anywhere near Bobby, or Mad Dog, who was downing shots to Bobby’s left. “Hey, Cappelli, move over three stools.”
“What?” He glanced warily at the large, bearded biker. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
“You’re nuts.”
“If you need a fourth, I’ll play tonight. But you gotta move now.”
“I’m holding you to it.” Cappelli got up, stepped back and nearly plowed into the woman. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t...” His voice trailed off as he turned, his eyes level with her chest. Bobby was short and she was wearing very high heels. He looked at Wyatt. “You dog.”
“What?” Wyatt said, laughing. “Move and let the lady sit.”
Bobby pulled out a stool for her. Then the jerk sat right next to her. That wasn’t the deal.
“Am I chasing you away?” she asked.
“I should be so lucky,” Wyatt said, shooting Cappelli a warning look. “Cricket, right?”
Her brows rose and she blinked at him.
“We met this afternoon.”
“Oh, I remember,” she said with a slow smile. “It’s just... I haven’t been called Cricket in a while and I’m trying to get used to it again.”
“So, what should we call you?” Bobby was all teeth, his body twisted around, elbow on the bar, facing her.
Wyatt shook his head. “Ignore him. He’ll go away. Now, what can I get you?”
She laughed. “I believe you’re supposed to surprise me?”
“Right.” Wyatt thought about it as he took in her manicured hands, neat, trimmed nails with a faint gloss, nothing flashy. She wore minimal jewelry, earrings and a watch, both classy but understated. No ring, and if she’d ever worn one, it had been a long time. “Did you drive?”
“I walked.”
“You staying at the Seaside?”
She nodded. “Only ten minutes by beach,” she said with the smile that had drawn him in the first time he’d seen her. “Did I pass? Do I get some alcohol now?”
“Sounds like you need it.”
“Most definitely.”
“Yeah, reunions must be a b—” He didn’t finish.
“A bitch? Yep.”
He’d already decided what to pour her. Nothing fancy, not for her. Figuring he’d start off with something as high-end as those earrings, he grabbed a glass and a bottle of his Lagavulin twelve-year Scotch, which he liked better than the Glenfiddich. Neat or on the rocks, he wasn’t sure about that detail.
Wyatt went for neat. And was rewarded with another one of her gorgeous smiles.
* * *
SO HE’D GUESSED she was a Scotch drinker. Wyatt was either really good at reading people, or Cricket hadn’t left the no-nonsense image behind in Chicago like she thought. She watched him hesitate, probably wondering if she drank it on the rocks.
Seeing Ginny and Harlow had felt good, and it would be even better when they connected with Jade once she straightened out her delayed flight—she was hoping to arrive sometime around 2:00 a.m. Jessica—no, Cricket—hoped she didn’t regret promising to wait up for her. Ginny had left the reception early to pick up her daughter from a party. Harlow had hooked up with a football player from back in the day, a guy Cricket barely remembered. They’d begged her to join them but she’d lied. Told them she had a headache and she still hadn’t seen Ronny yet. That part about her dad was true.
They’d talked on the phone when he returned from the fishing charter. She’d just gotten to the reception and he’d had a long, taxing day and suggested she come over for breakfast tomorrow. Waiting for anything wasn’t Ronny’s strong suit, and after what Ginny had told her about his accident, Cricket hoped he wasn’t avoiding her.
No, that was crazy. Ronny probably hadn’t given it a thought. Nothing fazed him. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that Cricket might be worried about his health.
She looked down at the Scotch the bartender slid across the bar to her. Neat. Perfect. She’d been surprised that he hadn’t given her the Glenfiddich that was already down, but had gone for the top of the line. Trying to score points? When she took her first sip, she gave him a ten out of ten.
She heard the guy next to her sigh, and realized he’d been trying to hit on her, but she’d been lost in her own thoughts, and if there was one thing she’d learned how to do in law school, it was ignore distractions. Luckily his phone rang and he quickly got involved in the call.
“So, did I get it right?” Wyatt folded his muscled arms across his chest and leaned back. His gray eyes looked darker than they had this afternoon, his stubbled jaw, as well. And damn, he was still hot.
“Oh, yes.” She lifted the glass in a salute, then took another sip. “But you would’ve been right with wine or beer, as well.”
“Huh.” He frowned. “What kind of beer? Specialty microbrews made in small batches, or...”
“Actually, I’m not that picky when it comes to beer. Lately I’ve been leaning toward Corona. Unless I’m having sushi, then it’s...” She flashed back to the evening in Grant’s office, and just like that her mood plummeted.
“Kirin?”
She blinked at Wyatt, and seeing curiosity flare in his eyes, she lowered her gaze and nodded.
“Got an order.” The woman’s voice came from directly behind her.
“Be right there,” Wyatt said. “Hey, would you prefer something else? This being a vacation maybe you want something pink and frilly?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Blue, then. With a couple of cherries, a matching umbrella?” he said as he drifted toward the end of the bar.
Cricket smiled, watching him take a slip from the blonde waitress who was staring at her. Wyatt said something to the young woman and she hurried around the bar to the beer tap. While he mixed drinks, she filled mugs. He didn’t look too happy when she seemed to go out of her way to stand close enough that her hip rubbed against his thigh. But then maybe that was just part of the gig. Just because he’d flirted with Cricket didn’t mean he wasn’t playing with the Happy Meal toys.
Nope. He laid down the law. Cricket couldn’t actually hear what he’d said but she was good at reading body language. Besides, the waitress hastily hopped a foot to her right and, stone-faced, finished filling three mugs. Maybe Wyatt wasn’t just the bartender but the owner. Not that it mattered, at least not to Cricket.
She’d be here for another two days, spend some time with her dad, catch up with old friends and acquaintances, and then return to Chicago and tell Grant she hadn’t changed her mind. Sanford Burbidge could fry for all she cared.
