watching him. That tiny dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when he grinned just drew the eye like a magnet. “Your second thought.”
“Yeah, the first was sort of: Thank God she’s going to fix this.”
“Do you always have that kind of confidence in total strangers?”
“No. Maybe. I’ll think about it.” He angled so their knees bumped companionably with a little whoosh of denim against denim. “It’s just I looked at you and it struck me you were someone who knew what to do, knew what you were doing—a really hot woman who knew what to do. So I wanted to see you again, maybe figure out how come you’re stuck. I know you’re smart—also a plus—not only because of what you do, but hey, Lieutenant, and you seem young for that.”
“I’m thirty-three. Not so young.”
“Thirty-three? Me, too. When’s your birthday?”
“August.”
“November. Older woman.” He shook his head. “Now I’m sunk. Older women are so sexy.”
It made her laugh as she tucked up her legs, shifted a little toward him. “You’re a funny guy.”
“Sometimes. But with serious and sensitive sides, if you’re counting points.”
“Points?”
“There’s always a point system in this kind of situation. He’s clean. She has breasts. Points added. He has a stupid laugh, she hates sports, points subtracted.”
“How’m I doing?”
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to add that high without my calculator.”
“Clever, too. Points for you.” She sipped at her beer, studied him. He had a little scar, a thin, diagonal slash through his left eyebrow. “Still, it’s risky to assume I’m smart and competent—if those are included in the final total—with so little actual data.”
“I’m a good judge of people. On-the-job training.”
“Owning bars?”
“Before that. I tended bar and drove a cab. Two professions where you’re guaranteed to see all types of people, and where you get to peg them pretty quick.”
“A cab-driving bartender.”
“Or bartending cabdriver, depending.” He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear, gave the dangling silver at her lobe a little tap. The gesture was so casual and smooth, she wondered at her own quick jolt of intimacy.
“Easy to juggle hours on both sides,” he continued, “and I figured I’d sock away enough to open myself a sport’s bar.”
“And so you did, fulfilling the American dream.”
“Not even close—well, the American dream part—but I didn’t earn the ready to open Slam Dunc riding the stick or driving a hack.”
“How then? Robbing banks, dealing drugs, selling your body?”
“All viable options, but no. I won the lottery.”
“Get out. Really?” Delighted, fascinated, she lifted her glass in toast before stretching out a hand for a pretzel.
“Yeah, just a fluke. Or, you know, destiny, again depending. I picked up a ticket now and then. Actually, hardly ever. Then one day I went in for a six-pack of Corona, sprang for a ticket.”
“Did you pick the numbers or go with the computer?”
“My pick. Age, cab number—which was depressing since I hadn’t planned to still be hacking—six for the six-pack. Just that random, and…jackpot. You know how you hear people say if they ever win, or even when they do, how they’re going to keep right on working, living pretty much like they have been?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
She laughed again, snagged another pretzel. “Obviously, you retired as a cab-driving bartender.”
“Bet your ass. Got my sports bar. Very cool. Only funny thing, and I may lose man points here, but I figured out after a few months I actually didn’t want to be in a bar every night of my life.”
She glanced around Swifty’s, where the music had gone slow and dreamy. “Yet you have two. And here you are.”
“Yet. I sold half interest in Dunc’s to this guy I know. Well, almost half. Figured, hey, Irish pub.”
“Hence Swifty’s.”
“Hence.”
“No
“Yeah, the first was sort of: Thank God she’s going to fix this.”
“Do you always have that kind of confidence in total strangers?”
“No. Maybe. I’ll think about it.” He angled so their knees bumped companionably with a little whoosh of denim against denim. “It’s just I looked at you and it struck me you were someone who knew what to do, knew what you were doing—a really hot woman who knew what to do. So I wanted to see you again, maybe figure out how come you’re stuck. I know you’re smart—also a plus—not only because of what you do, but hey, Lieutenant, and you seem young for that.”
“I’m thirty-three. Not so young.”
“Thirty-three? Me, too. When’s your birthday?”
“August.”
“November. Older woman.” He shook his head. “Now I’m sunk. Older women are so sexy.”
It made her laugh as she tucked up her legs, shifted a little toward him. “You’re a funny guy.”
“Sometimes. But with serious and sensitive sides, if you’re counting points.”
“Points?”
“There’s always a point system in this kind of situation. He’s clean. She has breasts. Points added. He has a stupid laugh, she hates sports, points subtracted.”
“How’m I doing?”
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to add that high without my calculator.”
“Clever, too. Points for you.” She sipped at her beer, studied him. He had a little scar, a thin, diagonal slash through his left eyebrow. “Still, it’s risky to assume I’m smart and competent—if those are included in the final total—with so little actual data.”
“I’m a good judge of people. On-the-job training.”
“Owning bars?”
“Before that. I tended bar and drove a cab. Two professions where you’re guaranteed to see all types of people, and where you get to peg them pretty quick.”
“A cab-driving bartender.”
“Or bartending cabdriver, depending.” He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear, gave the dangling silver at her lobe a little tap. The gesture was so casual and smooth, she wondered at her own quick jolt of intimacy.
“Easy to juggle hours on both sides,” he continued, “and I figured I’d sock away enough to open myself a sport’s bar.”
“And so you did, fulfilling the American dream.”
“Not even close—well, the American dream part—but I didn’t earn the ready to open Slam Dunc riding the stick or driving a hack.”
“How then? Robbing banks, dealing drugs, selling your body?”
“All viable options, but no. I won the lottery.”
“Get out. Really?” Delighted, fascinated, she lifted her glass in toast before stretching out a hand for a pretzel.
“Yeah, just a fluke. Or, you know, destiny, again depending. I picked up a ticket now and then. Actually, hardly ever. Then one day I went in for a six-pack of Corona, sprang for a ticket.”
“Did you pick the numbers or go with the computer?”
“My pick. Age, cab number—which was depressing since I hadn’t planned to still be hacking—six for the six-pack. Just that random, and…jackpot. You know how you hear people say if they ever win, or even when they do, how they’re going to keep right on working, living pretty much like they have been?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
She laughed again, snagged another pretzel. “Obviously, you retired as a cab-driving bartender.”
“Bet your ass. Got my sports bar. Very cool. Only funny thing, and I may lose man points here, but I figured out after a few months I actually didn’t want to be in a bar every night of my life.”
She glanced around Swifty’s, where the music had gone slow and dreamy. “Yet you have two. And here you are.”
“Yet. I sold half interest in Dunc’s to this guy I know. Well, almost half. Figured, hey, Irish pub.”
“Hence Swifty’s.”
“Hence.”
“No
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