Headstrong by Meg Maguire

angle, or any angle for that matter. He especially liked the way it looked when it was pointed at his brother. Colin wasn’t a jealous man—he hoped that Libby would have her way in the end. She seemed like the sort of girl who was used to having her way.
    Shame, though. He’d never met a woman he was more sure could put him through the paces under the sheets. But she had armor on, or blinders. This girl was on a mission. Considering how useless Reece could be with women, Colin bet he didn’t even realize he was being targeted, poor bastard.
    Still, Colin liked her. Libby was like a Talking Heads song come to life, all bright colors and vibrancy and chaotic, swirling energy. Colin didn’t drink or get otherwise off his head recreationally. Human entropy was the only chemical rush he indulged in, and Libby was a syringe of that, shot right into his bloodstream. Being near her felt nice to him, even if she was fingernails on his brother’s blackboard.
    From where he leaned against the back counter, Colin flung a coaster at Libby that bounced benignly off her forehead. She raised her chin to fix him with a stare that threatened venom but didn’t have any to inject. Her wide lips twisted into a haughty smirk. Colin was willing to bet this was exactly how her face would look as she coaxed the zipper down the front of his jeans.
    “Don’t make me hurt you, Nolan.”
    He flashed her an unapologetic grin. God, if only.
     
     
    Libby smiled at the smell of greasy spring rolls. At a quarter past ten, just as she and Colin were unfolding the boxes the Chinese restaurant had delivered, two laughing young women came through the door, coats tented over their heads against the rain. They had on matching collared shirts with the logo of a chain restaurant embroidered above their left breasts. They each looked to Colin, then flashed identical, split-second glances at Libby and approached the bar.
    “Evening, ladies,” Colin said, already preparing their drinks.
    “Hey, Col,” one said with a flawlessly casual delivery any fellow female could identify as piqued sexual interest.
    He pushed a gin and tonic and a pink, cherry-garnished cocktail in a highball glass across the wood. “Shouldn’t you be home with your families on a pissing night like this?”
    They shrugged in unison, clearly thinking this was a far more enjoyable place to take shelter during a minor hurricane. Libby had studied the commercial neighborhood where Paul Nolan’s Pub resided from the window of her bus earlier that day. The restaurant these girls worked at was a good mile down the road, along a stretch with at least one closer drinking establishment. These particular patrons didn’t come here for mere convenience. They came here for Colin—for his smile and his easy, deep voice and the way he looked in a T-shirt. And because their mothers would not approve, but would also secretly envy them.
    Libby kept flipping her cards as the girls took their drinks and retired behind her back, presumably to a table with a good view of the staff. She hoped she was blocking that view, even though she had no significant attachment to Colin. Libby didn’t get attached to men, and she didn’t get along very well with other girls.
    She frowned. There was definitely a two missing from the deck, which made it very hard to get anything done in Klondike. Libby abandoned the game and looked up at Colin.
    “You’ve got a black queen there, and an open red king,” he said, fishing vegetable-fried rice out of a carton with chopsticks and pointing.
    “Have you been watching me this whole time?”
    “Yeah. I think there’s a red two missing, actually. Sorry about that.”
    She smirked. “There are a couple things more interesting than me and my sad solitaire to watch now.”
    “They come every Monday night.”
    “I’ll bet they do,” she said, ramping up her innuendo game to at least twice its usual potency. She guessed it would take that much to get a rise out of