“What the fuck is your game?” I roared at him, stomping across the street to shove my fist in his invisible face.

But the guy evaporated. Disappeared like a bloody apparition. That sent an almighty shiver through me. When I retreated to my side of the road, he reappeared as though he’d never left. I sensed amusement. Bastard.

I didn’t bother the police because nobody else sees him. People don’t glance in his direction. The boys in blue would assume I was a strawberry short of a punnet and dismiss me as a crackpot.

Maybe I am. Maybe he’s a figment of my imagination. Why would some shadow guy watch a twenty-six-year-old nobody? Why would he stand at the edge of a barroom while I drink my vodka? I’m cracking up, that’s why.

Another glance at the wall and he’s gone again. Only multicolored lights flicker across white paint. The electrified feeling dissipates, and my chest relaxes. Where does he go? I shouldn’t care, but the guy’s presence wakes this restless need deep in my belly. A want that I can’t name. A magnetic pull, almost like a spell.

I turn my back and finish my drink with a gulp, welcoming its dry sting hitting my throat. I’m not a big drinker, but I’ve found a few shots of vodka dulls the paranoia that I’m one step away from life in a straitjacket.

The bar’s packed, pumping bass, and the Saturday crowd filling the giant room with weekend buzz.

Terry, the barman, leans over the counter and waggles his thick brows at me. “Hey, Mickey.” He points a thumb behind him. “Mr. Hollywood at the end wants to buy you a drink.”

“What?” I look up to check out the guy indicated. Goose bumps pebble my arms. The man seems out of place. Out of time. I don’t know why Terry called him Mr. Hollywood. With his blond top knot, neat beard, and hard leather vest, he looks more like a Viking who’s lost his way to the battlefield.

When our eyes meet, the man’s intense silver gaze locks onto mine. He nods once, a curve at the edge of his lips.

Shit. He’s out of luck. I don’t swing that way.

“Tell him I’m good, will you, Terry?”

“Yeah, sure. You want a refill anyway?”

“I’ve probably had enough. Just give me a water.”

Terry plucks a bottle from the fridge behind him and leans across the bar again, showcasing his full-sleeve tattoos. “He’s been watching you for a while, that one.”

“Has he?”

He angles closer and nods slowly, a twinkle in his hazel eyes, and I grin because I know what’s coming. “Mmm. Bit of a looker too.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Terry wipes the bar with his cloth, feigning nonchalance. “Mm-hm. Might be the adventure you need, Mickey boy. Meaty arms to spend a night in. You might discover you like it and your favorite barman was right all along.”

I roll my eyes. Terry’s easy manner and playful banter is one of the best things about this Irish-themed bar. But he’s an incorrigible flirt and convinced I only need the right kind of encouragement to see “the light.”