Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(5)

“OK.” I nod. “But I’m not taking an open drink from someone I just met.”

His lips shift like he’s trying not to laugh. “You think I’ve poisoned your drink?”

I shrug. “I have a rule, that’s all.” Actually, it’s my dad’s rule, but it makes sense, and I’ve always followed it.

He nods and curls the beer back into his chest beside the second bottle. His grin turns crooked as he watches me for a few seconds. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’m sure I won’t measure up.

Tears burn in my eyes, but by sheer will I hold them back. The last thing I want to do is show emotion to another man. I’ve learned by now that men use emotions as weapons. There is no way I’ll give someone the power to hurt me again.

I should go.

My breath whooshes up in surprise when Isaac grabs my hand. Without looking back to see my reaction, he pulls me through the crowd and to the bar. Two people leave, and he quickly claims their seats. He sets the bottles down on the bar and pulls out the stool on the right.

“Let’s try this again.” He winks at me. “Aubrey, it’s nice to meet you. Please sit and have a drink with me from a bottle you see the bartender open and hand to you.”

Laughter bubbles up my throat as I sit.

Isaac bypasses his seat, leaning over it and setting his forearms on the edge of the bar. I try not to notice the ripple in his arms. Or the way his shoulders pull back. Or his stunning profile. How does a man get lips like that? Fillers. That must be it. I pinch my average-size lips together to keep from laughing.

He focuses on the bartender, and, when he gets his attention, lifts his head back slightly. Isaac points down at the bottles in front of us and lifts two fingers in the air. He smiles politely and thanks the bartender when he delivers the beer.

The stool doesn’t seem tall enough to fit Isaac, but he manages, folding his long legs awkwardly beneath the bar top.

“How tall are you?” I blurt out.

“Six-three. How tall are you?”

“Five-seven.”

He nods and grabs the neck of his beer with the same two fingers he used when he first approached my table. “Can we have that drink now?”

I tap the bottom of my bottle against his, take a small sip, and watch Isaac take a long pull. I like the way he holds his bottle. Just those two fingers wrapped around the neck and a thumb underneath.

Leaning a forearm on the bar top, Isaac pins me with his gaze. “So, Aubrey who’s five-seven and doesn’t accept open beverages from men she doesn’t know, what were you doing trying to sneak out of here so early?”

“I have a hot date.” I toss my hair over my shoulder and look at my wrist, despite the fact I’m not wearing a watch. “And now I’m late.”

Isaac’s gaze moves around my face and, slowly, reaches my eyes. He grows intense, and when that happens, his lips move, the tiny muscles around them twitching.

“Finder’s keepers.” The words are languid, sliding from his lips like caramel.

I take a deep breath and force myself to look away, even though so much of me wants to let him sweet talk me. My heart and my ego could use the attention, but I know better.

“What did he do?”

His words make me turn back to him. I give him a side-eye and gulp my beer. “What makes you think somebody did something to me?”

“You’re defensive and hesitant. In my experience, that usually means a woman’s been hurt.”

I glance at the door, just ten feet away. How easy it would be to escape. Part of me wants to run for the hills. But the other part wants to know what it would feel like to tell a total stranger the whole ugly truth.

“Excuse me?” I stop the bartender as he’s passing by. “Two shots of Jack, please.”

Isaac whistles, low and disbelieving. “That bad?”

“Ugly truth?” I ask.

“The whole thing.” He says. “Don’t leave anything out.”

He asked for it. By the time I finish my story, Isaac will be sprinting away from me, just like Owen did. But maybe he’ll turn around as he’s running and yell the reason back to me. Maybe I’ll finally understand.

The bartender sets the tiny glasses in front of us. I grimace as the shot burns my insides on the way down.

Isaac pushes his glass to the back of the bar top and signals for another. “Hit me with it.” He says to me. “Let me in. Tell me your big, bad, ugly truth.”

So I do. I tell a perfect stranger every detail. And it feels so good.

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t say something trite. He doesn’t even say anything to make me feel better. All he says when I’m finished is, “That really fucking sucks.”

And that’s when I decide I like Isaac.

“You’re the third person I’ve told that story to.” Britt and Owen are the other two, but does Owen even count? “Can you believe that?” My brain feels fuzzy. We stopped twice during my long story for shots. “Let’s take a picture to commemorate the night I told a stranger my darkest, dirtiest secret.” Digging in my purse for my phone, I find it and present it with a silly flourish.

Isaac waves his hands in front of him while I swipe open the camera. “Pictures steal a piece of your soul.” He protests. “I don’t believe in pictures.”