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The guy standing before me, carrying a chair and a pitcher of beer, is absolutely massive. I’m 5’11” and my brothers and father are all between 6’2” and 6’5”, but this guy is closer to seven feet and just all around huge. He’s got wide shoulders, a broad chest, thick arms and legs, and definitely some fat around the middle, and, honestly...

He’s completely doing it for me.

His head is shaved and he has a nicely trimmed dark-brown beard. Dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks, he reminds me of a lumberjack on his way to Sunday church.

My mouth feels dry.

Ridiculously large men in incongruous office attire appear to be my type now. Who knew?

“So what do you say?” he asks.

“What do I say to what?”

“Would it be okay if I joined you? They asked me if I wouldn’t mind sitting at the bar because I’m solo, and it seems they asked you, too, so I figured we could sit together and keep the table.”

“They offered me a free drink if I move to the bar.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? They offered me no such thing. I guess you’re going to the bar then...”

“Maybe I should.”

He grins. “You don’t want to, do you?”

“Not really,” I say. “I like this table. Unobstructed view of the TV, plus I’m in the corner so no one bothers me...”

“Except me.”

“Except you. I guess I didn’t send strong enough fuck-off vibes.”

His face turns serious. “Look, I’m sorry. If you want to be left alone, I’m not going to bother you. But I promise I’m not bad company to watch football with, and I thought maybe we’d both need someone to vent our frustration with the Vikings defensive line.”

I consider him carefully. He seems genuine so far, but it’s too early to relax.

“I will leave if you really want me to,” he says. “I certainly didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“You can stay.”

He smiles, the kind of smile that lights up a person’s whole face, and I’m struck by how beautiful it is. He’s got that amazing thick beard and gorgeous teeth, and while he’s not classically handsome, my God, that fucking smile could power this whole bar.

I think I might be blushing. Am I blushing?

“So what kind of beer is that and is it roofied?” I ask as I nod toward his pitcher, trying to stay breezy amid feeling unsettled in several conflicting ways. I should stay safe­—he is a stranger. But I really want to get closer to him, somehow.

“If it’s roofied, I’ll be down for the count soon,” he says. “I drank from it myself.”

“Maybe you put something in if before you got to my table.”

“Jesus.” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I promise you the beer is fine. But we can get a fresh pitcher, if you want. You can pick it up and I’ll pay for it.”

“Just pour yourself some and have a drink,” I urge.

He fills his glass and takes several gulps. I’m mesmerized by the contractions of his throat. Have I ever paid attention to a man’s throat before?

When he’s done, foam is stuck to his beard and mustache, and he wipes it off with the back of his hand. Why does that look so hot?

“Happy?” he asks.

“You have shown yourself not to be a date rapist,” I say with faux seriousness. “So what kind of beer is it?”