Page 3 of Unreasonably Yours

The universe couldn't let me get in a whole hour of productivity, though.

A vaguely man-shaped strip of crimson takes up residence in my periphery.

At first, I write it off as him trying to get the bartender's attention.

Then he's possessed by the spirit of assholery that seems to plague all men whose frontal lobes aren't fully developed.

It's the only explanation for him sliding up this close to me at a practically empty bar top.

Some people have keenly developed flight responses; they feel the tingling of a situation and immediately seek ways to remove themselves from it. Me? I'm pretty sure I was born with a malfunctioning flight system.

Fight though?

But I wasn't in my early twenties anymore. I no longer threw the first proverbial punch. Even if I had to grind my teeth to keep from asking this Ivy League fuck if he doused himself in stale beer and Axe daily or if he'd done it just for me.

Maybe if I kept my mouth shut, he'd go away.

I was definitely out of practice being around humanity.

“What're you doing?” His voice is making my fight system go into overdrive.

“Working,” I say with every ounce of dismissive energy I can muster.

“Who works at a bar?” Ivy leans in to peek at my screen.

“Do you mind?” I ask, tilting my screen away.

He ignores my tone. “What do you do?”

“Work.”

“Oh, come on...” Frustration at my dismissal finally begins to color his tone “You gotta give me more than that.”

“Do I?” I’m still not bothering to give him so much as a sidelong glance.

“It's only polite when someone shows interest.”

Now I turn to him, letting my lips pull back into a smile that's more threat than invitation. “See, I didn't invite your interest. And you're not worth the effort it takes for me to be polite.” Satisfaction warms my blood at the surprise reddening his cheeks. “If you'll excuse me, I'm busy.”

“Excuse you?” Ivy huffs.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe I wasn't clear enough. Fuck. Off.”

With the kind of audacity only afforded to WASP-y white boys, he reaches over and closes my laptop, leaving his hand in place. “Here's a thought. How about you stop being such an ungrateful bitch and?—”

The rest of his words stick in his throat as a long, tattooed fingers wrap around his wrist, flinging his hand into his face. “Hey!” Ivy blusters, thrown slightly off balance by the unexpected action.

“The fuck do you think you're doing, man?”

“I was just trying to be nice to?—”

“In case you're too stupid to take a hint, she's not interested. When that happens, you fuck off. You don't touch shit that doesn't belong to you like a toddler.”

Ivy puffs out his chest and tilts his chin a little too high in what I can only assume is an attempt to look intimidating. All it does, however, is make him look even more like a little boy throwing a tantrum, especially compared to the man behind the bar. “I was doing her a favor by?—”

“A favor?” Cold laughter bubbles up almost reflexively.

Men like Ivy can stand a lot, but being laughed at?

That will almost always cause them to snap.

And after the day, month, year I've had, I’m perfectly prepared to trade blows with a petulant twenty-something.

“Oh, honey, bless your heart.” A touch of my long-faded East Texas accent shows through, not unlike how predators flash a bit of color before attacking.

“Tell you what, do us both a favor and scurry on back to your little friends before you make more of a scene.”

“Fuck you!” Ivy blurts. He stumbles over his words, feebly reaching for something to sling back at me. After a few attempts, he arrives exactly where I knew he would. “Wasn't like I was actually interested in some fat bitch?—”

“Get out,” the bartender says without an ounce of emotion.

I'm used to deflecting men like Ivy. Ever since I hit puberty, they've made a habit of hurling their fragile egos at me, assuming, incorrectly, that my fat body will provide a soft landing.

When they inevitably find themselves shattered, they always try to salvage the wreckage by attempting to bring me down.

What I am not used to is men intervening on my behalf.

“What?” The word drips with all of Ivy's blue-blooded indignation.

“You heard me.”

If that man looked at me the way he was looking at Ivy, I'd be fleeing. Shocking no one, despite the prestigious university blazoned on his sweatshirt, Ivy is not bright enough to realize he's outclassed.

“Bro, come on! You know I was just?—”

The bartender lays both palms flat on the polished wood, leaning his broad frame over just enough to make Ivy visibly uncomfortable.

“I have no issue physically removing you from my bar.

But I promise you it's in your best interest to leave on your own.” Ivy gives the man a wary once-over, as if he thought this was a fight he had any chance of winning.

“So I'm gonna say this one more time: you and your little friends need to get the fuck out of my bar.”

No one in the building breathes.

“One,” the bartender growls.

That’s all it takes.

In a flurry of grumbles and expletives, the boys filter out while the white-haired group at the other end of the bar claps and whoops.

“Yeah, yeah. How about you all mind your fuckin' business?” he yells over to them, shaking his head. “Sorry about all that,” he says, fixing me with a concerned look.

“Not on you.” I sigh, sliding my laptop into my bag. “How much for the coffee?” I catch a glimpse of Ivy's half-full beer next to me as the bartender whisks it away. “And the jackass’ beer?”

