Goodbye to You (2 page)

I square my shoulders and stand straight. J. Crew’s eyes drop. And pop.

My now-perfect posture makes my big, firm boobs stick out, and in this tank top, they’re hard to miss.

“Hi,” I spit out after I unstick my tongue from the dry roof of my mouth.

He lifts his gaze back to mine, the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes dancing, like he’s a tad embarrassed at being caught staring, but not at all sorry for looking.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt this little love-fest, but can I get through?” The bartender with the lilting accent is trying to get through the hall from the men’s room.

I take a couple steps back, and J. Crew hitches his thumb at the men’s room door. “Um, I gotta go . . .”

I mentally face-palm myself.

He hadn’t come for me. He’d been waiting to get into the bathroom, probably a single-stall like the ladies’ room.

Duh.

But good. Because a guy following you to a public bathroom in a bar is a teensy bit strange.

Still, I’m disappointed. I thought J. Crew and I had a connection that compelled him to do something unconventional even though others might find it strange.

Turns out he just had to pee.

Stunning.

Not drop-dead, super-model gorgeous, but I can’t stop staring at her.

One eyebrow quirks up at me, questioning.

Her nose is straight, and her crooked grin is set on a pair of soft-looking, full lips the color of cherries.

I wonder if they taste like cherries too.

I’d settle for cherry Chapstick.

She smells like berries, and it makes me hungry for more.

Curly blond hair tumbles over one shoulder. My fingers itch to wind into the waves to find out if they’re as silky as they look.

Of course, her most striking feature isn’t her skin or hair or lips: it’s her breasts.

I’d say I’m a “boob man,” even though the future medical student in me thinks the term “boobs” is crass.

But I do love breasts, and hers are spectacular.

“H-hey.” Great. She’ll be so impressed by the stutter.

A woman pushes past the girl to get into the ladies’ room.

The blond thrusts her shoulders back, and my gaze falls from her face to her chest again.

They’re encased in a bright pink tank top crying for help in supporting the glorious burden.

I’d volunteer, but don’t want to get slapped.

I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Hi.” Her voice is high, the single word encouraging.

My Uncle Paddy, master of unfortunate timing, interrupts, trying to squeeze between us.

We’re alone again, but geesh, my bladder is screaming.

I hate to do this, but I say, “Um, I gotta go . . .” and push the men’s room door open, leaving her standing in the hall.

I finish up and lather my hands under the scalding water, hoping she’ll be there when I’m done, but that’s odd, right? For her to stand by the bathroom and wait for me?

When I leave the bathroom, of course she’s gone, back with her friends at the bar, and Paddy’s taking another order from them.

I want to meet her, but I’m no good at talking about myself and even worse with striking up conversations with people I don’t know.

Not effective when trying to get the attention of a beautiful stranger.

I climb back on the worn bar stool, its legs shifting under my weight. Uncle Paddy slides another beer across the worn bar top, the foam sloshing over the side.

“Hey Paddy, what’s up with the blond?” I tilt my head at the girl and her two friends, the tall redhead, and the olive-skinned brunette.

“Ye mean the one with the . . .” Paddy cups his hands out—far out—in front of his chest.

I nod, kind of weirded out by my forty-year-old uncle staring at college-aged girls.

“Fun bunch of girls, those three. Yeah, she’s a dear. Quieter than the other two.” A cackle of laughter erupts from the brunette to prove Paddy’s point. “Her name’s Thea. Ye wanna meet her?”

I shake my head. “No, no, no.”

I’m so not ready.

My stubborn uncle turns a deaf ear to my pleas.

“Hey, this guy here, he’s my nephew,” Paddy bellows and points at me. Now the whole bar knows I want to meet this hot girl.

My heart hammers in my ears. I bury my face, hot with embarrassment, in my arms.

Too late.

From our brief interlude outside the bathrooms, I’d recognize the scent anywhere. Sweet, luscious raspberries.

“Thea, my nephew Seamus.” A strangled groan escapes my lips. Paddy knows I hate my real name. “He’s a good boy, a smart one, but shy. Be gentle, love.”

I lift my head to glare at my well-meaning but socially inappropriate uncle, but he’s off to fill a glass and flirt with another patron.

Time to face the inevitable. I’ve got to talk to her, want to, but I never know what to say. At least this will be quick.

I pop up from the bar and turn in her direction, forcing a smile to my lips as I shove my right hand at her. “Shay. Nice to meet you.”

Nice to meet you?

Smooth.

