She'd offered to buy him a coffee, blinked blankly at his attempt at a joke, then just turned around and thoroughly ignored him. Not hostile, just completely unaffected.
He was not a man who had to deal with unaffected often.
“Local?” Declan asked.
“I don’t think so. I didn't ask.” He hadn’t charmed a single piece of information from her, which was notable in itself. He was an expert at getting people to talk about themselves, particularly women. He’d inherited his father’s skill for making people feel interesting.
But not her. He'd been too busy not being able to read her.
“Get a name?” Declan said.
“No. She was gone before I—” Patrick stopped. Looked at his cousin. “Don't.”
“Don’t what? I haven't said anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
Declan picked up his glass again and finished the water, wisely saying nothing.
Patrick changed the shirt eventually.Instead of dropping it in the hamper, he folded it and set it aside, refusing to analyze the why of it.
He came back downstairs to find Declan back at the kitchen table, scrolling through online job listings. Since getting out of the Army, he’d put his size and military skills to use, picking up gigs as a bouncer at Angels and occasionally as a security guard for events and whatnot. It paid the bills, but as Declan often said, was less than fulfilling.
“Any luck?” Patrick asked.
A heavy sigh. “No.”
“Security firm,” Patrick said. “We should do it.”
Declan didn't look up from his screen.
“I'm just saying.”
“You've beenjust sayingfor two months.”
“And I'll keep saying it until you admit it’s a good idea.” Patrick grabbed his keys and jacket from the hook. “There’s a need. We've got the skills. We know the area. We've got the contacts. We're just missing the infrastructure and the paperwork and?—”
“The clients,” Declan finished. “As well as the equipment, the licensing, the insurance?—”
“Details.”
“Significant details. Expensive ones, too.”
Patrick knew. The fact that they wanted to build the business themselves without financial help from their family made it even more challenging. “We start small. Hell, we can work right out of the house. The library makes a great office space, and the turret room is a perfect waiting area. Think about it. Seriously.”
Declan grunted.
Which, from Declan, was practically ahooah.
The pub was halffull at seven, which was typical for a weeknight in October. The crowd consisted of mostly locals. Familiar faces sat in favorite seats, the low rumble of conversation a pleasant background hum to the flat screens playing at muted volume. It was a nice change after the chaos of the previous homecoming weekend.
Patrick had practically grown up in this place, spending as much time here as he had in his family home, and he’d been working behind the bar from the day he’d turned eighteen. His movements were smooth and rote. Pint glass under the tap, angle, settle, top it off. Change back across the bar. Pick up the next one. He talked while he worked because that was as much a part of bartending as pulling drafts, and, like his father, he was good at it.
Tonight, however, his mind was elsewhere.
“Killian’s, not Guinness,” his cousin Riley corrected when he was about to pull the wrong tap. “What’s with you tonight? You’re distracted.”
“I’m not.”