“We don't let jackasses like that have open tabs.

There's always a fifty-fifty chance they'll ditch or do some stupid shit.” His eyes slide to the window before answering the first half of my question.

“Coffee is on the house. And, not to tell you what to do, you seem like a woman who can handle herself, but maybe hang out a few minutes before leaving. To be safe. Or I could?—”

“No, I'm good without an escort.” I toss a look over my shoulder. “After the day I've had, I actually wouldn't mind breaking his nose.”

He chuckles softly. “Ya know, I bet he wouldn't be the first.” I give him a noncommittal nod. “But probably not worth catching a charge. People like him, their daddy can do worse that put you in jail and you're too pretty to deal with all that.”

I'm beyond grateful that he has the courtesy to turn away, giving me a moment to pick my jaw off the floor.

“Tequila or whiskey?” He asks, back still to me.

The question elicits nothing more than the equivalent of a dial-up tone in my skull. “What?”

He turns back to me, two bottles in his hands. “Tequila,” he shakes the clear liquid, “or whiskey?” He sloshes the amber next.

I should say neither. Lie. Claim that I've never touched a drink in my life. Not a drop. Teetotaler. Yes. In fact, this is the first bar I've ever been in, kind sir. Thank you for your chivalry. I will see myself out.

Any of those, no matter how absurd, would be the reasonable choice.

Fuck that.

“Tequila.”

“Knew it.”

“Well, now I want to change my mind just to wipe that smug look off your face.”

“Too late.” He pours us each a shot.

“No lime?”

“Trust me, this is so smooth you don't need it.” He raises his glass, “To turning a shitty day around.”

“And knights in black t-shirts.”

He smiles broadly. “Sláinte.”

As promised, the tequila requires no accompaniment. It settles warm in my core, sending tingles through my tense muscles.

He sets his glass down and extends one of those beautiful hands to me. “Cillian.”

I take it, unable to ignore the way it dwarfs my own or the calluses on his fingers and palms. “Toni.”

“Short for?” He holds our shake.

“Antoinette. ”

“Antoinette,” he echoes. Maybe it's the tequila, but I like how my full name sounds on his tongue. “Despite the circumstances, glad to meet you.”

“Ey, Cilli!” One of the old men call. “Stop flirting. We're thirsty over 'ere!”

Cillian rolls his eyes, a good-natured smile on his lips. “Fuck off, Andy.” He shakes his head. “I better go before they start crying like a bunch of babies.” He sends the last word loudly in their direction. In response, they start sniffling.

We both laugh.

“Christ.” He tucks a loose, silver-threaded, dark curl behind his ear. “Can I get you anything?”

“More coffee?”

“You got it.” Cillian refills my mug and, once more, adds the perfect amount of cream before tending to the others.

I set up my laptop again with the best intentions of knocking a few more things off my to-do list. But the adage about hell and intentions proves all too true.

I blame the tequila.

And the charming man who served it to me.

How was I supposed to focus on something besides his easy manner with the other patrons? How he'd stepped up for me? How incredible his ass looked in those jeans? His friendly greeting to the tall, gorgeous blonde who walked behind the bar?

I can’t help but wonder if this is the kind of place that only hires hot people, because...damn.

Focus. Toni.

I’ve barely gotten through the opener of an email when Cillian pauses in front of me. That’s all the invitation I need to shift my focus from the screen back to the man.

“Uh...” he absently tightens the hair piled on top of his head “Please feel free to tell me to go fuck myself but my evening shift just got in and once my cook is here, I'm free for the rest of the night...” He trails off a bit before rushing into his question.

“Any chance I could get you dinner? Or drinks.

I know it's kinda early,” he clears his throat, “for dinner.”

My thoughts shift from their usual, but manageable, ADHD-fueled chaotic hum to a full-on cacophony. It isn't the asking that sends my brain off the rails. It's how nervous he seems—bashful in an endearing way that catches me off guard.

Or maybe I’m imagining things.

I need to stall. “I think we already had a drink.”

“So . . . dinner?” A crooked smile softens his features.

“Didn't you say your cook is coming in?” I manage to ask while my mind screams: Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck!

“As much as I love this place, I'd prefer to go anywhere but here.”

A young, lanky guy slides behind the bar and begins gathering glassware. “One second, sorry.” Cillian steps aside to speak to him in hushed tones while I silently thank him for buying me a little time to sort myself out.

No is the obvious and correct answer here.

Sure, he could just be a nice guy offering to turn my shitty day around, nothing more. But he did call me pretty, and he did give me both free coffee and tequila, and I would let him rail me on this bar top in front of god and everyone.

So. The answer was simple: No. Thank you, Cillian, you're so nice to offer, but I'm an absolute hurricane of a person, so it's best if ? —

“Verdict?”

“Dinner sounds great.”