Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [67]
“I see we’re drunk again. Hope you’re not driving.” His gaze wandered past me toward the bar. I turned to look. An attractive blond woman gave him a little wiggle of her fingers and smiled.
“I’m not drunk! And I’m not driving, so don’t worry. Enjoy your date. Tell her to order a double.” With that, I walked past him into the chilly night.
Callahan O’Shea may have been an arrogant, irritating man, but I had to admit, he was right about my ability to hold my liquor. Granted, I had planned on having some food, but when the waitress did come by, Lester had been at the height of his tirade against love, and ordering buffalo wings seemed insensitive. Well. I wasn’t exactly drunk, just a bit buzzed. Add to that the thick scent of lilacs, and it was actually a rather nice sensation.
The mist was heavier now, and I could only imagine what my hair was doing, but I could practically feel it spreading, growing, expanding like a feral creature. I sucked in more lilac-scented air and tripped—the price of closing one’s eyes on Peterston’s erratic sidewalks—but recovered nicely.
“I can’t believe your boyfriend let you walk home alone in this condition, Grace. Such a cad.”
I scowled. “You again. What are you doing here?”
“Walking you home. I see we won an Emmy,” Callahan said, tilting his head to get a better look at my statue.
“This is a very lovely gift. From Wyatt. Who bought it for me. And you don’t have to walk me home.”
“Someone should. Seriously, where’s that boyfriend of yours?”
“He has surgery in the morning and he had to go. So he left.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Callahan said. “Why didn’t he at least drive you home? Did he have feral cats to round up?”
“I wanted to walk. I insisted. Besides, what about your date? Did you just leave her all alone in the bar like that? Tsk, tsk.”
“She’s not my date.”
“Yet I saw her wave to you in definite recognition and anticipation.”
“Yet she’s not my date,” he said.
“Yet I find that hard to believe,” I said. “So who is she, then?”
“My parole officer.” Callahan grinned. “Now tell Uncle Cal the truth, Grace. Did we have a little spat with our boyfriend tonight?”
“No, we didn’t spat. Spit—whatever. And that is God’s honest truth.” Perhaps now was a good time to change the subject. “Are you really Irish?”
“What do you think, genius?”
I think you’re a jerk. Oops. May have said that aloud.
“Maybe you should stick with a nice Coke the next time you go out, hmm?” he suggested. “How many drinks did you have?”
“I had two gin and tonics—actually, one and a half—and I don’t drink very often, so yes, maybe I’m feeling the effects. That’s all.” We came to a trestle bridge that crossed the railroad tracks.
“So you can’t hold your liquor. How much do you weigh, anyhow?”
“Cal, it’s a cardinal sin to ask a woman about her weight, so back off, bub.”
He laughed, that ashy, deliciously naughty sound. “I love it when you call me ‘bub.’ And I’ll call you ‘lush,’ how’s that?”
I sighed loudly. “Listen, Callahan O’Shea of the leprechauns, thank you for escorting me this far. It’s only a few blocks to home. Why don’t you head back to your woman?”
“Because this isn’t the greatest neighborhood and I don’t want you walking home alone.”
Aw. It was one of the scruffier parts of town… in fact, when a drug deal went down, it usually happened right here under the bridge. I sneaked a look at Cal’s face. Aside from his being far too good-looking, I had to admit, he was being really… well, considerate.
“Thank you,” I said. “You sure your date doesn’t mind?”
“Why would she mind? I’m doing a public service.”
Going down the metal steps of the little bridge, I slipped a little. Callahan reached out and grabbed me before any harm was done, and for a second, I just clung to his arms. Warm, solid, reassuring arms. Wouldn’t mind staying here all night. He smelled good, too, dang it, like soap and wood.
He reached up and gently pulled something from my hair…a leaf. Looked at it for a second before dropping it. Resumed his hold on me,