A Stranger on the Beach. Michele Campbell

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      10

      The bar was crowded and noisy, and all the booths were taken. I was lucky to find an empty barstool at the far end, near the bathrooms. The bathroom doors kept opening and closing, letting out powerful blasts of air freshener. The place was a dive, with kitschy beach décor—all anchors and ropes and fake lobster traps. I’d just taken off my coat, and I was already tempted to put it back on and leave. But then the bartender came over. I remembered him from the beach. I remembered thinking he’d seemed dangerous at first, then deciding I was wrong. But that moment was when I noticed him for real. I noticed that he had one of those perfect, lazy smiles that make the world seem warmer and more welcoming. There was even a dimple in one cheek. He was wearing this deep-blue chambray shirt that matched his eyes, and khaki pants. His hair was brushed. He didn’t look thuggish tonight. He looked like a college guy, the one in your dorm that all the girls had a crush on.

      “Hey, you. I was hoping you’d come back,” he said.

      I practically looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else.

      “Seriously?”

      “Yeah. You ran off last time, before we got a chance to talk.”

      “Um. Well. Doesn’t look like we’ll get much chance to talk tonight. Busy in here for a Wednesday.”

      Stupid line. But I was feeling self-conscious. I’m not generally the sort of woman who goes to bars alone, and to have the hot bartender start flirting me up right away—it threw me.

      “We have our two-for-one happy hour on Wednesdays. Everybody likes a cheap drink,” he said.

      “I could use a cheap drink myself tonight. I’m Caroline, by the way.”

      “I know your name. You told me on the beach, and then I tended bar at your party. I wouldn’t forget a woman like you.”

      He had a sexy voice, gravelly, a little rough. I extended my hand. He gripped it for half a second too long, gazing into my eyes. He was extremely handsome. Sandy hair gone blond at the ends, blue eyes that crinkled at the edges from staring into the sun, tall and broad-shouldered, perfect white teeth. Like a surfer from a beach movie, or an underwear model. I should have gotten up and walked out right then. But things were so messed up, and I needed to dull the pain. So instead, I asked his name.

      God, was I stupid.

      “You forgot my name?”

      He actually looked hurt. I told myself he was probably pretending, and anyway, I secretly liked it. His reaction should’ve been a warning sign. Instead, it gave me a cheap thrill.

      “I’m sorry. I’m not good with names.”

      He nodded. “Aidan Callahan. Nice to meet for real this time, Caroline—?”

      “Stark.”

      “Can I get you a Moscow mule, Caroline Stark?”

      “Oh. No. Those were just for the party. I’ll take a vodka and soda, if you don’t mind. That’s my drink.”

      “Good to know. Be right back.”

      But he didn’t come right back. A lot of the customers seemed to know one another, and they all knew him. I liked that. I like a guy who’s outgoing. Jason’s reserved, even sullen sometimes. I can’t always tell what he’s thinking. But I watched Aidan glad-handing the cops at the other end of the bar and thought, That’s a simple, down-home, easygoing guy. And easy on the eyes. If only I were ten years younger, or not married, I’d … No. I’d better stop thinking like that, or I’d end up acting on it when I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.

      They were teasing him as he poured another round, calling his name. Aidan. Aidan Callahan. An Irishman, obviously; we had that in common.

      Aidan came back smiling, carrying two drinks and a dish of mixed nuts.

      “Are those both for me? Do I look like that much of a lush?” I said.

      I gave him a seductive laugh, and thought, Where the hell did that come from? It had been a long time since I flirted. I wasn’t sure I’d remember how, but apparently it was like riding a bicycle. As he slid one of the drinks closer, his hand brushed mine, and I got this thrill. He was looking at me with—I have to say it—lust in his eyes. It was blatant. And I’m thinking, this could be my chance for revenge on Jason. Not to murder him, okay? To sleep with the hot bartender, like any red-blooded betrayed American wife would do in similar circumstances.

      “Nope, one of ’em’s for me,” Aidan said. “You don’t mind if I drink with you, do you? Or would you rather not associate with the riffraff?”

      “Are you the riffraff in that scenario?”

      “The help.”

      To be honest, on any other night, I might have been above having a drink with him. Not because I’m a snob, but because it’s pretty low to walk into a bar and start drinking with some random guy you barely know. But that night, I was willing to lower my standards of behavior. That night, I was not proud.

      “If you’re the help, then count me in,” I said, and raised my glass.

      He clinked his glass against mine.

      “Sláinte,” he said.

      “Cin cin.”

      We both took a swig. He’d made the drink powerful. I liked feeling it burn going down. I liked feeling the room fade away and start swaying. I needed to forget, and this guy was helping me do it.

      He leaned down and put his elbows on the slick wooden surface, his face a foot from mine. Even in the dim light, his eyes were very blue.

      “Cin cin? That’s Italian, right?” he asked.

      “My mom’s side. And boy, did she like to drink. I get that from both sides actually.”

      “The other side—?”

      “Irish.”

      “Ah, that explains the freckles,” he said, and traced a finger gently across the bridge of my nose.

      Wow. His touch was so unexpected, so forward, it made me squirm on my barstool.

      “Drat, thought I covered those with makeup,” I said, and my voice came out several octaves lower than normal. My breathing was quicker. I flashed on this movie I’d seen years ago. A woman picks up a guy in a bar and within minutes they’re screwing like animals up against the fence in the alley. I told myself, That’s crazy, stop this, calm down, act your age. I picked up my glass and downed the rest of it in one gulp. Then I held it against my cheek, and my neck, hoping the icy coldness of the glass would still the throbbing in my blood and make me behave. But no.

      “Never cover those freckles. They’re perfect. Irish and Italian together is the most beautiful combination. But I bet you’ve heard that all your life.”

      I was not entirely certain whether he was flirting СКАЧАТЬ