Thea shrinks back and looks at me sideways, something shining in her bright blue eyes.

Doubt? Does she sense the fear?

She can do much better than me. I’m not ugly, and I try to keep myself in decent shape, but crap, I can’t shake this awkwardness.

She gives my hand a firm shake before releasing it and sitting next to me. My heart’s swimming in my chest, doing laps around my lungs, which can’t take in air fast enough.

Passing out would be inappropriate and a tad embarrassing, so I slow my breathing and hope the action will quiet my too-rapid heartbeat.

She leans in, her thick hair falling forward and brushing my forearm. I swallow over the solid lump in my throat.

“Thea, but I guess ya know,” she titters, echoing my nervousness. She takes the shooter Paddy brings her. He sets the same in front of me.

“I know this one,” Thea says, holding the shot glass at eye-level and studying the contents. “The B shooter.”

A perfectly-layered B-52: dark brown Kahlua, topped with amber amaretto, finished with creamy Bailey’s.

Sweet, but strong stuff.

Not my thing, but Paddy must sense I need powerful liquid courage. He’s encouraging me, the same way I’m on my little brother Mac to take risks. Mac has high-functioning autism and bouts of depression, but I pushed him to face his fears, make a move on the girl he loves, and jumpstart his music career. There he is tonight, on the stage.

Stop being so rigid, I told him. He listened about the performing.

The strict discipline though, an inflexibility in my approach to tackling my goals, is what got me into my top med school. My rigid nature, however, will not help me charm this lovely lass.

Time to take my own advice.

“To making new friends.” I raise my glass, clinking it against hers.

“Ta makin’ new friends.”

The hint of an accent is freaking cute.

I pause, and she’s staring at me with those clear-sky eyes, waiting for me to drink.

“And to taking chances,” I declare.

Clink.

“Takin’ chances. Fuckin’ awesome.”

“Do you think this one will go down smoother than the last one?” I ask.

Her slender fingers tap my forearm, triggering a dizzy spell like an anvil fell on my head.

“That thing was awful. Tabasco sauce mixed with alcohol in a shot glass? No thank you.” Thea’s face flushes a pale shade of pink, highlighting the adorable freckles across the bridge of her nose.

I can’t stop looking at her.

We drink.

The shot burns a hole in my throat, but the sweetness is pleasing.

It’s how Thea will taste when I kiss her later.

“Let’s get out of here.” I’m surprised to realize I’m the one who said this.

Her forehead crinkles and her lips purse, and at first she shakes her head. The shake turns to a nod. “Okay. Yes. Let’s do this.”

She slips out of her chair and starts for the door, and all I can do is jump to my feet and follow.

The sound of her friends’ whooping is silenced by the closing door. The humid July air blankets us.

She’s so close, but I’m clueless about what to do next.

I know I want to be alone with her.

I capture her fingers in mine and pull her into the dark alley next to the bar, the rooftop AC units humming in the air. Her skirt swishes against my bare legs. I wrap my fingers around the smooth skin of her arms, squeezing the soft flesh as I ease her against the wall.

She pushes my hands to her breasts. Um. They’re . . . wow.

Then
she
kisses
me
, her lush lips magical as they move over mine under the moonlight. Her hands tug at my hair, drawing my head down as her tongue delves deeper into my mouth.

The creamy, almond-coffee aftertaste of the shooter is sweeter on her lips than it was in the glass.

I groan as all the blood rushes from my brain straight to my groin.

I don’t know how this night will end, but I know one thing for sure.

No one will ever kiss me like this again.

I pull Shay’s hands to my chest. His gentle strokes ignite sparks through the thin layers of my tank top and bra. Knowing he may be the last person ever to touch my breasts is exhilarating.

I pant, the heat rising to my skin as I press my lips to his. He startles at the contact but surrenders to the kiss.

A moan escapes from his throat as my fingers dive into his thick, dark hair. The wall of the building scratches at the exposed skin of my shoulders and drunken revelers provide the soundtrack for our impromptu make-out session.

Not how I’d expected my Key West fling to begin. Hell, I don’t know what I’d expected.

But his broad shoulders and hard arms and big hands tell me I need more.

Shay pulls back, his breathing labored, and I’m disappointed. My heart threatens to break my ribs, and I try to kiss him again, but he cups my face in his hands. “What’s the hurry?”

If only he knew. If we’d met in the future, instead of tonight, he might’ve turned the other way. I want to experience this pure physical euphoria over and over for the next few days.