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“Nope, just never been to The Eagle’s Den.”
“What can I get you, Brett?” Charlotte asks once she’s made her way over to us.
He turns to me. “What are you drinking?”
What do I order this time? Another Coke? Or do I go for something else?
“How about a whiskey sour?” I say. I don’t think I’ve had one before, but after hearing it’s Graham’s drink of choice, I’m curious.
Brett dips his chin. “Good choice.” He turns to Charlotte. “Lucy here will have a whiskey sour, and I’ll have my regular.”
“Got it,” Charlotte says, her lips pulled into a flat line. Definitely not the warm reception she gave Graham earlier. Interesting. She moves down the bar and pulls glasses from a rack and starts working on our order.
I turn toward Brett to find him staring at me. Not in a creepy way, but regardless, it gives me a sort of uneasy feeling. It feels like a heated look, in the same vein as the one Graham gave me in the pool the other day. But from Graham it was welcomed. From this guy it seems practiced, like he’s putting his moves on me.
“So, Brett, what do you do?” I ask, in an attempt to get him to stop his intense gaze.
“I’m a contractor,” he says, and his expression changes, but remnants of that fiery stare still linger. “Mostly with woodwork.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Banisters, mantels, anything really.”
“That’s great.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a nurse,” I tell him. “At Aspen General.”
“A nurse?” He studies my face, his eyes traveling slowly down to my mouth before returning to my eyes, a sly grin on his face. “So, you could teach me mouth-to-mouth, then?”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head slowly back and forth. “That was bad.”
“It was, wasn’t it? Sorry.” He gives me a sheepish sort of smile.
“I’ve heard worse.” This isn’t me trying to placate him. I really have heard some terrible lines.
He lifts his hat up with one hand and rubs his forehead with the other. “Seriously, though. How have I never run into you before? This town isn’t that big.”
“Fate?” I say, and he laughs. But really, I kind of mean it. That line of his sort of gave me the ick, and I was already not getting the best vibe from the guy. I realize I have little experience here, but I also know that a gut instinct is a gut instinct. I trust mine. Except when it sometimes has an issue with dairy, because that’s just rude.
Since I have limited practice around the opposite sex—at least the flirting kind—I’m not sure what to do here. I’d like to walk away, but also, he bought me a drink. I should at least have a sip of it, shouldn’t I? I don’t feel unsafe or anything—I just know Brett is not my kind of guy. My sometimes-dairy-hating gut is telling me this.
I look down the bar to check if Charlotte is done making our drinks to see she has them in front of her, looking ready to go, but is currently having a conversation with the woman who had her hands all over Graham earlier.
“So, tell me more about yourself,” Brett says.
I open my mouth to give him some kind of generic answer, but then someone walks up to us, and I know it’s Graham without even looking. I can just feel his presence. Something like relief washes over me as I look to my left to see him standing there, his arms folded, his mouth pulled into a straight line.
“How’s it going, Brett?” he says, his eyes solely on the man I’ve been talking to, his name sounding more like a cuss word with the way Graham spit it out.
“Graham Shackwell,” Brett says, looking surprised to see him, and also not all that pleased either.
“I see you’ve met Lucy,” Graham says, a head tilt toward me.
Brett’s eyes open slightly wider. “You two know each other?” He looks back and forth between Graham and me.
“She’s here with me,” Graham says.
