That Was Then: A Second Chance Romance (Fated Loves Book 2)

by Zee Irwin

  “How about if Barry and I rotate the extra Tuesday shift? I could manage it maybe every other week.”

  “Yeah? You’re a great help, Maddie.” A tired smile washed away the shadows on his pale face for a few seconds before returning to a stressed state.

  After confirming my hours, Sean returned behind the bar with me. “Busy night,” he remarked and set about opening a new keg delivered earlier in the day.

  “Hey, sweetheart, I’ll take a whiskey, neat,” a man called out as he arrived at the pub. I knew this guy and his premium drink order well after studying him once a week for the past month.

  Each time he stopped by, decked out in ultra-conservative but well-tailored pinstripe suits, he sat at the corner table near the far end of the bar, alone, rarely talking, other than ordering his self-imposed two drink limit. His only redeeming quality was the way his dark hair swept to one side, calling attention to his perfect green eyes.

  “Is this scoundrel giving you a hard time?” Sean said it aloud so the other man heard. Nods passed between them. “Can you handle the likes of him?”

  “I’ve handled worse,” I shot back.

  I reached for the premium brand whiskey bottle nestled behind the other non-premium liquors Sean kept in stock. With a new tumbler from the drying rack, I poured about two ounces of the dark amber liquid straight from the bottle into the glass. Perfect at room temperature of sixty-five degrees, no water, no ice, no mix, only the smooth, neat taste of Irish history.

  I set the fresh drink in front of him on a napkin emblazoned with the O’Brien’s Irish Pub shamrock logo.

  Before I could move my hand away, he reached for it. Our fingers brushed, setting my nerve endings on fire, and for a moment, I felt a blip in the timeline of our brief acquaintance. It wasn’t the first time I experienced such casual exchanges with customers, but the ignition from this were like the kindling to a roaring fire. It burned me from the first spark.

  I ignored what I figured was my imagination. He showed no previous effort to befriend me. Tonight was different though, even the air about him seemed to take on new energy. He downed the first drink fast, then caught me as I cleaned the tables near him.

  “Hey, sweetheart, bring me another and do me a favor? Send the blonde woman in the red dress at the bar a glass of champagne on me.”

  I chuckled. The blonde was a regular and had a boyfriend built like a tank.

  “That woman over there? Honey, you don’t want her. She’ll break your heart. And please, don’t call me sweetheart again.” There, I put him in his place.

  His face smirked. “Care to wager on it? Put your tip on the line?” He pulled out a fifty and laid it on the table. I eyed the cash. He was usually a good tipper, but this was the biggest I’d seen yet. “I say she goes home with me.”

  Wow, was he arrogant? Of course, I took the bet. And I had the most fun watching her shoot him down with a snubbing toss of her hair when the drink arrived. Her boyfriend had perfect timing, coming onto the scene not a minute later.

  I held back a chuckle when I passed by him. “I guess I could have been nice and told you she had a boyfriend who owned a bodybuilding gym. You had some tough competition there.”

  Unfazed, he raised the stakes. “Okay, double or nothing?” He glowered, replacing the fifty with a one hundred-dollar bill. “Let’s see . . . Send the redhead at the table over there another glass of whatever she’s drinking.”

  I bit my lip. I didn’t recognize the woman, and the hundred-dollar tip would be nice.

  I wavered while delivering another glass of white wine to her. I pointed, then she turned, held the drink up, and called out, “Thank you.”

  Watching him get up from his table, I suffered over losing my tip. The jerk sent me a cool look as he joined her, but I didn’t sulk long because a woman walked through the front door and joined them at the table.

  His face froze as the redhead greeted who I imagined was her lover with several kisses like they’d been apart for months, and this drink was simply a formality to the love they would make later. The last laugh was on him, and I didn’t bother hiding my glee.

  I returned to my position behind the bar, serving a few more customers and keeping my eye on him. I sized him up. He might be a handsome devil, but he was also the most cocky. I’d yet to catch him in a smile, and I was sure none existed in his vocabulary of facial expressions. I imagined someone hurt him somewhere along the way, and he was far from over it.

