“I know you from somewhere,” I said, furrowing my brow at him.
“I doubt that,” he said, looking me up and down like he was scanning my body. “I don’t know all that many people.”
I liked having his eyes on me. That was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a while.
Sam came up and dropped Mr. Casanova’s beer on the bar in front of him.
“There’s that pilsner for ya, Luke. Enjoy,” Sam said before heading over to help other newcomers.
I was taken aback.
Not only did Sam know this guy—Luke—but he didn’t even stop to flirt with him. What the hell was this?
He took a sip of his beer and I watched him, trying to piece together why he looked so familiar. It was a puzzle like any other, a mystery I desperately wanted to solve. Had I seen him jogging? Or, Christ alive, had I run into him at the divorce lawyer’s office?
“Did you go to Merryvale?” I asked.
“What’s that?”
“Okay, so obviously I don’t know you from high school,” I said.
I leaned in a little closer, studying his face. Those eyes. That soft, warm expression on such a strong frame.
“Shit, I knew you were good at focusing when you were doing that crossword, but now you’re looking at me like I’m a piece of meat,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, leaning back again.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying it,” he said, his deep velvet voice almost like a purr.
He rolled up one of the sleeves of his flannel, revealing beautiful, looping tattoos on his forearm, and my memory sparked.
“The inn!” I said, slapping my hand onto the oak bartop. “Golden Goose Inn. You’re the groundskeeper?”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. He picked up his beer and took another swig. He was one of those guys who made every little gesture look hot somehow. Maybe that was what it was like to be someone like him—strong and gorgeous and sure of himself. You didn’t just look good lifting heavy boxes, you looked good doing every little thing in life.
“I was so impressed with the gardens at the inn,” I said. “I meant to say something to you while we were there, but… I was distracted.”
Distracted was a kind word for it. When I was at the Golden Goose, my life had been falling apart. Romantically, at least. My family had held a big reunion at the Golden Goose Inn six weeks ago. The most beautiful part of the inn had been the outside grounds—a courtyard surrounded by pathways leading through small gardens, all covered by a canopy of tall, lush trees. It was one of the most gorgeous outdoor settings I’d ever been in. While I was there, I’d seen the groundskeeper making his rounds through the gardens. I’d noticed his tattoos and admired him from afar. But I’d never actually gotten the chance to speak to him.
He looked me up and down again and it gave me a rush. I loved the feeling of his eyes on me. When was the last time I’d been checked out like that? I’d always been so faithful to my wife that I’d felt like I’d lost the muscle for flirting entirely.
“Is now a bad time to admit that I don’t remember meeting you?” he asked.
“Oh,” I said, fiddling with my pen in my hands. “We never actually—well, I guess we never met met, but I... saw you. At the inn. During the Forester family reunion?”
He nodded once, peering at me. “I remember your family. But I know I didn’t meet you, because I absolutely would have tried to take you home with me if I did.”
My chest suddenly felt molten. I felt my cheeks getting hot, too, which was embarrassing as all hell. I was a grown-ass man, single for the first time in fifteen years, and I couldn’t process being wanted or desired by anybody.
Let alone a man.
A really fucking hot one.
This was exactly why I had my rules about no dating for a long, long while. I couldn’t even be expected to act like a normal human being around someone I was attracted to.
I swallowed hard. “Well, that sounds unprofessional.”
He chuckled. “Definitely. It’s a good thing we didn’t meet. I try to meet guys in bars, not at my work.”
I realized I was gripping my pen hard. I set it down gently on the bar top and ran a hand through my hair. “I was a little distracted during the reunion,” I said. “I wish I’d introduced myself.”
“Too busy partying?”
I pulled in a long breath of air. “Too busy coping with my imminent divorce.”
His expression changed, softening a little. “I see.”
And there it was. I had killed the mood. The D-word tended to do that.
The molten feeling in my chest returned to a more familiar feeling, like there was a heavy stone resting above my heart. I hated it. It felt that way pretty often these days.