"Flinging money around doesn't make up for a lack of manners."
"So now I'm lacking manners? Interesting."
I shake my head. "That's not what I'm implying. Gosh, can we ignore where I tried to correct you? I'm sorry. That was rude of me."
He doesn't look the least bit offended. "Not particularly."
The bartender returns with a full glass of ice water and puts it down in front of me. I open my mouth to say thank you, but peanut guy beats me to it.
"Thank you," he says, voice dropping. "We really appreciate your help here tonight."
The bartender doesn't stop moving down the bar. "Anytime," he tosses over his shoulder.
Peanut guy turns to me with a triumphant smile. "Am I back in your good graces now?"
"Yes. Sorry."
He rests his suit-clad arms on the bar counter. "So what's got you so bent out of shape?"
"Bent out of shape," I repeat, reaching for my ice water. I drain half of it before confessing. "I'm actually waiting for someone."
"I figured. Is he late?"
"He is, yeah. Is it obvious?"
"Well, you're here and he's not, so yes. Boyfriend?"
"Just a date." I twirl my glass around. "A first date, actually."
"And he's late? That's not a good sign." Peanut guy reaches for an actual peanut, his hand cutting across my vision. It's broad and lightly dusted with dark brown hair. A masculine hand, with long fingers. "How late is too late?"
"I don't know. I don't have a hard and fast rule about it."
"Do you have hard and fast rules about a lot of things?"
I look over at him. It's a bad idea, because he's stupidly good-looking. Square jaw and eyes that meet mine with steady charm. Oddly enough, I'm not nervous talking to him. We're so obviously not suited. He's amusing himself, I'm distracting myself.
Exposure, I think.
"About some things, I guess. I have criteria."
"Let's hear them," he says.
"Well, he has to be a nonsmoker."
Peanut guy gives a nod. "Right."
"I'd like it if he could cook me dinner once in a while."
"So he needs to be a renowned chef," he says. "Got it."
I chuckle at that. "Right. Oh, and he has to subscribe to a newspaper or magazine. At least one, preferably more, and they can't just be digital subscriptions."
"Oddly specific," he says. Long fingers curl around his glass, eyes the color of whiskey. "Is that a literacy test? Because I think you can reliably assume a guy your age would be able to read."
"No, I'm a journalist."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I need someone who appreciates the written word, you know? I want to spend my Sunday mornings arguing over who has what portion of the newspaper." Hearing myself, my cheeks flare up again. "I know how I sound. Like a hopeless romantic."
"Are you one?"
"I'm a realistic romantic," I say. "Which is why I'm on a first date with a stranger."
He lifts an eyebrow again. "This is a blind date?"
"Yes."
"And he's late. Really not off to a good start."
I shrug, feeling the nerves settle into a current in my stomach. Talking to this guy helps. "Well, I'll give him a shot. Something might have happened to him on the way here, you know." I look over his shoulder, but the businessmen down the end of the bar counter are talking amongst themselves, paying him no mind. "Why are you here? Waiting for your own blind date?" I can't say it without smiling. As if.
"No," he says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass around. "I've met her before."
That makes me roll my eyes. "Of course. She's late too?"
"Yes. Often is, as a matter of fact."
"I guess that's not on your list of criteria, then."
"No. Come to think of it, I don't know if she subscribes to a newspaper."
"You should ask her that tonight," I say. "I've heard it's a dealbreaker for some."
His smile stretches wide. "So have I, kid," he says. "Tell me why dating makes you this nervous."
"Kid? We're practically the same age!"
He's still smiling. "Are we? I can't remember the last time I was as nervous as you waiting for someone to show up."
This guy is a roller coaster. "That doesn't define my maturity. I'm twenty-six," I say. Honesty makes me add the rest. "Well, I will be in four months' time. How old are you?"
"Thirty-two," he says.
That's when my phone vibrates in my pocket again. Ice shoots through my veins, freezing me to the spot. Brian's probably here. Has it already been fifteen minutes? God, I hate this. Hate it hate it hate it.
A glance down at my phone confirms it. I'm outside. Did you grab a table?