  I laughed about our little game. Would he forget about it or concede, handing me the one hundred-dollar bill along with his wounded pride?

  He caught me mid-laugh and must have thought it was a signal. He excused himself from the women and approached the dark-stained and lacquered walnut bar, settling onto the green-leather clad barstool at the end near me. I almost wished he hadn’t, but banter with this guy might entertain me, and the large tip would help pay my rent due in two days.

  “I see you laughing at me. I probably deserve it. Maybe you’re the one I should focus all my attention on instead.”

  Oh crap, this close up his eyes were on full display. He oozed cocky, sexy, and gorgeousness, and my rule could easily be forgotten. “I’m flattered, really, but I have to disappoint you because I’m not the kind of girl you take home for a random night of fun.”

  “Then what kind of girl are you?”

  “The marrying kind.” There. I put him in his place because players like him never dealt with the marrying kind.

  I learned long ago, when guys saw a tall woman like me with a figure like a swim suit model, all their common sense flew out the window. When I tended bar on Saturday nights, I even put on a ten-dollar fake engagement ring warning off guys from hitting on me, but it didn’t prevent some of them from trying.

  It deterred him, for now. He started up a conversation with the man sitting next to him, so I turned to sneak a quick read in my Advanced Antitrust Law and Economics textbook on the counter behind me. Another passage highlighted in yellow. Another scrawled note in my notebook which, later tonight, I would retype on my laptop. Under constant pressure with classwork and homework, I nabbed any amount of study time as long as I took care of the customers first.

  “What are you studying there?” His voice rang out behind me.

  Okay, so this guy was persistent. I sighed while closing my book, leaving the highlighter inside like a bookmark. Clearly, he was making me the object of his desire at the moment and wouldn’t give up until I really put him in his place. Which could be fun, even if it cut into my study time. I held up the three-inch-thick textbook so he could read the cover.

  “Oh. Law student? What year?”

  “Well, it’s complicated. I started my law degree a few years ago, but soon after, I realized my love for corporate law. Now I’m a dual major at Harvard, completing my MBA, and I’ll graduate in December.” I turned up my nose and flipped my long hair over my shoulder. I was not some brainless bimbo. I was intelligent, respected myself, and going places.

  He held up his glass. “Lawyer, huh? Seems we have that in common. And I’m a Harvard Alumnus, so cheers.” The whiskey swirled at the slightest motion of his hand, catching the light on its gold hue as if it were flirting with me, daring me to keep the conversation going.

  With my hands on my hips, I shot back. “Hm. Don’t even think for a second this thing we have in common is going to get you into my pants.” The last word caught in my throat. Oh my. He surprised me with something resembling a smile. For the first time, he showed he might be human. It was a quick flash of pearl white teeth, but one briefly highlighting his dimples.

  “So, Harvard, is Professor Nicoletti still teaching the Antitrust Law class?” He nodded toward my textbook.

  Flattered by his nickname for me, Harvard, which was better than sweetheart, I indulged him. “Yes. If it wasn’t a subject I liked so much, I’d drown in tears at how dry Nicoletti is. He’s such a pompous prick too, with the way he talks as if he’s better than every one
of us.”

  “Oh yeah? I actually know him. He’s quite a funny character outside of the classroom. And he has a beautiful wife and kids. I’ve spent time with them out on Cape Cod. He’s been a good friend to me.”

  My face fell. “Oh God, please don’t tell him I think he’s dry. I’m hoping I’ll graduate with honors. If Nicoletti found out I’d said anything about him . . .”

  A gradual smile spread across his face, with total dimples and a wink of his eye. “I’m messing with you, Harvard. The only thing I know about him is that he is indeed a dry prick.”

  I almost threw the bar towel I was holding at him. Okay. Yes, he was a cocky asshole. But one I sort of liked.

  Two hours later, we had talked off and on about all the professors we both knew plus my Harvard experience. A far cry from the assholery he laid on me earlier, this conversation was enjoyable.

