The First Husband Read Online Free PDF Page B

getting a drink so late.
    I walked over to him. “You’re not Ray,” I said.
    I must have sounded seriously disappointed because this guy laughed.
    “No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”
    He gave me a smile, big and round, and I felt grateful that the first words out of his mouth weren’t the obvious ones: We’re closed. Then I noticed his face. He had a nice face—a strong jaw, wide-open eyes, a blond scruff of beard matching his sillylooking curls. A significant dimple, making its way confidently through that scruff. He was also wearing a green jacket that matched his eyes a little too perfectly.
    “Does that mean I’m too late for last call?” I asked.
    “Officially or unofficially?” he asked, taking a final swipe at the countertop.
    “Whichever answer gives me the best shot of getting a bourbon straight up,” I said. “Pinch of salt.”
    This was when he smiled again. It was a knock-you-out smile— this close to being too smooth for its own good. But it redeemed itself because it also seemed another way: nervous, genuine. Accidentally smooth. Which, all of a sudden, felt even more dangerous.
    He slung the dish towel over his shoulder. “That’s my drink of choice too,” he said.
    I shook my head. “That’s no one’s drink of choice too ,” I said.
    But then he pulled out a small Riedel glass from behind the bar, a little bourbon still left in it, the salt line visible. “I had an uncle who used to drink it that way when I was growing up. I guess I just got used to it,” he said. “You can have a try, if you like.”
    Instead I stood up on my tiptoes, and leaned over the bar to have a better look.
    “Come on, do you have a hundred different drinks lined up back there, waiting to be pulled out? That’s a hell of a way to get tips.”
    “Would you like to have a seat?” He motioned toward the empty bar stool directly in front of him, gestured for me to take it.
    “Really?” I said, as if it were up for debate. As if I weren’t already taking it eagerly—my dress hiking up too high on my legs, as I positioned myself as close to the bar as possible, trying to get comfortable.
    I guess I was moving a little awkwardly because he was looking at me more than slightly confused. “You all right, there?”
    “I’m good,” I said. I held out my hand, still just trying to seem friendly, get that drink. “I’m Annabelle . . . though pretty much everyone calls me Annie. Adams.”
    He reached out to take my hand, but before he could, I heard footsteps and we both turned to see a familiar face. It was Ray, the usual bartender, in his street clothes, walking toward us. He had a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.
    “Griffin, I’m outta here, my man . . .” Ray said. Then he interrupted himself, noticing me. “Hey, I know you. It’s Samantha, right? Samantha in the pretty dress?”
    I smiled. “Close,” I said.
    “Ray, this is Annie Adams,” the guy behind the bar said. Griffin, apparently.
    Ray looked back and forth between us. “Well, Annie Adams, in the pretty dress, I actually closed out for the night already. Sorry about that. Show starts again at four P.M. tomorrow. . . .”
    I started to stand, but, before I could, Griffin put his hand on top of mine, gently, stopping me exactly where I was.
    “That’s cool, Ray, Annie’s a friend of mine. I dragged her out to have a nightcap with me while I finish up some things. Go on, I’ll lock it out for you.”
    Ray looked back at me. “You’re friends with Griff?” he said.
    I smiled at Griff , as he poured me my bourbon, a double shot of it, the greatest amount of salt going in, right on top.
    “Absolutely,” I said.
    “Cool, then.” Ray twirled his leather jacket over his head and turned to leave. “Later!”
    When I looked back at Griffin, he was holding up his bourbon glass, tipping it toward me. “I’m guessing you’re glad I’m not Ray now.”
    “Very,” I said, tipping mine toward him.
    Then I took a long, slow