Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105161 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105161 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
My confusion over lusting for a man had caused my nerves to kick in, and it’d been all I could do not to stare at the gorgeous creature behind the bar as he’d been getting the drink for me. Once I’d admitted I had no idea what any of the items on the menu were, he’d gone and asked me the loaded question about liking sausage. Since my brain was still subconsciously chanting dick doesn’t matter, the question caught me off guard. Not to mention my traitorous mind had decided to remind me at that exact moment of the words of the little old lady on my flight. Taco versus sausage.
I’d never once been attracted to a man. And I’d had plenty of opportunities to know if I was. My brothers had dragged me to dance clubs many times and paraded good-looking men in front of me for years. Never once had I felt the telltale butterflies of attraction to a member of my sex until that moment in the bar.
The minute I’d locked eyes with him, I’d felt like we were the only two people in the room. I’d noticed his name tag and decided right away I wanted to feel his name on my tongue. Was that weird? That was probably weird.
He was noticeably smaller than I was, maybe five foot seven inches with his shoes on, and every bit of him was covered in the smoothest, creamiest skin I’d ever seen on a man. Scratch that… the smoothest, creamiest skin I’d ever seen on anyone. Except for the smattering of freckles. And, man, those freckles were killing me. They made him look… almost… god, was it possible I thought this guy was adorable? No. I was just having a moment of lusting after a redhead who looked like a woman who just happened to be a man. Plenty of people had a thing for redheads, even if I’d never particularly thought of myself as one of those people before.
I’d wondered at my reaction to him. There was a part of me that still thought he was the sexiest human being I’d ever seen.
Sexy.
A dude.
Jesus, Hudson, your brothers have brainwashed you into scoping out dudes. And if it was acceptable to maim little old ladies, I might have to look up the one from the plane.
I was going to kill my brothers. I should have known going to gay clubs with them would make me start seeing every man as a potential hookup. But why this time did it feel more like he’d be one for me rather than any of them?
I shook off the silly thoughts and shrugged. “Sausage is good. I mean… fine. That is… I’d be willing to try your sausage, yes. Well, not your sausage, I mean the sausage. In the dish. The sausage dish. What is it again? Just sausage? Anything else in it besides… sausage?” I gulped.
Shut up, Hudson. How many times are you going to say the word sausage?
The bartender blinked at me again, only this time he had a smirk to go with it.
“Dude, you don’t have to have it. I can recommend something else for you, no problem.”
I took a deep breath and met his eyes. “No. Someone suggested I try new things. Bring me whatever you like best.”
There was a mischievous teasing in his eyes. “Well, I mean, if you want to know what I like best… it’s definitely the sausage.”
He was gay. Why did that make my stomach flip over and over even more? It wasn’t like I wasn’t used to being around gay men. I was. I totally was. Gay was fine. I was fine with gay.
Gay.
Was the word stuck on repeat in my brain or something?
I slammed the rest of my pint and pointed to the empty glass. “And another one of these too please,” I croaked.
As the evening progressed, the bartender—Charlie…Charlie was his name and it fit him perfectly—got flirtier and flirtier while I got drunker and drunker in an effort to cover my discomfort. There was something about the way he moved that drew my eyes to him like a magnet. Whenever he spoke to me, I felt my face heat and my tongue tie in knots. I stammered and babbled like an idiot in a way I’d never done before, but through it all he was calm and kind, asking questions about where I was from and how my flight had been. I tried explaining the mix-up that had led me to fly into Cork rather than Shannon, the tiny rental car I’d barely fit in, my attempts to navigate roundabouts going the wrong way from the wrong side of the car. But I could barely get a word out without stammering.
Instead, I focused on lining up the salt and pepper shakers, my knife and fork, and the bottles of condiments near me on the bar. I squared the drink napkin and straightened the one left by the man who’d come for a quick pint and left already. After that, I snuck my hand sanitizer under the bar to do a once-over. The bar was hundreds of years old, after all. No telling what was baked into its surface after all this time.