Demon Night

accent. Definitely educated. It reminded her of New York upper crust, but slightly more formal in its delivery. And although there was no hesitation in his speech, he spoke like an actor after a session with a voice coach, testing the shape of each word before it left his mouth.
    “I’d have pegged you for a port,” she offered. “Or a cognac.”
    A brief flash of humor and surprise crossed his face. He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the bar. “You are not altogether wrong. My father preferred port. And in his last year of life, he preferred to have quite a lot of it. It was a much more dignified drink than this .”
    Charlie couldn’t imagine what his father had to do with his drink, but she held her tongue when he raised his glass and downed the two fingers’ worth in a single swallow.
    Either he was no stranger to the bottle himself, or he had a throat of steel. Not a wince, a flaring of his nostrils, or a watering of his eyes.
    “But I’ve always thought its only threat to a man’s dignity is when he’s had too much to please a pretty woman,” he added with a smile. “I’m not likely to get there.”
    His tone was flirtatious—and though it invited her to play along, she only asked, “Another then?”
    “Yes.” His fingers circled the heavy-bottomed glass, the tip of his thumb a scant distance from his middle finger. “What would you have taken the father for?”
    Remembering the senator’s pale gaze, his disapproving frown, she said, “I’d have said he doesn’t drink. Ever.”
    “He ordered one.”
    “But he hasn’t taken a sip. He probably came in, thought: Okay, I’m going to connect with my voters, seem like a regular guy. And a place like this, a regular guy gets a drink, so he did. Only, a beer’s too regular, wine’s too formal—or sissy—and whiskey might give the impression he takes his drink too seriously.” She stopped. Had he recognized the senator? He hadn’t even blinked when she’d mentioned voters, and was only nodding thoughtfully as he looked down into his glass.
    “I see it a lot,” she added, and he glanced back up at her. “People keeping up appearances.”
    A wry smile creased the corners of his mouth. “But appearances are almost always deceiving,” he said, and downed half the whiskey in his glass.
    “Yes.” She watched him, feeling the first hint of unease. He was taking them too fast. With her chin, she gestured behind him, hoping to turn his attention from his drink. “Take Joel over there. Tonight, alone, he’s a screwdriver and he’s got the local news on. But every so often, he brings in someone he met online and orders a German beer from the tap. And although he’s the sweetest guy, he’s completely different in front of them: changing the channel to ESPN and pulling off some macho act. And they don’t ever come back. I can never decide if it’s funny or sad,” she finished softly.
    Maybe both. Her brow furrowed as she watched Joel’s thin, pale face brighten at whatever he read on his laptop screen, then his smile as he typed a response.
    So many expectations set up, and then destroyed. Did he really think the front he put on was what they wanted? Or did he sabotage himself, unable to bear the idea that when they met him in person they would be disappointed in what he really was—so he gave them something false to be disappointed in?
    After two months chatting over a wall, had Ethan been disappointed?
    She hadn’t even realized how she’d built up her own expectations until she’d finally been on the verge of meeting him—and maybe all of the expectation had been on her side.
    She should have looked back.
    Suddenly a little depressed, she glanced away from Joel and found the gentleman’s gaze fixed on her. A shiver ran over her skin, pricking the fine hairs on her arms. His eyes were bottle green, clear and hard as glass, and surrounded by dark brown lashes untouched by the gray that peppered his hair.
    Perhaps his drink fit him, after all. Though the rest of him suggested it, that emerald stare was not at all grandfatherly. Nor had it been dulled by age or the whiskey.
    And the intensity of it was oddly…sexy.
    Jesus. She dipped her head, turned away. Her hands made jerky little movements at her waist. She tugged at her apron, pretending to tighten it, and trying to tamp down the unexpected and inappropriate attraction.
    Customer. Old enough to be your father. Probably an alcoholic.
    And with an expression that