I expect to find the mullet man when I turn, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Instead, there’s a tall, handsome—albeit too young for me—man with a deliciously crooked smile. That smile widens, unveiling a set of cavernous dimples. Oh my.
“You are definitely not from around here,” he drawls.
I swivel and face him for a better look. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Because the girls from these parts drink one of three things: White Claws, High Noons, or Jack and Coke. And the third I keep away from because that means they’re going to wind up sloppy drunk.”
“I suppose the reason I don’t drink any of those is because I’m a woman, not a girl.”
Dimples looks me up and down. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when they meet mine. “You sure are.”
I chuckle. He’s corny and over the top, but something about him appeals to me. It could be the confidence. There’s nothing I’m drawn to more than a confident man. Which is why Sam isn’t the first cop I’ve dated.
“What’s your name?” I tilt my head. “Or should I just call you Dimples?”
“Name’s Noah.” He smiles, flashes those things like a weapon, and holds out a hand. “And you are?”
“Elizabeth.” I put my hand in his, but instead of shaking, he lifts my knuckles to his lips and kisses just above them.
“Pleasure. Where you from, darlin’?” He waves his hand. “Wait. Let me guess.”
“This should be interesting . . .” I cross one leg over the other. Noah’s eyes drop to follow before looking up unapologetically and wagging a finger at me.
“I bet you’re from New York City.”
“Indeed I am. What gave it away?”
“You just have that look about you.”
“And what look is that?”
He grins. “Like you can eat a man alive.”
“Considering you’re standing here and just bought me a drink, I take it you enjoy being eaten alive?”
“I don’t mind it.” He leans in, putting his mouth next to my ear, and whispers, “But I’m a gentleman, so I’ll always do the eatin’ first.”
The bartender interrupts, which I’m grateful for because this young’in has got me all hot and bothered. She places another drink in front of me and lifts her chin to Noah. “You want your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
She raps her knuckles against the bar twice. “Coming right up.”
Noah slides into the seat next to me and scoots it over a few inches until his knee is touching mine. “So what brings a city girl down to these parts?”
“I’m visiting family.” I pick up my drink and take a healthy swig, watch the man next to me over the glass. “Tell me, how old are you, Noah?”
“Old enough.”
“Old enough for what?”
He grins again. “Anything you want to do.”
I chuckle. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
Over the next hour, Noah and I talk. Surprisingly, we have a lot in common—even though I did the math when he said the year he graduated high school and know he’s ten years younger than me. Noah is a writer. He pens a sports column for the Louisiana Post, but he wants to write a novel
someday. He has a degree in journalism from Tulane, runs half marathons, and is willing to travel for a good meal at a restaurant. He’s read Tolstoy and Faulkner, but prefers to read Stephen King on a night when the wind is howling. And he’s currently remodeling his house all by himself, rather than hiring people.
After my third drink, I’m relaxed enough to forget the reason I’m down here for the first time since crossing the state line. But my gut tells me the man next to me could make me forget my name for a while. So even though I rarely take up with a man under forty, I decide to make an exception. Noah excuses himself to go to the men’s room, and I wait a few seconds, then hop down from the bar stool and follow.
I look around to see if anyone is watching before opening the door and slipping inside. Noah is facing the urinal. He doesn’t turn until he hears the clank of the lock. When he does, his eyes go wide.
I grin. “You can finish up.”
He chuckles and turns around. “Haven’t even started yet. But suddenly I think it can wait. Whatcha doin’ in the men’s room, beautiful?”
“Seeing if you’re worth going home with.”
