“Is that right?” she countered. Her irritated tone now sounded a hell of a lot more like flirting and I was living for it.

Her eyes roamed over my face in an excited, familiar way. I knew what this was. She was attracted to me. Despite the drained glass and empty plate in front of her, she wanted to linger so she could talk to me more. I’d have to do my best not to disappoint her.

“You live around here?” I asked. She didn’t seem like a local. The coat hanging off her barstool was too thin and her haircut looked expensive. The kind you could only get in some fancy salon in a city.

“Nope.” She shuddered at the thought. “I just got into town. I’m staying with my sister.”

I mentally gave myself a pat on the back for reading her right.

“You here for the weekend or something?”

Her lips curved down as she eyed the empty glass in front of her. “Or something.”

I desperately wanted to wipe the new forlorn expression clean off her face.

“Isn’t that a coincidence. I just got into town too.”

“Huh?” She shifted in her seat so we faced each other. “That’s surprising. You seem like a local.”

“And why is that?” I countered, although I knew with my thick flannel jacket and messy, beanie-clad hair, I probably looked every bit the local.

She didn’t shy away from me, though. Instead, she shrugged. “You’ve got that whole, I-could-build-a-log-cabin-with-my-bare-hands vibe.”

That made me toss back my head with a laugh. “Are you saying I look like a lumberjack?”

“You are wearing plaid,” she pointed out.

I took another sip of my beer, pleased with myself that her almost-smile had returned. “What’s your name?” I finally asked.

“Frankie.”

“Frankie,” I repeated, not positive I’d heard her right.

“Yes, why?” Defensiveness coated her words, making me chuckle.

“No reason. It’s just an interesting name.”

“It’s short for Frances,” she said haughtily. “I was named after my grandmother.”

“And Fran or Franny didn’t suit you?”

She shook her head. Despite her best efforts, her smile kept creeping wider. “Everyone used to call her Fran. When I was a baby, my parents decided I would be Frankie, and I’ve been Frankie ever since.” She shifted in her seat so she could evaluate me better. “And what’s your name? Better be a good one if you’re giving me attitude about mine.”

“Oliver,” I told her. “Or Ollie. I’ll answer to both.”

She pretended to mull it over in her mind for a bit before finally nodding. “I like it.”

“Thank God.” I wiped my brow. “Would have been a pain to change it after all these years.”

That got a small laugh out of her. It was short and soft before she cleared her throat and bit her lip. I wanted to thump my chest in triumph that I’d finally gotten a chuckle out of the girl. Frankie very much gave off the impression that she needed more laughter in her life. Everything about her read as tense and on edge.