  Somewhere beneath his I’m all that exterior resided a decent guy inside. At least, I liked thinking a man was innocent until proven guilty.

  When he downed his fourth drink, he stood up to leave, and I almost regretted he did. I held back squeal when he left the one hundred-dollar bill as the tip.

  “Listen, it pays having connections in Boston, especially among us Harvard alums. You never know when you’ll need someone. Here’s my card. You ever need anything, call me.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I reached for the card and tip while he flashed me another set of those dimples, which somehow translated into fluttering butterflies in my stomach.

  “See you next time, Harvard.”

  I gawked at him and his perfect suit walking away with his confident gate. His head turned and nodded at me with another flash of his dimples before he reached the pub door.

  Damn, thanks to my rule, I’d miss out on a good time with . . . I read the name on his business card.

  Daniel D. Jones, Esquire.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever use it, but just in case, I stuffed the card into my pocket and went back to my regularly scheduled life.

  Read the rest of This Is Fate, Fated Loves: Book One available on Amazon: This Is Fate

  All This Time, Fated Loves: Book Three

  Preview: Chapter 1

  Lily Young

  An inventory of ten thousand books, six cats of different sizes, colors, and temperaments, and an enviably odd assortment of tea, teacups, teapots, and cozies were a few of the things I loved about The Cat’s Cradle. And it was all mine.

  Since my uncle retired and transferred ownership to me, I’d been working to transform the shop into one where women could feel comfortable browsing books, reading books, and discussing books while drinking tea with a cat in their lap.

  To me and my customers, the place was Heaven, where we found peace and harmony. Which was the name of the candle of the month in our featured product display. Because who reads books without a scented candle?

  No matter my worries over the money, or the inventory, or the welfare of the cats, or the cleanliness of the store, and fifty million other bookstore owner thoughts landing my stomach often in knots, my morning ritual served as a grounding technique to start my day on the right foot. Every morning when I entered the store around nine, the first thing I did was light the candles on the display at our check-out stand. As flames flickered to life on each wick, George twirled himself between my legs as if going through an obstacle course, leaving orange fur behind to mark his path on my black tights and red suede boots. With a tiny “Mow, Mow,” raspy sound despite his larger frame, the cuddly orange tabby cat greeted me and begged to be picked up.

  “Yes, Georgie, hold on, let me get my apron.”

  Beverly, the dear retired woman who worked for me a few days a week, sewed adorable aprons for us to wear, and we now had quite the collection, one for every holiday and month throughout the year. They nearly always matched my outfit of the day, and they did an outstanding job of keeping the cat hair off our clothes, along with a few twirls of the huge cat hair roller. I reached for my black cotton apron adorned with a ruffled striped pink and white border on the edges and bold pink embroidered lettering boasting: My book boyfriend loves cat hair. Once tied firmly in place, I picked up the gorgeous boy, who promptly rubbed his whiskers against my cheek.

  “Ooh, why are you such a sweetie? What do you think? Going to be a good day? We sure could use it, buddy. It’s been a slow month so far.” I eyed the boxes waiting to be opened. George used his paw against my chin as if saying, Turn your head away from the boxes of new book arrivals and focus on me instead. How could I resist his charms? I snuggled him hard and carried him with me into the small cafe area, rubbed his head, and then put him down.

  I washed my hands, then started up the warmers for boiling water. Opening the box of tea bags of the featured tea of the day sent an aromatic wave adrift in the kitchenette where white tea with notes of citrus lingered. But it wasn’t the tea calling the rest of the cat crew, it was my reach for the tuna cans and the sound of the drawer opening to find the can opener.

  “Here you go, hungry kitties.” Like a teacher needing to take attendance, I set out six bowls and counted each cat as they appeared. “Where’s Boo Boo Bobbin?” It was odd for her not to be the first one on the scene, pouncing on her bowl of tuna like she hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours. They got fed twice a day, at opening and at closing, and of course, countless treats from customers in and out of the shop all day. They were adorable pets, but cats being cats, they knew how to use their charm and their purring to get more treats.

