you, do you? Or would you rather not associate with the riffraff?”
“Are you the riffraff in that scenario?”
“The help.”
To be honest, on any other night, I might have been above having a drink with him. Not because I’m a snob, but because it’s pretty low to walk into a bar and start drinking with some random guy you barely know. But that night, I was willing to lower my standards of behavior. That night, I was not proud.
“If you’re the help, then count me in,” I said, and raised my glass.
He clinked his glass against mine.
“Sláinte,” he said.
“Cin cin.”
We both took a swig. He’d made the drink powerful. I liked feeling it burn going down. I liked feeling the room fade away and start swaying. I needed to forget, and this guy was helping me do it.
He leaned down and put his elbows on the slick wooden surface, his face a foot from mine. Even in the dim light, his eyes were very blue.
“Cin cin? That’s Italian, right?” he asked.
“My mom’s side. And boy, did she like to drink. I get that from both sides actually.”
“The other side—?”
“Irish.”
“Ah, that explains the freckles,” he said, and traced a finger gently across the bridge of my nose.
Wow. His touch was so unexpected, so forward, it made me squirm on my barstool.
“Drat, thought I covered those with makeup,” I said, and my voice came out several octaves lower than normal. My breathing was quicker. I flashed on this movie I’d seen years ago. A woman picks up a guy in a bar and within minutes they’re screwing like animals up against the fence in the alley. I told myself, That’s crazy, stop this, calm down, act your age. I picked up my glass and downed the rest of it in one gulp. Then I held it against my cheek, and my neck, hoping the icy coldness of the glass would still the throbbing in my blood and make me behave. But no.
“Never cover those freckles. They’re perfect. Irish and Italian together is the most beautiful combination. But I bet you’ve heard that all your life.”
I was not entirely certain whether he was flirting with me for real, like he truly found me attractive. Or whether he was joke-flirting with an older woman, to get a tip or something. Not that I cared. But I was conscious of the gap between us—age-wise, class-wise, whatever-you-want-to-call-it-wise. I wasn’t taking myself too seriously, and I wasn’t sure yet that I’d be taking Aidan home. In fact, I was still telling myself not to go there. But I hadn’t thought about Jason and the crash-and-burn disaster of my marriage in at least three minutes, which had to be some kind of miracle.
“Your glass is empty. Hold on, let me get you another.”
He went away and came right back with a fresh vodka. If nothing else, I’d be giving him one helluva tip for the drinks. But thinking about cash reminded me about the missing money, and I got upset all over again.
Then he started asking me about myself, and that distracted me.
“So, do you live here full-time, or are you a weekender, like everybody else in town these days?”
“It was supposed to be just weekends. But … I don’t know. My life is up in the air right now. I’m taking things one day at a time.”
“Yeah? That doesn’t sound good. Anything you want to talk about?”
He sounded so sincere that it’s possible I teared up. I was very vulnerable right then.
“No. Thank you. My life is a mess, but I shouldn’t impose. We barely know each other.”
“It’s fine, really. Listen, I’ve been there. I’ve had troubles of my own. The temptation is to keep everything in and go through it alone. But it can help to talk. It can especially help to talk to the bartender.”
That got a laugh out of me.
“No joke,” Aidan said. “We’re like priests. We hear confessions, and we give our own special absolution. It comes in a bottle, though.”
“I like that. Sounds like more fun than the kind the church doles out.”
“For sure. Freshen your drink?”
My glass was empty already. I handed it to him, and he walked away. I started wondering how much he knew about me. He claimed he’d tended bar at my party. I didn’t recall seeing him that night, but the party had been crowded, and the catering staff large. If he was there, did he hear about Jason and the Russian woman? Were the other guests gossiping about me, about the epic fail of my marriage, in front of him? Did he think that’s why I was here, flirting him up? I thought I was being all sexy and mysterious, but instead I was a pathetic old cougar, dumped by her husband for another woman, hitting on a guy young enough to be my son. No, wait—I wasn’t that old. My much younger brother.
He came back with fresh drinks for both of us.
“So,” I said. “Are you from around here?”
That line was corny as hell. I started thinking maybe I was a pathetic drunken cougar coming on to a hot young guy after all. But the nice thing about Aidan was, he didn’t seem to mind. He took a swig of his drink and gave me that slow, sexy grin.
“Born and raised, never made it out. Prob’ly gonna die here.”
“You could do a lot worse than this place. It’s beautiful. The water, the sky. The town is adorable.”
“The part you go to, maybe. Guys like me, we’re on the outside looking in. I meet a woman like you. Beautiful, sophisticated. I can imagine what your life is like, but I can never really touch it, you know.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Here we are right now, having a conversation.”
He shrugged. “I think you do know what I mean. We could have this conversation. We could even have chemistry. But you’re out of my league. And I know that, so I would never take it further.”
I was thinking about telling him to give it a try and see what happened. But before I could decide to, somebody called his name, and he stood up. The rush of disappointment I felt was intense, and I was drunk enough to give it voice.
“Don’t go,” I said.
Aidan’s eyes widened.
“Hey, hold your horses. I’m busy here,” he said, over his shoulder, to whoever’d called him.
He leaned back down to me, his face inches from mine. I was looking at his mouth, and then he smiled again. His smile was killer.
“Hey, see those guys at the other end of the bar?”
“The cops?”
“Yeah. The
