The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [30]
“Yeah, he lives up the hill in a crazy house with all kinds of funky windows and no rooms. Turned it into Swiss cheese when he moved in. You can’t see it from the road, which is probably best for property values.”
“What do the locals think of him?”
“He’s all right,” the woman said with a shrug. “Quiet, but friendly enough. He doesn’t come here but he goes to the pub every week. Bachelor. Bit odd, but a hell of a looker. Brings in a few well-heeled tourists, so no complaints.” She smiled. “Anything else you want?”
“No, just the bill, thanks.”
When the waitress returned with the check she gave Fallon a conspiratorial glance. “It’s Friday. If you’re looking to take in the local art scene, you should swing by The Shack around ten, for the music.” She nodded off in the general direction of the rundown bar Fallon passed each morning and afternoon, walking to and from Max’s. “Every Friday. You might find the crowd intriguing.” She winked, snapping her gum.
“Maybe,” Fallon murmured, and the waitress left her alone. She set her bills and coins on top of the receipt and slid the pile over to hide Max’s time-capsule face.
Max slid a bill across the wood to the barman for his wine and swiveled his stool to face the band, leaning back on the bar. As he crossed his legs and settled into the evening, a finger tapped his shoulder. Fallon plopped down next to him.
“Well, hello.” He returned her smile, surprised. Not so surprised to find her at the town’s only bar on a Friday night, but surprised to find her looking so pleased. Particularly given their parting that afternoon.
She leaned close to his ear to compete with the furious fiddling coming from the corner. “Hey. I thought I might run into you.”
She’d put makeup on, a little shadow and mascara, something to make her lips shiny. She smelled faintly of lilies and her wild hair was down. She ordered a beer and joined Max in watching the set.
They didn’t speak but he surveyed her with blatant glances from time to time. It seemed to amuse her.
Between songs she said, “Your eyebrow’s going to fall off if you keep all that surreptitiousness up. Is there food on my face or something?”
“No. Just looking at you… You look much shinier at night.”
“I see.”
He reached over to touch the space between her collarbones and her eyes grew wide. He flipped her backward pendant over.
“Thanks.” She wrapped her fingers defensively around the chain as he took his hand away.
Another song began and Max reveled in the little waves of energy tossing Fallon about beside him. He gave her a pointed glance, a warning, then reached around and grazed the nape of her neck with his fingertips. This time she turned, clamping her palm over the spot.
“Your tag was out,” he lied.
“What a mess I am tonight,” she said, skeptical but unmistakably permissive.
She faced forward again and Max snaked his hand behind her to lay a palm at the small of her back. She straightened up as though shocked.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes darted between his, angry or very close to it.
“Working.” He turned his eyes back to the music and sipped his wine, but kept his hand and consciousness firmly on her waist. Her body hummed against his palm.
Fallon glanced around, looking embarrassed.
“Who are you wearing makeup for?” he murmured into her ear.
“It’s Friday night. I can wear makeup if I want to.”
“Is it for me?” he asked, shameless.
“In your dreams,” she cut back, but still she didn’t remove his hand. She looked at him openly, and there was something new in her assessment, as though she was reconsidering him. For what, he couldn’t tell. She turned her attention to her beer.
“If it is for me, you don’t need to bother. I like you fine without it, you know.”
“Jesus,” she said, exasperated. “I came here to try and have a normal evening. A weirdness-free evening. Can we just try and be friends? Like regular friends, like normal people do, without this being some study of me?”
He considered her request and withdrew his hand with polite regret.
“Thank you.”
“You’re right,” he said. “We’re not