“I will now, I promise.” She pulled her keys from her bag. “We can just run up there right now and—-”
“No can do, dude. It’s five o’clock straight up.” He waved his watch to prove it. “I’m off the clock.”
“But—-”
But nothing, he was gone, walking off into the downpour, vanishing into the fog like they were on the set of a horror flick.
Thor stopped growling.
“Great,” Pru muttered. “Just great.”
Old Guy slid his dentures around some. “I could hook up your cable for you. I’ve seen someone do it once or twice.”
The old man, like the old Pacific Heights building around them, had seen better days, but both held a certain old--fashioned charm—-which didn’t mean she trusted him inside her apartment. “Thanks,” she said. “But this is for the best. I don’t really need cable TV all that bad.”
“But the finals of So You Think You Can Dance are on tomorrow night.”
She sighed. “I know.”
Another bolt of lightning lit the sky, and again was immediately followed by a crack of thunder that echoed off the courtyard’s stone walls and shook the ground beneath their feet.
“That’s my exit,” Old Guy said and disappeared into the alley.
Pru got Thor upstairs, rubbed him down with a towel and tucked him into his bed. She’d thought she wanted the same for herself, but she was hungry and there was nothing good in her refrigerator. So she quickly changed into dry clothes and went back downstairs.
Still raining.
One of these days she was going to buy an umbrella. For now, she made the mad dash toward the northeast corner of the building, past the Coffee Bar, the Waffle Shop, and the South Bark Mutt Shop—-all closed, past The Canvas tattoo studio—-open—-and went straight for the Irish Pub.
Without the lure of cable to make her evening, she needed chicken wings.
And nobody made chicken wings like O’Riley’s.
It’s not the chicken wings you’re wanting, a small voice inside her head said. And that was fact. Nope, what drew her into O’Riley’s like a bee to honey was the six--foot, broad--shouldered, dark eyes, dark smile of Finn O’Riley himself.
From her three weeks in the building, she knew the people who lived and/or worked here were tight. And she knew that it was in a big part thanks to Finn because he was the glue, the steady one.
She knew more too. More than she should.
“Hey!” Old Guy stuck his head out of the alley. “If you’re getting us wings, don’t forget extra sauce!”
She waved at him, and once again dripping wet, entered O’Riley’s where she stood for a second getting her bearings.
Okay, that was a total lie. She stood there pretending to get her bearings while her gaze sought out the bar and the guys behind it.
There were two of them working tonight. Twenty--two--year--old Sean was flipping bottles, juggling them to the catcalls and wild amusement of a group of women all belly up to the bar, wooing them with his wide smile and laughing eyes. But he wasn’t the one Pru’s gaze gravitated to like he was a rack of double--stuffed Oreo cookies.
Nope, that honor went to the guy who ran the place, Sean’s older brother. All lean muscle and easy confidence, Finn O’Riley wasn’t pandering to the crowd. He never did. He moved quickly and efficiently without show, quietly hustling to fill the orders, keeping an eye on the kitchen, as always steady as a rock under pressure, doing all the real work.
Pru could watch him all day. It was his hands, she’d decided, they were constantly moving with expert precision. He was busy, way too busy for her, of course, which was only one of the many reasons why she hadn’t allowed herself to fantasize about him doing deliciously naughty, wicked things to her in her bed.
Whoops. That was another big fat lie.
She’d totally fantasized about him doing deliciously naughty, wicked things to her in bed. And also out of it.
He was her unicorn.
He bent low behind the bar for something and an entire row of women seated on the barstools leaned in unison for a better view. Meerkats on parade.
When he straightened a few seconds later, he was hoisting a huge crate of something, maybe clean glasses, and not looking like he was straining too much either. This was in no doubt thanks to all that lean, hard muscle visible beneath his black tee and faded jeans. His biceps bulged as he turned, allowing her to see that his Levi’s fit him perfectly, front and back.
If he noticed his avid audience, he gave no hint of it. He merely set the crate down on the counter, and ignoring the women ogling him, nodded a silent hello in Pru’s direction.
She stilled and then craned her neck, looking be-hind her.
No one there. Just herself, dripping all over his floor.