“Nice music taste.”

My lashes lifted as I dropped the phone back in my purse. “I . . . um, I like the old-school stuff better than what’s big today. I mean, they actually sang and played music then. Now they just prance around half naked, scream, or talk through songs. It isn’t even about the music anymore.”

Appreciation lit up his eyes. “You pinky swear and listen to old-school music? I like you.”

“You aren’t very hard to impress then.”

He tipped his head back, exposing his neck as he laughed, and good golly Miss Molly, it was a damn nice laugh. Deep. Rich. Playful. The sound turned my tummy to mush. “Pinky swearing and music are very important,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“Yep.” Amusement danced over his face. “So is swearing on Boy Scout honor.”

The twitch at the corners of my lips spread into a grin. “Well, I was never a Boy Scout, so . . .”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Sure,” I breathed.

He tipped his chin down. “I wasn’t a Boy Scout, either.”

For some reason, I wasn’t very surprised by that. Especially when he was still holding on to my wrist.

“You’re not from around here,” he announced.

Not anymore. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, this is a small town, and Mona’s usually sees regulars, and not hot little pieces of distraction like you, so I’m pretty sure you’re not from around here.”

“I used . . .” Wait. What? Hot little pieces of distraction like you? My train of thought was totally derailed.

He let go of my wrist, and not all at once, and he didn’t break eye contact, either. Oh no, it was a slow slide of his fingers along the inside of my wrist and then across my palm to the tips of my fingers, sending a wave of shivers dancing up my arm and then doing a jazz routine down my back.

God, it made me feel crazy, but it felt like there was a spark there. Something tangible that snapped between him and me. Totally insane, but I was finding it hard to breathe and to make sense of my thoughts.

Without taking his eyes off me, he reached down into the ice cooler and pulled out a bottle of beer, twisted off the lid, and sat it on the counter. A second later, I realized there was someone standing next to us.

I glanced to my side, spying a young and good-looking guy with something close to a buzz cut. He nodded at Hot Bartender Dude as he grasped the neck of the bottle. “Thanks, bud.”

And then he was off and we were alone again.

“Anyway,” Hot Bartender Dude said. “How about I make you my special drink?”

Usually when a guy offers to make me their “special drink,” I’d run for the hills screaming bloody murder and mayhem, but I found myself nodding again, which totally cemented the fact I was shallow and maybe a little dumb.