Chapter 2 THE SERVER RUSHES AWAY BEFORE I'VE EVEN FINISHED SAYING, "Make that two." When I turn my focus back on the man across the table from me, I am met with a look that could kill. And if I hadn't seen him be so damn nice to that poor customer service agent, I might buy it. Except I was there. From a few spots back in line, I watched him speak up for the woman without hesitation. Hell, he'd even used a fresh and amusing spin on one of my favorite sayings. So, no, Bash, the grump whose dark, heavy brows are tugged down tight with an adorable little wrinkle at the top of his nose, does not put me off at all. I know what a truly mean expression looks like-the kind that precedes words sharp enough to wound. This isn't it. Instead, he looks like all bluster and chiseled features. If I had to use one word to describe him, it would be masculine. From head to toe. Chunky black leather boots, no-nonsense Levi's, and a soft, boxy flannel shirt give him a total lumberjack vibe. A grumpy lumberjack. But it's his face that's most eye-catching. Not traditionally handsome, not conventionally pretty. His nose is strong, his jaw square, and his thick beard is neatly trimmed. Streaks of silver dust through his dark-brown hair that's trimmed close on the sides and styled neatly on top. "Did you just invite yourself to my table and then order for me?" His deep voice rumbles but there's no bite. "Oh, is this your table? My apologies. I didn't realize you owned the airport." A vein on the side of his neck pulses. One that I know is only visible because this man is tense as hell. "No, but it's a known rule that when someone is sitting at a table, the other chairs are also taken." My lips form into an O as I pretend to be enlightened by this new information. "Gosh, I had no idea. I haven't read the rule book to being stuck in an airport overnight. Do you have it on hand?" He glares back at me, tongue swiping over the front of his teeth. I smile, offering an innocent shrug. "Strikes me that we're all fucked tonight, and any open chair is fair game. If you don't like me, then I fear I cannot help you. But if you just don't like margaritas, then I'm happy to help you out by drinking both. I don't have anywhere to be tonight, and I do love a good margarita." His full mouth pops open as though he's about to say something, but no words come. He just stares back at me like I'm an exotic bird he's never seen before. Finally, he mumbles, "I like you just fine." "Wow, high praise coming from you. Thank you for blessing me with your approval," I tease, watching his eyes roll and a muscle in his jaw twitch like the implication annoys him somehow. "I didn't mean it like that, and you know it." With a satisfied smile, I lean back, crossing my arms to mimic his position. "Do I? All I know about you is that you prefer limes to lemons and have a strong moral compass." His head tilts ever so slightly. "Strong moral compass?" "The booking desk." Understanding flares in his eyes. "Saw that, did you?" "In all its glory. And it really was glorious." He grunts as he shifts, his eyes flicking away like he's uncomfortable with the compliment. "It was no big deal." My head joggles as I consider that. "I mean... No one else did anything. I suspect, for that woman, it was a pretty big deal. It's quite the phenomenon that men like that are all fire and brimstone when they're talking to someone they can intimidate." Just ask my dad. He'd wanted to send me out into the world meek and obedient. And he failed. The only thing he sent me into the world with was a defiant backbone, unfailing optimism, the desire to chase my dreams... and a few daddy issues. But none of those issues are actually him. Because I haven't spoken to the man in eight years. Bash scoffs at my assessment, fiddling with the napkin of rolled-up cutlery before him. "Yeah, that guy was a fucking loser. I can tell you that much." I nod my agreement when I hear Bash mumble, "Maybe you should sage him instead." My eyes widen as I take him in, not finding a single other sign that he just deadpanned a comment like that. So I play along. "Absolutely. I'll take that under advisement. Maybe if we track him down tonight, I could offer a two-for-one deal and get both of you cleansed up." That earns me another scowl, which only makes me laugh. "So where you headed?" the man asks. "Toronto. You?" "Calgary." I nod, remembering his gate was just beside mine. One quick glance down and my eyes catch on the tag attached to his bag. It would appear "Bash" is short for Sebastian Rousseau. Even his name is hot, I think to myself distractedly. Just then, coasters slide across the table in each of our directions and two margaritas unceremoniously plunk down in front of us as the server basically does a drive-by. Bash glares at the glass of bright-green liquid suspiciously before lifting his dark eyes in my direction. "They're very... neon." I nod solemnly, gazing down at the drink. It's definitely not reminding me of the margaritas I was enjoying on the beach in Mexico at my yoga retreat only a day ago. "This looks like it's the from-concentrate juice off the soda gun. It's a margarita but not a good margarita." Bash winces. "This is gonna be sweet as hell." "There is some good news." His dark gaze flicks to mine, and an airy flutter in my chest distracts me for a beat. "The good news..." I lick my lips. "The good news is that there is tequila floating around in all that sugary juice." He nods, not looking away. And though I'm not usually one to squirm under a man's attention, I feel my cheeks flush as this one looks me over. His gaze is appreciative, and I revel in it. "That's a great point. And when stuck in an airport overnight, some tequila is better than no tequila." I straighten, propping my forearms against the table as I lean closer. "Absolutely. I'm certain this will make us feel better. What with life giving us limes and all that." His stubbled cheek twitches before his fingers wrap around the glass. His large palm dwarfs it, and I can't help but notice the signs of physical labor on his hands. There's a coarseness to them. Calloused on the palms, the odd scar on the backs. One nail with the dark-blue tinge of a deep bruise. Yeah, this man works with his hands. I swallow quickly and follow suit, lifting my glass to the middle of the table. "Cheers. To limes." Bash gives his head a slight shake before lifting his glass and clinking it against mine. "To limes." We both take a sip, and I try not to wince because it really does taste like