You’re making this up.”

He shakes his head. “They’re also forty-two percent more likely to drive a truck.”

I stare at Nate, half-disbelieving because it is so obvious that he’s bullshitting me. Then again, based on his answer, I wonder if Big Ed drinks Budweiser.

“Blue Moon,” I challenge.

“You drive a Prius and turn your nose up at an Android phone.”

“Heineken.”

“Amex carrier who only wears name-brand clothing.”

I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, smile, and name the most popular stout I can think of, “Guinness.”

Wiping the smug expression off his face, he turns his body into me. His eyes skim across my face, assessing, and he says, “You like complex flavors and are intense in your desires. You are creative and adventurous but seek gentle, intimate relationships.”

I swallow hard. His eyes are fixed on mine, staring, searching, digging, claiming something. I can’t break the contact. I just find myself lost in this powerful expression on his face. His eyes turn a darker green. I suddenly don’t have a taste for Guinness or whiskey. My mouth is dry. The only thing that can relieve my thirst is a long drink of olive juice.

And, suddenly, the spell is broken.

Nate jumps back, his body moving away, but his face is ripe with confusion. “Did you just tell me you loved me?”

Did I just tell him that?

“No! I said, olive juice.” I close my eyes in embarrassment, and when I open them, he’s still looking at me with this what-the-fuck expression, so I explain, “Your eyes. They remind me of olives, and I was just thinking about how I’d like a martini right now. I guess I spoke it out loud.”

He is looking from side to side, clearly trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth or if I’m a stage-five clinger.

“Olive juice. When you mouth it, it looks like you’re saying, I love you. And I do not, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

Again, Nate is just staring.

“All right. So, I’m going to go home now.” I stand, grab my purse, and hold out my hand. “Nate, it was a pleasure hanging out with you tonight.”

He awkwardly takes my hand and shakes it. His mouth is turned up on the side, and those damn eyes twinkle in a mischievous way.

I turn on my heel and start walking to the door. “Okay then, good night.”

“Crystal,” he calls.