Well Played (Well Met #2)(42)

The more I looked at him, the more I remembered all the words we’d shared over the months. And the more I fell.

I really, really hoped he would be there to catch me.

He’d taken off the baseball cap, and his red-gold hair hung low over his brow. He shook it out of his eyes, scanning the bar for an empty seat, and since I was watching him, I saw the moment when he found me. I waved, my fingers wiggling in his direction, and while a smile played around his lips, his expression was wary as he approached, his long legs eating up the distance between us in a few strides. What kind of recalibration was his brain making? Was he mentally cataloging our emails, working on getting his story straight? Was the Guinness thing even true?

He settled on the stool next to me and slid a hand toward the glass of Guinness. “You remembered.”

I blew out a breath. That, almost more than the ringing phone in the lobby, was all the confirmation I needed. He was the one. “Darkest beer you can find at the closest bar. That was you, right?”

“That’s me.” He lifted the pint glass, took a sip, and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Oh, that’s perfect.” He set the glass down and he turned to me. Neither of us spoke at first; his eyes ate me up like I was an appetizer. I’d forgotten how his eyes were almost translucent, like the smoothest sea glass. “It’s so good to see you,” he finally said. “I mean, really see you.” His voice was hushed, reverent, and I almost forgot how angry and betrayed I’d felt all week. Because despite everything, it was good to see him too. After all these months of nothing but words on screens, his physical closeness was almost too much to take.

But then I remembered that sad, sick feeling of being lied to. Of being deceived for months. Happy to see each other or not, we had to clear the air first. That was my plan. Clear the air, then kissing. Hopefully.

“So.” I pushed my wineglass away. “First things first. Has it been you? This whole time?”

“Yes.” He answered immediately, and I respected that. No more lying. “I run the Kilts’ fanpage. That first message from you that came in . . . I thought it was for me. So I wrote you back. I didn’t realize until you wrote again that . . . that you thought I was Dex.” He blinked hard, his mouth twisted, and my immediate instinct was to soothe him. Someone in distress made me itchy, and nothing eased that itch like saying and doing whatever I could to make that distress go away. But I resisted the urge. I was the one who’d been deceived here. Wasn’t I in distress too?

“And you never thought to correct me?” I blew out a frustrated breath. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” He gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Uh-uh.” I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “Try again, buddy. I’m gonna need a better answer than that.”

“I don’t know if I have one.” He took another sip from his glass, his eyes trained on the bottles above the bar. He wasn’t avoiding my eyes, though. He was thinking. “You were talking to me,” he finally said, his eyes still focused elsewhere. “Noticing me. I mean, sure, you thought I was someone else. And I knew I should come clean. But if I did, it would all stop. So I didn’t.”

“But you said . . . A few weeks back, you said there were things you needed to say, that you were afraid to say. That you needed to say them in person. So”—I waved a hand, indicating the space between us—“here we are. In the same room. Breathing the same air. What did you need to say?”

I watched the tip of his tongue peek out to lick a drop of beer from his lower lip. Heat surged through me in a wave. I wanted to lean in. I wanted to nibble on his lower lip. I wondered how he’d taste, all dark beer and warm skin. But no. We weren’t anywhere near nibbling yet.

A slightly shuddering sigh escaped him. “You’re right.” This whole conversation he’d been looking down at the bar, or up at the bottles that lined the top shelves, almost everywhere but at me. But now he pushed away his glass too—no distractions—and turned on his stool to face me. “You’re right,” he said again. “I did say that. And the conversation I was afraid of is the one we’re having right now. Stacey, I . . .” His voice caught, and he spared one sidelong glance at his beer, but turned back to me. “I still remember the first day I saw you, here at this Faire. I don’t remember what you said, but I remember your smile, and as far as I was concerned, that was it. You were it. But I’m . . . you know, me.” There was that awkward laugh again.

“And what’s wrong with you?” I asked gently. A little defensively, even. Despite my anger, a protective feeling for Daniel had started to bloom in my chest, and I didn’t want anyone saying anything mean about him. Even Daniel himself.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I mean, my self-esteem is fine and all. But put me next to my cousin—any of them—and it’s no contest.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but closed it again. Okay, he had a point. If the members of the Dueling Kilts resembled varsity football stars, Daniel was the AV club geek of the group. Not necessarily unattractive on his own, but not the one that your eye fell on first when he was in a group.

“And my cousin won that contest. Didn’t he?” His voice was grave. “I don’t know how long you two have been . . . well, is together the right word?”