liquid sugar. Each sip tastes better than the last though, and soon I barely notice that I'm drinking glorified limeade. A companionable silence settles between us as we nurse our drinks, watching the world go by. But the more margaritas we down, the more that silence morphs into a tipsy, friendly sort of companionship. At the very least we partake in some mutual rubbernecking, tossing the odd comment each other's way as we take turns pointing out the night's mayhem-a couple arguing, a child toppling off a seat they were climbing, a man staggering out of the restaurant with bloodshot eyes. But it's the father and his young-adult daughter sitting at the bar together who continue to catch my eye. The way she said "Daaad" and tossed her head back when he'd cracked a joke drew my attention, and the friendly ease between them keeps me coming back. They're each drinking a beer, watching the sports highlights on the screen. Laughing. He even squeezes her shoulder at one point. Watching them is like digging a finger into an old wound. One that just won't heal, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much work I put in. I yearn for that relationship. And I'll never have it. Eventually, the crowd in the bar thins. Other patrons have the foresight to find a place to hunker down for the night. The man and his daughter leave too. But not us. No, we just keep ordering the shittiest margaritas I've ever tasted. When we're officially billed and the staff begin to close up shop around us, we still don't rush. I have too many questions floating around in my head, ones I want to ask Bash now that tequila and sugar have softened him up. "So what is it you do for a living?" His tongue runs over his teeth like he's considering whether to answer me. Then, with a shrug, he answers in a gruff voice. "I'm an aerial firefighter. But during the winter I-" My palms slap the table as I pitch forward, breasts pressing against the edge. His gaze drops to my chest briefly, but I don't call him on it. My boobs are pretty damn big and they're constantly in the way. "I'm sorry, what? You're not just a regular firefighting hero? You fly actual planes into actual fires and drop water on them?" "Depends on the fire. And the strategy. Sometimes it's retardant." I can feel my cheeks flush as my eyes rake over him with a whole new appreciation. "So you're like a hero hero," I say, leaning back in my chair to get a better view of the man before me. Poor guy looks uncomfortable with the praise. I bet he doesn't see himself that way at all. He's all gruff and matter-of-fact. I bet he's about to say that he's just "doing his job." "That's the tequila making you exaggerate." I scoff. "Okay, Top Gun. I'm sure someone whose home was saved by your perfect aim and huge set of brass balls would describe your contribution as 'exaggerated.'" He snorts and looks away. "You've got a way with words. That's for sure." I flip my hand in a rolling motion and tip my head forward in a dramatic bow. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all night." My head pops up, and I wink at him. "No, literally, I'm fucking stuck here." A ghost of a smile touches his lips, and god, I bask in it. I'm certain that when I sat down, he found me annoying, and now I have weaseled my way into an entirely different territory. Which is a huge relief because I can't handle people not liking me. That's the stuff that eats away at me and keeps me up at night. "And what do you do, Gwen? Is it stand-up comedy? Palm readings?" My tongue pops into my cheek. "No. But I did go through a tarot phase." His eyes roll, but there's no malice in the movement. "Of course you did." I chuckle softly and take another sip. His gaze lowers again, but this time to the tip of my tongue as it darts out over the salt rim. "I'm a yoga instructor." His eyes widen, snapping away from my mouth. "That makes so much sense." That tiny critical voice that sounds an awful lot like my father pops into my head. That makes so much sense could be interpreted in many ways, but years of explaining my career choices make everything sound like a backhanded slight. It puts me in defense mode. "I'm really good at it too," I say, explaining myself. "I have hundreds of teaching hours. Have trained all over the world. I even do contract work with professional sports teams." Bash nods, one sure dip of his stubbled chin. "I meant what I said. I can totally see it. And I have no doubt you're excellent at it." Relief drops my shoulders, and I release a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Yeah, no. I'm just used to people..." I trail off with a light laugh and glance away. "You know what? Never mind." "No, tell me." My gaze trails back to the man across from me. The one watching, listening. Really listening. He's leaned forward a bit, shoulders square, attention locked on me. Like he actually wants to hear what I have to say. So, with a shrug, I forge ahead. "I don't know. For starters, I don't look how people expect a yoga instructor to look." His gaze rakes over my body, chin tipping down and then back up. And the only thing I see in his eyes is appreciation. "What do you mean? You look like a yoga instructor to me." He says it so simply and with a slightly confused tone. It's... endearing. Refreshing. I lift a shoulder, playing his response off casually. "I meant my size." At that his brows furrow. Confusion morphing into irritation. "People are stupid," he grumbles simply. A happy hum vibrates in my chest and I bite down on a smile. Then I forge ahead. "And then people often sort of pat my head when I tell them what I do. Like, That's so cute, but what do you plan to do when you grow up? Or but what about university? Very patronizing. It's tiring having to justify that what I do has value." His brows furrow, and for a flash, he looks... fierce. Perhaps I'm imagining it, but he appears almost offended on my behalf. When he speaks again, his voice borders on stern. "Again, people are stupid. Plenty of us make great livings and have fulfilling careers without attending university." I smile my thanks and then slam back the rest of my margarita to cover any blubbering I might do. "You should tell my dad that," I mutter before dropping my glass like a gavel on the table. Internally, I berate myself for dumping my personal baggage all over this hot stranger just because he's being nice to me and saying things I desperately want to hear. Then, I push to standing and change the subject. "All right, too serious. Let's go do something."