“Hey, Mickie, over here!” Ronnie called out, waving her hand.
Keith froze. Christ, had he conjured her with his damn thoughts? So much for stopping by the bar to have a few drinks and relax.
“Hey, Ronnie! Figured I’d come to check out where you worked.” Michaela’s voice had a sunny, bubbly quality he sure as hell hadn’t heard any time she’d spoken to him. Granted, he had zero interest in buddying up to his wealthy neighbor, whereas Ronnie seemed to want to be her best friend.
Someone hollered Ronnie’s name. “Shit,” she said as she glanced down the bar. “Come sit, Mickie. Let me take care of him, and I’ll be right back.” Then she was buzzing off to serve the client flagging her down, a man named Jack who lived on the other side of town.
He knew each and every person in the bar by name. Most had looked down on his family his entire life. It was only now that he and his siblings had shown themselves to be productive members of society that some of the whispered insults had stopped. Some, but not all. Many were just waiting for the day they followed in their father’s footsteps and became true losers.
With each passing second, he felt Michaela moving closer, and his shoulders stiffened further. By the time she sat on the stool next to him, he was barely breathing and mentally kicking his own ass. What the fuck did he care if she sat beside him? He’d polish off his second beer and leave. No biggie.
With the smile she’d gifted Ronnie still on her face, she turned his way. The way her spine straightened and the grin flipped to a frown should have been comical, but he wasn’t in a laughing mood.
No, his mood was growing darker by the second.
“Hello, Keith,” she said, giving him a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Gone was the happiness in her voice, replaced by a cold formality.
He didn’t do formality. Especially not today. “Hey.”
Christ, did she look out of place in the forty-year-old sports bar that hadn’t been updated in over two decades. Wearing a simple fitted black sweater that looked soft as fuck with seriously tight jeans he tried not to stare at, she didn’t stand out for being flashy with her wealth, but it was very clear the clothes cost more than his first car. Hell, just the little black bootie things on her small feet probably ran as much as his mortgage. The woman had money, class, and did not fit in with their small-town, blue-collar vibe.
Which begged the question, what the fuck was the well-off woman doing all alone in their itty-bitty town? She didn’t appear to have a job and hadn’t had visitors since she moved in—not that he’d been keeping tabs on her house.
Was she avoiding an ex?
Rebelling from an overbearing family who controlled her trust fund?
Witness protection?
The ideas only got more outrageous from there.
Dammit, he needed to stop giving brain power to this woman.
The silence that settled between them was thick with tension and discomfort.
Hurry the fuck up, Ronnie.
Michaela cleared her throat. “So, uh, my tire’s working, uh…great. Thank you.”
He grunted. Awkward silence was better than this meaningless small talk. “Here.” He slid a half-full bowl of bite-sized pretzels in front of her. Maybe if she stuffed something in her mouth, she’d shut up again.
As she glanced in the tan plastic bowl, her perfect nose wrinkled.
“What’s wrong, princess? Too many carbs?” Back when he’d date Della in high school, she’d been head cheerleader and scoffed at any food with more than one gram of carbohydrates.
Now Michaela’s forehead was wrinkled, and her lips pressed into a thin, glossy line.
Keith had the insane urge to lick the seam of her mouth and watch that lower lip puff back up as she parted her mouth in surprise. Then he’d suck it into his own mouth and watch her eyes widen in shock.
And probably disgust.
That thought doused his plumping dick like a bucket of ice.
“No,” she said, staring at the pretzels as though they were worms instead of a snack. “Just not a fan of eating from a bowl that a hundred people might have put their hands in.”
Christ, she was a fucking princess.
Rolling his eyes, he dragged the bowl back in front of himself with one finger. “More for me,” he said before popping a pretzel in his mouth. He couldn’t keep from winking as she glared at him. “Mmm, crunchy.”
She pressed her lips together again in what he was coming to learn was her disapproval face. Of course, Miss Fancy Pants wouldn’t tell him off. He almost laughed out loud. That’d be something to see, but it would never happen. Wasn’t proper enough. Instead, she’d just sit there and let the steam rise to a boil with no escape. Maybe she screamed into her pillow at night or something. Wasn’t healthy to keep that shit bottled inside. Might give her gas.