He spins a coaster on the bar top in front of him and continues to grin up at me. “So you’re calling me unoriginal,” he says.

“I’m not calling you anything,” I tell him, matching his grin. “But I appreciate that it seems to be true, because I am raking in the cash.”

He considers my cheeks for a moment. “They are pretty great dimples. I can imagine a lot of worse things to be known for. Nobody’s calling you Peg Leg or the Bearded Lady.”

No way is this guy trying to be cute. “So back to your beer,” I say. “Bottle or draft?”

“I want to know why you assumed I’d order Heineken. I think my wounded pride deserves at least that much.”

I glance over his shoulder, to where his friends are ostensibly playing pool but currently attempting to hit each other in the balls with their cue sticks, and decide to be honest.

“Typically—and by ‘typically,’ I really mean ‘always’—Heineken drinkers tend to be big with the self-esteem and suck with the modesty. They’re also the first person to need the bathroom when the check comes and a third more likely to drive sports cars.”

The guy nods, laughing. “I see. And this is a scientific study?”

His laugh is even sweet. It’s goofy in the way his shoulders rise just a tiny bit as if he’s a giggler.

“Rigorous,” I tell him. “I performed the clinical trials myself.”

I can see him biting back a broader laugh. “Then you’ll be comforted to know that I was in fact not ordering Heineken, and was actually going to ask what you had on tap because we just had a round of Stella, and I wanted something more interesting.”

Without looking down at the row of draft beers, I list, “Bud, Stone IPA, Pliny the Elder, Guinness, Allagash White, and Green Flash.”

“We’ll go with the Pliny,” he says, and I try to hide how much this surprises me—an occupational necessity. He must know his beers because it’s the best choice there. “Six of them, please. I’m Luke, by the way. Luke Sutter.”

He holds out his hand and after only a moment of hesitation, I take it.

“Nice to meet you, Luke.”

His hand is huge, not too soft... and really nice. With long fingers, clean nails, and a strong grip. I pull my own hand back almost immediately and begin pouring his beers.

“And your name is...” he asks, the last word stretching into a question.

“That’ll be thirty dollars,” I tell him instead.

Luke’s smile twists a little, amused, and he looks down at his wallet, pulling two twenties out and placing them on top of the bar. He reaches for the first three glasses and nods to me before he turns. “I’ll be back to get the rest,” he says. And he’s gone.