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Which leaves me shifting uncomfortably as I try to decide how to politely extricate myself as the women press closer, making me the middle of an unwanted Eli sandwich.
“Eli?”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Don’t let that be?—
I glance up and wish I had done more to extricate myself from the women on either side of me. Where’s a TARDIS when you need one?
Because a few feet away, Bailey stares. A baby deer, wide-eyed and blinking in undisguised shock. Her eyes dart from my face to the women petting me like a zoo animal. I don’t miss the way her expression falls. Her surprise morphs into disappointment.
Not that I can blame her. This looks …bad.
I’m a caricature of a professional athlete. The kind of man who treats relationships—and women—like paper plates.
Though it’s a stereotype for a reason, there are also plenty of athletes who don’t fall into that category. Me being one. I’ve dated, but always with a more serious intent in mind. Never casually. Always hoping I’ve found someone who could be more.
Except, that’s not how this looks. It’s not howIlook.
Two women rather than just one? No biggie—just a typical night at the bar!
And it matters to me. Deeply.
“Hey, Bailey. I, uh … ” There’s nothing more I can say while I still have Brenda and Kellie on either side of me like twin Barbie gargoyles.
If my mom were here, the disapproving look she’d give would be enough to burn a hole through my shirt.
Bailey’s cheeks flush, reminding me with a slice of regret how easily I can make her blush with a teasing word.
Happy blushing. This is most definitelyunhappy blushing.
She’s already starting to back away. In a long overdue move, I hop to my feet, dislodging the two women as politely yet firmly as I can. Brushing past them, I ignore their twin huffs of annoyance and step into Bailey’s space.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” Her lips tilt up, then quickly drop, her smile landing somewhere near her shoes.
“So, what's up?” I wave, then drop my hand because,really, that’s the conversation starter I’m going with?“You're here … in a bar.”
From somewhere behind me, I hear Alec, who returned with a beer just in time to witness this, snort. I ignore him. But I agree with the sentiment. It’s like my brain has been transported back to middle school when I tried and failed to make conversation with my cute lab partner in science.
So, dissections, huh? How about that dead squid?
“You’re also in a bar,” Bailey points out, her smile widening.
“Yeah, but you’re …” I don’t know where that sentence is going, but probably nowhere that’s going to do me any favors. I clamp my mouth shut.
I'm fidgeting, suddenly full of energy that feels like it’s erupting out of me. Probably leftover embarrassment from Bailey catching me at the exact moment she did. Or from the fact that in our last conversation, I halfway proposed.
I shove my hands in my pockets, then feel awkward and pull them back out, crossing them over my chest. But I saw something on TikTok recently on body language, and the guy said crossing your arms over your chest looks hostile. Or like you’re trying to show off your muscles.
Unfolding my arms, I drop my hands to my sides where they hang like anchors.
Why am I suddenly so aware of my hands? How is it that they feel huge and clumsy, like I’m standing here in street clothes but wearing my hockey gloves? What do I do with my hands normally, and why can’t I just do that now?
Bailey laughs softly. “Tell me the truth, Eli—did you think Ilivedat the shelter?”
I laugh too, pleased that she’s teasing me. Or … flirting? Is this the Bailey version of flirting? The way the pink in her cheeks deepens to red tells me maybe it is.
Somehow, this dispels my nervous energy. I grin. “Doyou live at the shelter?”
