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“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Sneering, I push past him into the apartment and make my way to the kitchen, taking in the scent of cologne that’s officially overpowered the mold inside.

“A smartass, too, huh?”

Pumping soap onto my finger, I scrub the small scratch clean of blood and dry it with a piece of paper towel I stocked before he moved in. “Only to those I don’t know anything about.”

“Well, what would you like to know, Nola?”

“Do you have kids?”

“No.” He scratches behind the cat’s ears, letting it chew on his big fingers that probably don’t feel any pain. “And no wife, in case you were curious.”

“I wasn’t. But while we’re on the topic of curiosity, what are the tattoos about?”

With a sigh, he twists his arm and shows off the skulls inked on his bicep, once again drawing my eyes to his muscles. “Four years in the Army. Too much alcohol. Stupid decisions, mostly.”

“And you don’t drink excessively?”

“Define excessive.”

“Passed out on a park bench, with no recollection of how you got there.”

“I prefer to sleep in a bed. So, no, I guess not.”

“Okay, well. That’s a start.” I toss the used paper towel into the nearby trashcan and cross my arms.

“What about you?” he asks, and the way he cradles the cat like a baby, playing with it, makes for an adorable distraction.

“I prefer to sleep in a bed, too.”

“I meant, what is your tattoo all about?”

“When did you—” I scratch the back of my head, remembering he must’ve seen it on my back when I showed him the apartment. Too many painful memories associated with the rose tattooed there, though. “Maybe some other time.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, I’ll let you get back to your kitty bath. Have a good night.”

His eyes lift to mine, and for a split second, he looks like something out of a magazine. Dark, alluring, far too sexy to be living in the same place my Nan lived out her final days. “Goodnight Nola.”

* * *

I arrive at the bar, really not wanting to venture inside, but I don’t have much of a choice, unless I’m cool with watching Dale blow up his tab. It’s crowded on a Saturday night, and loud, and smells like pennies. Everything I didn’t want my Saturday night to be, but it boils my blood, the way some people can be so predatory toward decent people. Dale has always been good to his wait-staff, always looking out for us whenever a customer gets belligerent, or we’ve got personal shit going on. I’d have never gotten through Denny’s death without Dale’s patience, so it pisses me off that someone like Beth would take advantage of him that way.

My being here is solely based on principle—and the fact that Beth and Harv are already on my shit-list, for the note.

I plow through the crowd toward the two twisted lovebirds, who sit laughing with Dale, Simon, and another waitress from the diner, Shayna.

Simon is the oddball of the group, but I’m less concerned with him, the moment I catch sight of Dale. Steps slowing as I approach, I take in my boss’s condition: eyes alert, not wobbling like he’s trashed, or looking the least bit troubled that he supposedly just offered drinks on the house.

“What’s going on?”

All eyes turn to me, and the moment Dale shakes his head, I know I’ve been duped.

“She showed up! Ha! Ten bucks, Shay!” Bethany does some stupid little dance that leaves me frowning, as I try to piece the scene together. “Pay up, bitch.”

At this point, my fingers are already balled into tight fists, ready to throw a punch. “You said Dale was trashed off his ass.”

Dale’s expression is half remorseful and half amused, and wholly irritating the shit out of me. “Sorry, Nola. Beth said it was the only way to get you to come out tonight. But your drinks are on me. For your trouble.”