I shoot him a sidelong glare. “You have a problem with that?”
Those baby blue eyes soften. “No. Not at all. I’m from a little town even smaller than this one. Always loved them. I’m glad to finally be moving back to one.”
Somehow that surprises me. I just assumed they’d be from some big city. I immediately pegged them as tourists or maybe some vacation home owners—just in town for a bit. This is one of the reasons I have a hard time making meaningful relationships or finding people that I can truly trust. Outsideof Monica, most of the people that I’ve ever been close to haven’t stuck around. It’s hard to get invested in anyone—romantically or otherwise—because the odds are they won’t be around here for long.
My lips pull up into the slightest hint of a smile at that realization.
“You’re moving here… to Jackson?”
I ask him mid swig of his beer, catching him off guard. He nods, but some of his beer must go down wrong. He coughs, spilling it all over himself.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
I lean over the bar and grab a rag. On instinct, I pat down his front trying to dab it up. Through his beer soaked shirt, I feel the subtle lines of his firm muscular chest and stomach. OK. He’s definitely built like granite.
“Don’t worry about it. Hardly the first time I’ve spilled something on myself.” He grabs my wrist, stopping me from feeling him up anymore.
”Pretty but clumsy. Got it.” I smile nervously and he lets out a short laugh.
“You’re really hung up on the pretty thing.”
I feel the corners of my mouth tug up into a smile, and when I look into his eyes I notice they’re the most beautiful shade of sky blue I have ever seen. His eyes drop to my parted lips and I hear him swallow. I feel the pads of his worn fingertips gently rub my wrist, only adding to the unexpectedly charged air between us. A moment that feels like forever passes while I admire his large hands and the way his thumb strokes mine.
“You’re really into food.”
He looks up at me, squinting in confusion at another one of my verbal miscues.
I point at his exposed forearm with my free hand. “Thetattoos. That’s an interesting combination of food. Is that supposed to be a Girl Dinner menu?”
He nods. “Oh, yeah. Those. Just souvenirs from places I’ve worked.”
I look down at his arm again noting that my wrist is still fully engulfed in his grip, which I’m oddly in no rush to change. Looking at all the tattoos again, it almost looks like a carefully thought out menu.
“Service industry?”
He nods again, this time his smile beams with pride. He gestures back to his brother. Looking across the bar, I’m not surprised to see Monica on his lap, his head tucked over her shoulder, while she holds up her phone.
“He owns a couple restaurants around the country. I’ve worked at both of them, but we’re opening another here. I’ll be the Head Chef.”
I raise my brows in surprise. “Wait, Captain Control over there is a chef too?”
He barks out a laugh—a boyish carefree laugh—letting go of my wrist to clutch his stomach. I instantly feel the absence of his warm touch.
“Captain Control.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I like it. That describes him to a T. He’d probably put that on a plaque right next to his two stars. Actually, hang on…” He digs into his pocket and my brain takes a few seconds to process what he just said.
“Stars? As in Michelin stars, plural? You guys have multiple stars?”
“Technically, they go to the restaurants, not the chefs. That said, the first restaurant—the one he runs in Denver—is the one with stars.” He points a finger gun at his brother. “I have yet to run a restaurant that has earned one, but that’s my dream.”
I can tell by the look in his eyes that he means it, butbefore I fall under the spell of those dreamy blue eyes, he pulls out his phone and tilts it toward me.
There it is. I knew the good guy routine had to be an act. This guy’s going to ask me for my number.
“Check this out.” He holds his phone out to me.
I look down, seeing that his camera roll is open.
“This better not be a dick pic.”