Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Even if the food here is over-hyped, Paisley and I are laughing as we get more and more ridiculous, trying to impersonate snobby foot critics with our diagnosis of the bar food.
A pair of guys wearing jerseys from the opposing team are sitting beside us. From the pace they’re downing drinks, it seems like they didn’t take their team’s exit from the playoffs happily.
The guy closest to me is maybe in his forties with a thick beard and shaved head. His friend is around the same age, but thinner and attractive, even if there’s a mean cast to his eyes.
Paisley takes another taste of the cheese sauce with her fingers. “Maybe we just got a bad batch? The reviews were all so good.”
I shrug. “Maybe we’re just snobs, now.”
We both grin at that. Working in fine dining probably has a tendency to turn anyone into a food snob. It’s not that we can’t enjoy a greasy burger or pizza with the rest of the world, but it’s also hard to turn off the critical side of our brains. Every time I taste food, now, I’m analyzing it. I’m trying to pick apart the flavors and assess whether the chef made a mistake or what they could do to improve. It’s fun, but admittedly feels like a bit of a curse, at times.
“Not a fan of the food?” the bearded guy asks from beside me. He’s sitting to my right, and he turns in his barstool to face us, nearly empty beer in his big hand. “Y’all come from out of town and want to shit on our food, huh? That’s big of you.”
“Easy, Mike,” his handsome friend says. “Don’t mind him. Just a little salty to see our boys get eliminated. Looks like you’re a fan of the Vandals, huh?” He nods towards us, noting the number on our jerseys. “Nolan Saulters fans? Odd choice.”
Paisley looks like she’s about to argue, but I put a hand on her arm and give a slight shake of my head. I may not know much about sports, but getting into an argument with drunken fans of opposing teams at a bar right after a big loss? That sounds like a bad idea.
“Sorry,” I say easily. “We’re just in the restaurant business. We kind of make a hobby out of critiquing food. No offense intended.”
“Offense taken,” the big guy says. He actually puts his arm on my leg, stopping me from turning in my stool to face away from him.
The contact makes my heart immediately pound in my ears. “Please don’t touch me,” I say. I’m trying to sound calm, even though it’s bullshit that I can’t just hit this asshole across the face for this without worrying what might happen.
He lifts his hand from my leg, snorting and rolling his eyes like I’m being dramatic.
Paisley whispers in my ear, asking if we should just leave. But I shake my head slightly. I can’t help remembering the incident back in Frosty Harbor when Marten and his friends chased us outside the bar. At least in here, we’re offered some level of safety because the place is busy. Besides, I’m also still crossing my fingers that Nolan will show up. I don’t want to go back to the hotel and write off the chance of running into him tonight.
We keep our place at the bar for several more minutes. The big bearded guy is clearly fuming from his body language, and he isn’t slowing down on the beers, either.
“Why Saulters?” he asks suddenly, cutting Paisley off in the middle of a question she was asking me.
I blink slowly, pretend not to hear him, and gesture for Paisley to finish her question.
“I’m talking to you,” he says, leaning so he’s in my peripheral, and my personal space.
I still ignore him.
“Come on, Mike,” the other guy says. “Leave them alone.”
“Nah, I’m curious. So, redhead, what is it? What made you wear his jersey?”
I give a tight smile. “We’re just fans,” I say, then turn my attention back to Paisley.”
“Right,” he says. “Well, I got some bad news for you, sweetheart. I’ve seen the women that guy pulls. You’re not even in his league,” he laughs, as if he’s made a clever joke. “I think he might like you about as much as you like those pretzels.”
To emphasize his point, the guy reaches over and plucks a pretzel from our tray, dips it in the cheese sauce, and eats it. “Me, on the other hand? I’m not above eating a little cold, less than perfect pretzel.”
“Jesus, Mike,” his friend says, trying to tug on his arm. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Nah,” Mike says. “I’m comfortable right here. Maybe these girls need someone to walk them home.”
“I got that covered,” another deep voice says from behind us. I feel a hand on my left shoulder and look up. Nolan is standing there, one hand on me and his other hand on the back of Paisley’s chair. He changed into a black t-shirt and jeans. His hair is wet and pushed back from his face. “You girls ready to leave?”