“If it isn’t my favorite bartender,” he says, flashing me his warm smile. “I thought you’d left, London.”
I feel my own smile flicker across my mouth when he emphasizes using my correct name, and he watches me balance the box on the sink and open it, pulling out bottles and setting them on the counter. My fallback persona is bubbly, but in this job—and especially with guys like Luke—I’ve had to train myself to be a bit more reserved. So far with him I sort of suck at it.
But what sucks even more right now is I’m a captive audience behind the bar, and I just don’t know what else we possibly have to talk about.
He’s still smiling as if he’s genuinely happy to see me, and damn if that same pull isn’t still there between us, drawing the hesitation out of me.
“Here all night,” I say, and I hope my smile is the appropriate balance of friendly yet distant. “I didn’t see you come back in.”
He’s in the middle of taking a drink when I say this, and his eyes widen over the top of it.
“?‘Come back in’?” Luke sets his beer down in front of him and spins the coaster so the logo is facing up.
My mom says when I was younger, she could always tell when I was lying or stalling for time: I’d frown and scrunch my brows together until I had this little line in the center of my forehead. Apparently I still do it; she says it’s my tell. I wonder now if Luke has a tell, too, and if that’s what I’m seeing in the subtle way he’s fidgeting. He’s been so calm and smooth all this time, seeing him like this is like watching a gazelle play cards with a lion.
“Yeah, I saw you leave with your friend. And yet, here you are.”
“You mean Dylan?” He turns his cocktail napkin so that it’s facing logo side up, too.
It takes me a second to realize he means Not-Joe. I smile, knowing I’ve inadvertently cracked an enormous mystery among my friends: Who in the ever-loving hell is Not-Joe?
“I think we both know I’m not talking about Dylan.”
Luke laughs and I know the second he’s pulled himself together because he smiles and it’s a magic trick the way the cocky-jock-curtain parts across his face. I have zero doubt Luke Sutter could charm his way out of almost anything.
“You mean Aubrey,” he says, nodding as if the pieces are finally coming together for him. “I just drove her home.”
I snort. “I bet you did.”
“I was making sure she didn’t try to drive,” he says. “Besides, you had your wicked way with me yesterday and then barely looked at me tonight. When could you possibly have noticed me leaving?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Luke, it’s totally fine. There’s zero weirdness on this end because you know where I stand. I’m just giving you shit.”
“Come on now, Dimples.” He immediately reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dollar bill, stuffing it in the jar. “I was just being a friend.”
Unable to resist, I tease, “Is ‘being a friend’ code for getting your dick sucked in the backseat?”
A laugh bursts from his throat. “It wasn’t like that,” he says, and one side of his mouth ratchets up a tiny bit higher than the other. “I promise.”
I pull a bottle from the group, open it, and replace the cap with a pour spout.
“Hang out with me for a bit,” he says quietly. “Tell me a story.”
I’m pulled up short for a breath by the sweetness of this request. As much as I want to, I just can’t peg this guy.
“In case you didn’t notice,” I say, motioning to my white shirt, apron, and the bar around us, “I’m sort of working right now.”
He looks around the bar. “Yeah, but it’s slow. Only about half the tables are full and most of those are dudes eating potato skins and drinking beer. They’d only call you over to see your legs in that skirt.” He stretches on his barstool to get a better look. “I know I would.”
I swat at him with a bar towel. “Why aren’t you hanging out with your friends?”
He shrugs. “My friends are all assholes, and none of them can beat me at Titanfall.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “I’d think that’d be a selling point, given your sad performance. How’s the manly pride today?”
He leans in and grins. “I think we both know my manly pride recovered just fine last night.”
I roll my eyes, fighting a laugh, and move to step away, but he reaches for my arm.
“And totally serious for a minute,” Luke says. “Tell me how you got so good at that game. I’m man enough to admit that I got spanked, but I need you to tell me all your secrets.”
I shrug, working my arm away from his gentle grip. The feel of his hand makes me flush, and I remember how they felt curled around my hips, working my body over his. “Just a lot of practice.”
“See, now I never would have guessed that. And not because you’re a girl,” he says, holding up a hand when he seems to anticipate what I guarantee would be a brilliant feminist rant, “but because you look like you spend all your time on a surfboard, not sitting on a couch.”