Page 71 of The Moment He Couldn’t Walk Away

“Doesn’t matter how they look, bud, it’s that they work and allow you to function without pain.”

“True.” He started to put away the Peachy Keen fixings, lining the bottles up with the labels facing out the way Red liked them.

“She’d be good for you. In fact, you both need something right now, so maybe think about asking her out on a date,” Ryder Duke said, not looking up from the glass he was pouring whiskey into.

“Who?” But Finch knew exactly who Ryder thought would be good for him.

“Nina, and don’t BS me that you haven’t just spent the past few minutes watching her dance.”

“Not looking for anything other than getting healthy, Ryder, so take off your matchmaking hat.”

“Just saying it could work,” the man said, nodding to the dance floor, which meant Finch could look at her again.

Nina was now doing a maneuver accompanied by a twist that did things to her breasts he could do without because it brought back the night they’d spent together and what they’d felt like to touch and taste.

“That expression on your face sure doesn’t tell me you’re disinterested,” Ryder said conversationally.

“Go do some work, Duke. Bradford looks slammed,” Finch said, nodding toward the far end of the bar where Bradford was fielding orders three deep.

“Finch!” His mother was his next customer, wearing a hand-knitted shawl in natural tones, wrapped around her upper body. Under that would be a kaftan of some description, and under that, he had no wish to hazard a guess, because, direct Meadow McAllister quote, “Clothing is a socially conditioned convenience rather than a necessity.”

“Hey, Mom. What can I get you?”

“I like your glasses.”

“Thanks. Dr. Hannah said they’ll help my eyes in certain light.”

“Excellent. Can I have a mulled wine, please, eldest son.”

“I can do that.” In fact, it was the easiest thing he’d do all evening, since it was sitting in a slow cooker at the end of the bar, and all he had to do was lift the lid and ladle it out, the smell of cinnamon and cloves cutting through the beer-and-wine fug of the room.

He moved to where it sat, took down a glass, and filled it with steaming burgundy liquid, the steam fogging his new glasses for a second. He did a survey of the room as he handed it over, looking for Nina again. She was laughing at something the other barman, Kurt, who was a tourist apparently, but needed the work, was saying, leaning in close to hear him over the music. The spike of jealousy was unwelcome.

“Here you go, Mom, and I’ve got it,” he said, handing the glass to her.

“Such a sweet boy.”

“Some would disagree,” Ryder muttered from beside him.

The music changed to a song about raining men, and the women erupted like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment. Glasses shot skyward, and someone let out a shriek that could’ve shattered the bottles behind the bar.

“Up on the bar,” Red said to Ryder and Finch with the authority of a man both men were about to ignore. “It’s dancing time.”

“Absolutely not,” Ryder said.

“Categorically,” Finch agreed.

“It’s tradition,” Red said, like that settled the matter. “Besides, aren’t you meant to be good at taking orders?” he said to Finch.

“Not anymore,” he replied.

“Like I said, it’s tradition,” Red added.

“Since when?” Finch demanded. “We were born and raised in this town, and not once has anyone mentioned bar dancing to this song.”

“I can’t dance,” Ryder said, already edging sideways toward Finch in support. “And I especially can’t dance on thirty inches of wood. That’s not a stage, that’s a diving board.”

Red unfolded his beefy arms, refolded them, and said nothing. The silence alone moved mountains.