Completely Smitten. Сьюзен Мэллери

plate containing a burger on a bun—the top of the bun covered with lettuce, tomatoes and onion—along with a mound of fries that threatened to fall onto the counter.

      “You can get food in a bar?” she asked, incredulous. “For real?”

      He remembered walking to school years ago and seeing a starving dog. The dirty brown-and-white fur ball had been hiding in an alley. Kevin had taken one look at its shivering, skinny self, then he’d handed over his sandwich. He’d gone without lunch for two days before finally taking the dog home.

      “You’re broke,” he said flatly, wondering when his luck had gotten so bad. He pushed the plate toward her. “Eat up.”

      She took another drink of her margarita. “Broke?” She swallowed. “No. I have money.”

      She put the glass on the bar, then pulled a small purse that had been dangling off one shoulder onto her lap and opened it. Inside was a wad of bills.

      “I cleaned out my savings account,” she said, then lowered her voice. “I have the rest of it in traveler’s checks. It’s really much safer that way.” The purse closed with a snap.

      She took another drink, then gasped and slapped her hands over her face.

      “Ouch. Oh, yuck. It hurts. It hurts.” She shimmied on the bar stool, alternately cupping her nose and mouth and waving her hand back and forth.

      Kevin pulled his plate in front of him, then nodded at the bartender. “Could we have a glass of water?”

      The bartender filled a glass and passed it over to Haley. She gulped some down. After a couple of swallows, she sighed.

      “Much better.” She put the glass down. “I had one of those flash ice headaches.”

      “We all knew that.”

      She half stood, stretched over the bar and snagged a small plate. “Want to share your fries?”

      “Why not?”

      She scooped several onto her plate and crunched the first one.

      He was in hell, he decided, watching her. Somewhere in his day, he’d died and this was God’s way of punishing him for all the screwing up he’d done in his life.

      “So I’m from Ohio,” she said with a smile. “Western Ohio. A little town you’ve never heard of. Have you been to Ohio?”

      “Columbus.”

      “It’s nice, huh?”

      “A wonderful place.”

      She nodded, not coming close to catching the sarcasm in his voice.

      Why him? That’s what he wanted to know. There were probably twenty other guys in the bar. Why had he been the one to come to her rescue? Why hadn’t someone else stepped in?

      “Like I said, my dad’s a minister.” She ate another French fry, then drank more of her margarita. “My mom died when I was born, so I don’t remember her. The thing is, when you’re the preacher’s kid, everybody feels responsible for keeping you on the straight and narrow. I didn’t have one mother—I had fifty. I couldn’t even think something bad before it was being reported to my dad.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Kevin turned back to the game and tried not to listen.

      “So that’s why I don’t know the bar thing.”

      “What bar thing?” he asked before he could stop himself.

      “That this isn’t a bar people bring their dates to. I’m practicing being bad.”

      That got his attention. He swung back to face her. “Bad?”

      “You bet.” She finished her margarita and pushed her glass to the edge of the counter. “I’d like another one, please,” she said, then beamed at the bartender. “It was great.”

      She turned back to Kevin. “I just wish I could have a little umbrella.”

      He didn’t care about that. “Tell me about being bad.”

      “I haven’t been. Ever. So that’s what I’m doing on my drive to Hawaii.” She glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. “This is only my third time in a bar.”

      “You’re kidding,” he said, more because he was hoping she wasn’t telling the truth than because he didn’t believe her.

      “When I left home three days ago, I’d never even had anything alcoholic to drink. So that first night, when I stopped, I went into a bar.” She bit into another fry and wrinkled her nose. Humor crinkled the corners of her eyes.

      “It was horrible,” she said when she’d swallowed. “I felt so out of place and when a man smiled at me, I ran out the door. Yesterday was better.”

      He gave up. There was no point in avoiding what was obviously his fate. “Your second time in a bar?”

      She nodded. “I had white wine, but I have to tell you I didn’t like it at all. But I did almost speak to someone.”

      Great.

      The bartender finished blending the margarita and set it in front of her. “Want to run a tab?” he asked.

      Haley pressed her lips together for a couple of seconds. “Maybe,” she said at last.

      “Yes,” Kevin said. “Run her a tab. You want your own order of fries?”

      “Okay. Extra salt, please.”

      The bartender muttered something under his breath, then wrote on his small pad.

      “A tab,” Kevin said when they were alone, “means they keep a list of what you’ve ordered. You pay once at the end of the evening instead of paying each time.”

      Haley’s blue-hazel eyes widened. “That’s so cool.”

      He had a feeling the world was going to be one constant amazement after the other for her.

      He studied her pale skin, her wide smile and trusting eyes. This was not a woman who should be let out on her own.

      “You need to think about heading back to Ohio.”

      “No way.” She took a long drink of her margarita. “I’ve spent my entire life doing what everyone else has told me to do. Now I’m only doing what I want. No matter what.”

      Her expression turned fierce. “You can’t know what it’s like,” she continued. “I never get to voice my opinion. If I even try, I get ignored. No one cares what I think or what I want.”

      “That’s why you’re running away?”

      “Exactly.” She picked up a French fry, then put it back on the plate. “How did you know I was running away?”

      “You’re not the kind of woman to come to a place like this on purpose.”

      She glanced around at the seedy clientele, then shrugged. “I want new experiences.”

      “Like little umbrellas in your drinks?”

      “Exactly.”

      She smiled. He had to admit she had a great smile. Her whole face lit up. She’d said she was twenty-five, but in some ways she acted more like an awkward teenager than a grown woman. No doubt being the daughter of a single father minister had something to do with it.

      He thought about suggesting that next time she find her new experience at a more upscale bar, but then he reminded himself he wasn’t getting involved. He had enough problems of his own without adding her to the list.

      “It’s not that I don’t like the piano,” she said.

      “What?”

      “The piano. I play. It was expected. I can also play the organ,