Just a Little Bet (Smokejumper #2) - Tawna Fenske Page 0,2
He’d thought that was what Becca wanted, too.
Maybe he hadn’t seen this split coming, but he wasn’t surprised. Not even that broken up about it, though the timing kinda sucked.
Of all the dates for this to happen…
“Can’t fault her observation,” Grady mused.
“Fuck off.”
He said it without venom as he polished off his beer and set the empty glass on the table. How had that happened?
Grady noticed and raised one eyebrow. “Kinda nice to see you tying one on for a change. I can’t think of a time I’ve ever seen you have more than one drink.”
“I didn’t drive,” he said.
“Hey, I’m not judging.” Grady held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re always Mister Responsible. You deserve a break every now and then.”
“Guess so.” Somewhere out there, his dad was probably “taking a break,” too. A break that’d lasted twenty-five years.
He let his gaze drift back down the bar to Kayla, who threw her head back and laughed at something Willa said. Willa turned and flashed a look at Grady that promised amazing things if her husband took her home right that instant.
Lucky bastard.
Grady shoved his barely touched beer in Tony’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder again. “Finish that for me, would you? Gotta go.”
And then he was gone. Tony watched them walk out the door before swinging his gaze back to the bar.
Kayla sat chatting with the bartender, and Tony felt an odd twist in the center of his chest. Pride, that’s what it was. He was damn proud of her for landing this book deal. Who knew there was a demand for artsy photos of burned-up trees?
Kayla, that’s who.
As though hearing his thoughts, she swiveled to face him. A bemused look lit her eyes as she smiled. That’s when he noticed the tidy row of five amber-filled shot glasses lined up in front of her. What the hell?
He headed over, grateful she was still here. Maybe they could split an Uber. Living half a mile apart had its pluses.
So did staying best friends with someone he’d dated. He loved that they’d remained close when plenty of other exes thought he was a dick. It made it easy to cut out all the bullshit and just relax around her.
Hell, maybe he did want to talk about this split with Becca. Or breakups in general.
Or maybe, maybe, he’d tell her what was really bugging him tonight. Why today’s date sucked so much.
She was still talking with the bartender as he approached.
“I really don’t need all these,” she was saying. “It was just a joke. A silly bet.”
Tony slid onto the barstool beside her, none too graceful in his movements. His shoulder jarred hers, sending a strange jolt of electricity down his arm. “What’s a silly bet?”
Kayla gestured to the glasses. “I bet a bunch of the guys you and Becca had split. Sorry.”
He shrugged, not too concerned about it. “I’d bet against me, too.”
“I wasn’t betting against you, exactly—”
“Are you going to drink these?” He picked up one of the shots, which smelled vaguely like cinnamon.
A memory rippled through him—the cinnamon pine cones his mom tucked in baskets around the house at Christmas. His dad used to bitch about it, complaining the house smelled like a damn cinnamon bun, but five-year-old Tony had loved it.
He set the glass down quick, feeling his stomach pitch.
Kayla was studying him. “Wow, multiple beers and a shot? Since when do you get your drink on like this?”
“Since when is everyone my mom?”
There was some irony. His mom would be the last person to give a shit what he did, but Kayla didn’t need to know that.
No one did.
Kayla nudged one of the glasses in front of him. “I suppose you earned it.”
“By getting dumped, or by adding another notch to my shitty-boyfriend belt?” Which was probably the same thing.
“You’re not a shitty boyfriend.” She cocked her head, considering him. “I mean, yeah, you’ve got issues. Not that I have any room to talk on the relationship front.” Something dark flittered over her face, but it was gone before he could comment. “Anyway,” she said. “You’re a dude with serious commitment issues. Can’t fault a girl for not wanting to sit around indefinitely twiddling her thumbs.”
“I don’t.” He didn’t blame a single woman who’d dumped his sorry ass. Hell, he’d dump himself if he could.
He picked up the shot glass and knocked it back. The liquid burned hot and viscous down his throat, and he swallowed to make the feeling go away.