“Another beer?” Smithy asks me from behind the bar.
I pull my gaze off Abbi and nod. “The Jackson Brews hazy, if you have any left.”
Smithy nods, fills a glass, and slides it across the bar. “I see you checkin’ out Abbi’s new friend. Hot, isn’t she?”
I do a half-turn and look. I was focused on Abbi and didn’t pay any attention to her friend. The blonde is Abbi’s opposite in almost every way. Her clothes, makeup, and tattoos are flashy, whereas everything about Abbi is a calculated move to keep people from noticing her. I’ve always known this, but with last week’s added little peek into her self-esteem issues, it’s as obvious as ever. “Do you know who she is?” I ask Smithy.
“Works at The Orchid. New to town. You should see if she wants to get your mind off you-know-who.”
You know who. As if Amy now has the powers of Voldemort and Smithy can’t bring himself to say her name.
“The new girl seems more your type than mine,” I say, turning back to Smithy before he catches me staring at Abbi. He’s far too perceptive, and I have no intention of sharing my plans.
Smithy shrugs. “They’re all my type.” He winks before heading down the bar to help another customer.
When I turn back to check on Abbi, her friend is climbing out of the booth and swinging her purse over her shoulder. Perfect timing. I wait until she’s stepped away before making my way across the room and taking the empty seat.
Abbi looks up at me from where she was tucking her phone into her purse, and I realize she was about to head out too. “Hey, Dean,” she says wearily.
“Hey, Abs.” My smile falls away when I realize she’s dressed up—a black short-sleeve shirt that falls off one shoulder, and pink lip gloss any man in his right mind would immediately want to taste. “Where are you heading?”
She frowns. “Home. Why?”
I shrug. “Just making sure you weren’t going to do something crazy, like have Vince Brunetti help you with your . . . confidence issues.”
She closes her eyes, and I see her questioning every decision that brought her to this moment. “You know, I used to be one of those people who didn’t believe in regrets. Who thought they were a waste of time. You’ve cured me of that. I officially have regrets—well, at least one. One big regret.”
“Let me guess.” I grin. “Not letting me kiss you last Halloween?”
Her cheeks get pink and her brown eyes narrow, and I get all of her attention. Fuck me, but I’ve always loved riling her up. “I didn’t think you remembered that,” she says.
I scoff. “Of course I remember it.” That and your twenty-first. But we don’t talk about Halloween, so we definitely don’t talk about her twenty-first. “I was a little buzzed, but I wasn’t hammered. You flat-out rejected me, Abigail Matthews.”
“Did you just full-name me?”
“Yeah, that’s what you do when you’re disappointed in someone, right? Because the nickname can’t carry the weight of your disappointment?”
She folds her arms, and her shirt shifts to expose the swell of her cleavage. My mouth goes dry. I’ve been thinking about her a lot this week—maybe even latching on to thoughts of her. She’s my security blanket, keeping me from doing something stupid. “And why are you disappointed in me?”
“That night,” I say, dragging my gaze back to her face, “I was disappointed that you didn’t let me kiss you.” I stop at her mouth—full and pink and shiny. “I wanted to.”
“Well . . .” She swallows then shakes her head. “It’s probably better you didn’t, though, right?”
“I don’t know.” I lean back. “I’ve told myself that quite a few times, but . . . hell, if I could stop thinking about it, maybe I’d agree.”
She squeaks and glances toward the exit, as if planning her escape.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“I’m thinking you’re confusing me.”
I smile. It’s a start. “How so?”
“Because.” She lifts her chin and levels me with the fuck off gaze that serves so well to keep other guys at a distance. “You don’t want to kiss me. I rejected you, and you took it as some sort of challenge. If you think you want to kiss me, it’s only because your fragile male ego can’t stand that I passed on the opportunity.”
“Hmm.” I prop an elbow on the table and lean on my hand. “Maybe you should let me kiss you now, then. Just to test your theory.”
She blinks at me, pink creeping into her cheeks. I love frazzling her. “Take my word for it. If you kissed me, that strange impulse would go away before you could say big mistake.”
“Doubt it,” I mutter. “But maybe we should recap . . .”
“Please don’t.”
I hold up one finger. “You think you’re bad in bed, which isn’t a thing, but you persist in believing it despite my clear and rational argument to the contrary.”