“Well, never a dull moment with you,” I tell him.That, too, is always the same.
He doffs an imaginary hat. “Ditto, Heath. Thanks for giving me inspiration for when I need to play a grump.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, that’s what I’m here for. And I suppose I should be on my way,” I say, about to push back from the stool.
Then, she walks in.
The brunette is dressed in a pale-yellow blouse unbuttoned to reveal just a hint of flesh. Her lips are full, pouty. Her hips are made for holding.
And yet, even from a distance, it’s her soulful blue eyes that capture me.
They’re full of . . . stories. Longing. Like she’s missing something too. Maybe not even a someone, but the idea of a someone.
Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but I’ll run with it, especially as she scans the establishment then locks eyes on me.
Jude whistles low in my ear. “Target acquired. And your wingman exits, stage left.”
In a heartbeat, he’s gone. The dark-haired beauty heads straight for the counter, sets down a red paperback next to me. She parts her lips, the briefest hesitation matching the flicker of nerves in her blue eyes. “Hey, there,” she says.
Her American accent is terrifically fetching. “Hi, to you,” I say. I have my own case of nerves as I cycle through conversation to make.
Banter.
Wit.
Charm.
Those brain cells haven’t died from disuse, have they?
She drums her fingernails on the bar. “So . . .” She lets out a long breath, nibbles on the corner of her lips, then blurts, “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”
There’s a silent, awkward beat, and then she breaks into laughter—launches into peals and peals of it. I laugh, too, because the sound of hers is so infectious and now here we are, both cracking up.
This is not what I expected tonight. But here it is for the taking.
And I take.
As the laughter fades, I pivot, flipping the dreadful line back on her. “I don’t mind at all, but I should warn you—you’ll have to check me out overnight.”
We both laugh again.
She holds up a hand as she attempts to rein in her humor. “Confession: I googled pickup lines, and I can’t think how you could say any of them without sounding absolutely ridiculous.”
“I rather liked it. But then, I like libraries. I appreciate research, too, so that’s doubly impressive.”
“It’s true. I have no idea how people meet in bars or what they say. So, I asked the internet. I have more where those came from.”
I don’t even have to fake being a sunshiny guy. I can be that man in this moment. “Are you looking to test them on someone?”
She smiles, and it’s such a sweet, pretty grin that my chest warms. “Are you interested in being a test subject?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
4
JO
This is both harder and easier than I’d thought.
This is nothing like swiping left or right on an app. Nothing like matching up with someone online.
This is so old-fashioned that it’s odd.
But it’s kind of working, especially since this guy has that young Harrison Ford vibe about him—circa Raiders of the Lost Ark—but with a London accent.
Translation? Scorching.
I straighten my shoulders, preening a bit as I try out another pickup line. “Well, I’m here. What are your two other wishes?”
The handsome man grins, all crooked and just shy of cocky. He runs his thumb lazily along the edge of his glass. “At the moment, I can only wish for better music and to get you a drink.”
Ohh. He is good. The bar’s speakers are piping something soft and jazzy. “What type of music?” I ask.
“I’m omnivorous, but jazz bores me. I’d wish for Boléro by Ravel, or anything by Queen or Roxy Music.”
I offer a hand to high-five. He gives it a curious look—fine, maybe high fives aren’t an English thing—but goes with it, and we smack palms.
“That was for the dislike of jazz,” I explain. “I’m with you there, but otherwise, I’m Rodgers and Hammerstein all the way.”
The bartender swings by and asks if I’d like a drink. I choose a lemon drop, then return to my . . . target.
This must be what fishing is like.
I’ve never gone fishing, so I’m guessing, but holy hell—I feel like I just got a bite. A big bite from a handsome . . . fish.
Wait.
I can’t think of this man as a fish.
But he is a catch.
“Okay, so I’ve got my second wish,” he says. “Getting you a drink. My music dreams will remain unfulfilled, but feel free to enchant me with more pickup lines.”
I gear up for the next one, adopting my best sex-drenched voice. “Baby, if you were words on a page, you’d be fine print.”
He chuckles into his hand. “Stop. Just stop.”
This is going better than I thought. Tilting my head, I turn a little coy, playful. “So, I should tell Google that one’s a no?”