"The horror." His eyes glitter with dry amusement, but they turn sharp as a waiter approaches us. He has a towel slung over a shoulder and a stack of menus in hand.
"Here for the tasting?"
"We sure are," I say.
"Great, welcome guys. Here's the list of lagers, ales and IPAs we'll be serving tonight." He hands us a menu each, slightly sticky to the touch. "There's a scorecard tucked in there somewhere, too. We'll be serving them in twenty-minute intervals."
"Okay, awesome," I say. "How about… oh."
He's already retreating, weaving through the crowd to attend to other newcomers.
"Excellent customer service," Anthony says dryly. He's wearing his usual scowl, but for the first time, I'm seeing him in something other than a suit.
A grey sweater stretches across his shoulders, clinging to muscles previously hidden. A thick watch rests on his wrist, no diamonds on it. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair absently and stares down at the beer menu. I want to reach over and trace his bearded jawline. See if it would tickle against my hand.
He closes the menu. "Read about the first beer, Summer."
"Read aloud?"
"Yes. I enjoy your voice."
"Okay. Yes," I say, smiling. I tell him about the nutty character of the first pale ale, glancing up at him every so often.
He notices, of course. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I'm just…" I put the menu down. "I want to say thank you again. This beer tasting is on me, by the way. All of it."
He shakes his head. "No."
"I insist, Anthony. Please. You helped me with Ace, and without your car… thank you."
"You're welcome," he says, dark gaze softening. "But under no circumstances are you paying for this, Summer."
I sweep a hand out at our surroundings. "Please? Look, I know this isn't your usual scene, and I had no idea it would be this crowded. Please let me."
"Not my usual scene?"
"Yes. It's not exactly a place we'd set up an Opate date at, you know."
Anthony crosses his arms over his chest, but the look in his eyes is anything but agitated. "Who do you think I am, exactly? I'm not like one of your customers."
I smile down at the menu.
He catches it, of course. "You think I am?"
"Maybe, yes."
He shakes his head, but there's a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth. "You once told me you were an excellent judge of character. I'm strongly doubting that."
"Perhaps I let a few things I'd heard about you influence my thinking," I admit. "But in my defense, you bought a Cartier watch on auction that you can't wear. Does it even fit you?"
"See? You've had a hand in creating your own reputation."
"You said you'd heard a few things about me."
"Yes, well, I'm not allowed to talk about what clients tell me after dates."
His eyebrows lower. "But?"
"But, hypothetically, I might have been informed about certain connections your… well, your family has."
"My surname," he says. "Surely you made the connection before either of my dates pointed it out to you?"
I give an apologetic shrug. "I didn't. I'm sorry?"
Anthony shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. "My grandfather would be rolling in his grave if he heard that."
"He would? Oh, I'm sorry."
But then his gaze returns to mine and it's bursting with silent laughter. "Honestly, how do you work at a place like Opate and not know this? Not care about it?"
"You know why," I tell him archly, but I'm smiling. "I'm in it for the right reasons."
"Ah, yes. True love."
"You know, I thought you were just feeding me a line the first time I met you."
"And now?"
"Now I know you actually believe it. I don't know if that makes you honorable or naive."
I laugh, crossing my legs beneath the table. The movement settles my leg next to his.
Neither of us shifts away.
"Can't I be both?"
The waiter arrives with our first two beers, one each, and gives us pens for our scorecards. I gaze over the rim of my beer at Anthony. He commits fully, taking a deep drag of his ale and commenting on its flavor. Even adds little x's to the scorecard.
We drink and talk, and it's surprisingly pleasant, drowning out the sounds of students singing along to an indie rock song at the table next to us.
One of them ambles past us someway through the third beer, aiming for a stool. He gets on it with a wobble. "I was just dared!" he yells, "by my lovely girlfriend, that I had to tell you all… no, just wait a moment. Just give me a moment!"
He's escorted out by our waiter, another burly man on the other side, his beanie askew.
"Christ," Anthony mutters when they're gone.
I lean back in my chair and laugh. Laugh at the idea of him, sitting here in this place, going through the motions.