  “Boo Boo Bobbin?” I called out and went in search of the beautiful, long-haired black cat who stole my heart the minute I found her in the back alley of the shop the first Halloween after I took over ownership from Uncle Joe. She scared me like a ghost, hiding behind the trash bin, hence her name. Matted fur, ear mites, and fleas afflicted her. After a trip to the vet, she became my first shop cat. Like a mascot for the store, I couldn’t imagine my working day without her. In fact, Boo Boo Bobbin was famous among my customers as her illustrated black face appeared on all my store graphics, from logo to business card to website. She even was the author of my monthly email newsletters to my customers. The “Ask Boo Boo” feature was especially popular among the women who frequented my shop.

  She wasn’t visible on the main shop floor. Not in the grand window of the shop where a few cat hammocks lived to allow the kitties to bask in the morning sun. Not in the blanket baskets by the self-help section. Nor in the scratching posts closet. I checked a few more aisles - she wasn’t in moms and parenting or cookbooks. But there she was, curled up in a red velvet chaise in the corner behind my favorite section of the store, the romance books.

  “Ah, I should have known. A kitty after my heart. Stayed up too late reading, huh?” The little sweetheart had been lounging on top of Lucy Score’s latest romantic comedy about a dead guy next door. She picked up her face to look at me with her gorgeous green eyes and turned on her purr box as loud as she could, the sound entering my ears like drawing me into her magic spell of morning comfort. Sit with me, love, her eyes implored. I had boxes of new books to inventory and shelve before doors opened at ten, but none of it mattered when there was a romance book, a cozy chair, and a long-haired, warm cat to keep company. I snuggled into the soft velvet chair, careful not to displace Boo Boo Bobbin too much, and picked up the book to reread my favorite part. It only took a few seconds before the petite cat crawled onto my lap and then perched her front paws on my chest, her nose coming to rest on my chin while her content purrs held me in their magic grasp.

  Cats and book boyfriends were the two things I could count on in my life. Book boyfriends were the best, always there for the heroine, always making grand gestures, always trying hard to understand her. And those tender first kisses, and of course the hot make-up sex after a quarrel, and the reunions after it seemed all was lost. Why couldn’t real men in real life pick up a romance book once in a while and learn a thing or two about what women wanted?

  L
ost in the book, I jumped when I heard Beverly unlock the shop door at ten minutes to ten. I dealt myself back into the present, leaving the comfort, and carried Boo Boo Bobbin with me to greet her.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, dear,” Beverly beat me to the greeting.

  “And to you too, Bev.” The cat jumped from my arms and ran to the tuna bowls. The other cats already licked them dry, but she could still gobble up the bits of tuna on the floor around the bowls. My cats were not the daintiest of eaters, and Bev swabbed the floor before we opened.

  Arms freed, I pulled out a gift for Beverly from my bag. “Here you go, a little something.”

  Bev took the gift and removed the pink floral scarf, revealing her gray hair. “Tsk, tsk. You should save your spoils for a fellow on this day of love, not an old woman like me.”

  “Come on, you know there’s no one in my life right now.”

  She handed me a gift bag, and we both took turns opening. With a hearty laugh reminding me of Santa Claus but the way Mrs. Clause might laugh, like Ha, Ha, Ha, instead of Ho, Ho, Ho, Bev appeared pleased when she pulled out the cat-shaped sticky note holder. I had already filled it with pink-colored sticky notes, so it was ready for her use.

  In my bag, I found a new apron. It was red with heart-printed pink ruffles and embroidery sporting the saying Book boyfriends love Valentine's Day at The Cat’s Cradle. “Oh, it’s perfect! Thanks, Bev.” My black apron promptly got replaced with the new apron, pleasing my eyes with how it matched well with my red booties, and then I got to work on the boxes of new books, but I couldn’t escape Bev’s inquisition.

  “What’s happening with the man you’re talking to online? What’s his name?” She joined me in unpacking the books after she mopped the kitchenette floor.