In defense, Sybill arched an eyebrow. “A woman with a cynical bent would suspect that’s a line, and not a very original one.”

“I don’t use lines,” he murmured, concentrating on her face. “Except originals. I’m good with images, and I’ve seen that one. Clear, intelligent eyes, slightly amused smile. Sybill . . .” His gaze skimmed over her face, then his lips curved slowly. “Griffin. Doctor Sybill Griffin. Familiar Strangers.”

She let out the breath that had clogged in her lungs. Her success was still very new, and having her face recognized continued to surprise her. And, in this case, relieve her. There was no connection between Dr. Griffin and Seth DeLauter.

“You are good,” she said lightly. “So, did you read the book or just look at my picture on the dust jacket?”

“I read it. Fascinating stuff. In fact, I liked it enough to go out and buy your first one. Haven’t read it yet though.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You’re good. Thanks, Marsha,” he added when she set his beer in front of him.

“Y’all just holler if you need anything.” Marsha winked. “Holler loud. This band’s breaking sound records tonight.”

Which gave him an excuse to edge his chair closer and lean in. Her scent was subtle, he noted. A man had to get very close to catch its message. “Tell me, Dr. Griffin, what’s a renowned urbanite doing in an unapologetically rural water town like St. Chris?”

“Research. Behavioral patterns and traditions,” she said, lifting her glass in a half toast. “Of small towns and rural communities.”

“Quite a change of pace for you.”

“Sociology and cultural interest aren’t, and shouldn’t be, limited to cities.”

“Taking notes?”

“A few. The local tavern,” she began, more comfortable now. “The regulars. The trio at the bar, obsessed with the ritual of male-dominated sports to the exclusion of the noise and activities around them. They could be home, kicked back in their Barcaloungers, but they prefer the bonding experience of passive participation in the event. In this way they have companionship, partners with whom to share the interest, who will either argue or agree. It doesn’t matter which. It’s the pattern that matters.”

He found he enjoyed the way her voice took on a lecturing tone that brought out brisk Yankee. “The O’s are in a hot pennant race, and you’re deep in Orioles’ territory. Maybe it’s the game.”

“The game is the vehicle. The pattern would remain fairly constant whether the vehicle was football or basketball.” She shrugged. “The typical male gains more enjoyment from sports if he has at least one like-minded male companion with him. You have only to observe commercials aimed primarily at the male consumer. Beer, for instance,” she said, tapping a finger on his glass. “It’s quite often sold by showcasing a group of attractive men sharing some common experience. A man then buys that brand of beer because he’s been programmed to believe that it will enhance his standing with his peer group.”