Page 12 of Things I Read About

He works his jaw, looking between the two of us. “Nate.”

“Nate,” I repeat. I like it. Although, he could have said John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmidt—USTraditional folk song, 1920s—and I would’ve liked that, too. I’m eager for any words from his full lips.I like them. His lips.

“Yep! Nate, Sally. Sally, Nate,” Kat chirps, awkwardly introducing us to each other.

Was I staring? I was.Crap!

“Sorry. About the assassin thing.”

He barely shrugs one shoulder.

“Here you go.” The bartender slides over a small glass with dark liquor. He turns his gaze from Nate to me with a very toothy smile. “What about for you, Sally?” the bartender asks.

Kat makes some sort of snort-hyena-hoot sound beside me.

“My name is Kat, if you’re wondering,” she says, as he throws a rag over his shoulder like every bartender in every TV bar scene ever made. He pulls his eyes from me to her as she adds. “And we’re having champagne, please.” He nods and turns away.

She wags her eyebrows at me. But I just want to look at tattoo guy. Nate, I mean. I want to stare at Nate.

“What are you doing here?” I say, without thinking first. It sounds accusatory.

He turns his whole body toward me, which is one of the more exciting things to ever happen in my life.

“Drinking?” he says, again unsure.

I squint my eyes shut, trying to will myself to be better at this. More main-character-y.

“Funny,” I say, trying to sound sassy. I’m not sure I succeed. I go on, “I mean, what brings you to Park City?”

“Work,” he answers into his glass before taking a sip.

I can’t help myself. I watch his Adam’s apple work.Do not ask to lick his neck. Do not ask to lick his neck.

He raises an eyebrow. “You?”

“Me, what?” I whisper. Why am I whispering?

“He asked why we’re here,” Kat chimes in. I forgot she’s beside me. “We’re havin' a little girls’ trip. Doc, myself, and our friend, Janie, who just got dumped.”

“Doc?” Nate keeps staring back at me while I try very hard not to stare at his neck. Or his giant hands.

“No,” I start.

“Might as well be, though,” Kat says, grabbing our champagne and winking at the bartender.

“I’m a pianist,” I say suddenly.

Kat looks at me, trying to read the situation.

It’s not a lie. I’m a piano prodigy. I could play an entire symphony right now, if asked. It’s also not the whole truth.

“Oh.” Nate nods. I suppose he thinks I am getting a doctorate in music? Which is fine. Not true, but also not really relevant. Who cares what my degree is? How can I get him to kiss me?That’sthe real question.

Also, how many glasses of champagne have I had?

“Do you ski?”

The left corner of his mouth quirks up the tiniest bit. “I do.”