Page 13 of Halo

Seriously? You literally can’t even coordinate drinking and breathing. Not the best time to be fantasizing about your dick getting wet.

Besides, Leah looks like she’s still in her early twenties—a baby compared to my nearly-forty-year-old ass. She’s young and vibrant, probably believes in love and marriage and soulmates. Hell, she probably cries during proposals and baby announcements.

I don’t need another complication, another woman getting attached to me when I don’t have the capacity to be anything more than a good time. And to be honest, I’m barely even that these days.

I clear my throat, shrugging her off. “Thank you. I-I’m fine.”

After slipping back behind the bar, she hands me a bottle of water from the walk-in fridge and resumes her work, straightening coasters, refilling garnishes, and arranging cocktail napkins into surprisingly elaborate geometric patterns. Working through her tasks, she hums along with the jukebox … totally unaware that I’m watching her—and I’m completely fascinated by her mundane movements.

The bell above the door chimes, breaking my reverie, and announcing the arrival of Hal, Skye’s great uncle and the unofficial grandpa of Low Places. He’s a fun, quirky old man who served in the army for over three decades. After his wife passed away several years ago, he became more of a regular, not wanting to spend his evenings at home alone.

He shuffles in, streams of rainwater pooling on the floor from his umbrella. A couple of men sharing beers in various corners of the place lift their bottles in acknowledgment as Hal makes his way to a stool at the far end of the bar where he can people-watch and drink.

“Hey, there, sweetheart,” he says, snagging Leah’s attention.

“Well, hey, there, Mr. Hal. So good to see you again.” She chuckles, tossing a towel over her shoulder and joining him.

The space suddenly feels empty, like the silence that follows the blast of a firework—and I welcome it. I came here for a quiet evening of drinking alone, not to be placated by a lightening bomb of sprinkles who sings nursery rhymes and plays pattycake with children all day.

Who looks fucking delicious in those goddamn jeans.

I mentally shake myself, forcing my attention on the highlight reel of various sports from over the weekend. As commentators argue over the questionable two-point conversion that cost the Texans the game last night, I finish my whiskey and immediately start abusing the straw, bending it between my fingers and chewing on the end.

“You know that's not edible, right?” Leah snickers, reappearing briefly to grab a cold beer from the walk-in.

I pause, glancing down at the mangled plastic.

“Gimme a second.” She pops open the top of the bottle. “I'll be right back.” After serving Hal his Shiner, Leah jogs back into Skye’s office. Within seconds, she returns with a large, plastic bag with at least a metric ton of sour gummy peach rings. Plopping it on the bar, she pushes it toward me while also taking away my crumpled straw. “There. This tastes better.”

I raise an eyebrow, staring at the massive amount of candy. “You just had this on hand?”

“You mean you don't?” She steals a piece. “No wonder you're having a bad day, cowboy.”

I chuff. “I'm fine.”

“Mmhmm.” She takes a bite.

“I am.”

“I believe you.” She pops the other half of her candy into her mouth.

I blink. “Is that sarcasm?”

“Not at all.” She grabs another piece. “I believe that you believe you're fine even though you and I—and that mutilated stirring straw—know that you are not fine.”

I let out a humorless snicker. “Are you my shrink now?”

“I was going for friend.”

“You want to be my friend?”

“Well, it depends.”

I lean in on my elbows. “On?”

She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a deck of playing cards. “If you're a cheater or not.” She giggles, removing the cards from the box and straightening them out. “They’re a bit of a mess. We had rainy-day recess the other day, and we played—”

“Listen …” I interrupt, waving her down. “You seem like a really nice girl and all …”