The guy was shirtless, tanned, had long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wore five different shell necklaces around his neck.

Jamie grew taller on his stool and reciprocated, leaning over the bar to do it and slapping the guy’s back. Then he settled in his seat and tapped a cigarette out of the pack. “Not much, man. You? How ya been?”

“Good. Good. Same shit, ya know?”

Jamie lit up a cigarette, nodding his reply, flipped the lighter closed, took a drag, and then blew the smoke out above him.

I’d seen Jamie with cigarettes tucked behind his ear all the time, but I’d never witnessed him actually smoking before.

This was what prompted me to butt into their conversation and inquire.

“How come I’ve never seen you smoke?” I asked.

Jamie gave me a sideways look, barely turning his head. “’Cause I’m tryin’ to quit,” he answered, then he jerked his chin at the bartender. “Two Coronas. No lime for me. Give her one.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, causing the man to pause midstep and bounce his gaze between the two of us, questioning what he should do.

“She’s not,” Jamie argued. “Get her a drink.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“She is.”

“No, really, I’m—”

Jamie turned his head.

His jaw was twitching, his eyes were hard, and he looked ready to debate my need for a beverage until one of us passed out from exhaustion, most likely me.

I sighed, remembering my poor judgment and the reason I was missing a top, then I gave the bartender a weak smile. “A Corona with lime sounds perfect. Thanks.”

“Right on,” he replied, stepping away to grab our drinks.

Jamie took another drag of his cigarette. He kept his eyes fixated behind the bar.

“So why are you smoking now if you’re trying to quit?” I asked, watching him blow a perfect smoke ring out of his mouth. My brow furrowed. “And how long have you been trying to quit? Every time I see you, you have a cigarette stashed behind your ear. But you never smell like smoke. It doesn’t make sense. Why would you have your lighter with you if you’re trying to quit? Are you really trying to quit?” I tilted my head, studying him.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed, turning his head to look at me. “How many questions are you gonna ask me in one breath? You sound like Sunshine.”

I shrugged. “What? That was like, two breaths, at least. I paused.”

“Did you?” He raised his brows. “Must’ve missed it.”

The bartender stepped in front of us again and sat our bottles down on the bar. He slid a plate next to mine that had a lime wedge on it.

“So when’s your next meet?” he asked Jamie, leaning his weight on the wooden surface.

“Couple weeks.”

“Nice. I need to get back out there. Knee’s feelin’ good now, so just need to find the time, ya know?”

Jamie nodded. “I hear that.”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, gaining attention from both of them but only giving it to the bartender. “Hi.” I smiled.

He smiled back. “’Sup, babe?”

“Um, can you just give us a minute? I had a couple of questions I was really hoping to get answers to.”

The bartender cocked an eyebrow.

Jamie threw his head back and laughed like he’d just heard the funniest thing imaginable.

I kept my gaze steady on the man behind the bar, thinking my request was understandable considering how curious I was feeling at the moment, and not at all amusing.

“For real?” The bartender looked at Jamie. He jerked his chin at me, asking, “This one yours?”

“Um, no. I am no one’s,” I answered firmly, grabbing my beer and popping the lime wedge in. “Definitely not his.”

“She’s obsessed with me,” Jamie told the man, his amusement leveling out to a few quiet chuckles quaking in his chest.

“What?” I choked on a breath.

The bartender looked between the two of us and he did it nodding, as if he believed this nonsense.

Give me a break.

“Look at her. Shit’s serious.” Jamie tapped the ash off his cigarette into a nearby receptacle. “Can’t keep her outta my shirts.”

What?

WHAT?

I grew taller on my stool. “He’s obsessed with me,” I informed the bartender, and Jamie, since he’d apparently forgotten. “He practically stalks my entire life. And he offered me his shirt. He wanted me in it.”

“Not gonna argue that,” Jamie shot back, doing this while looking prideful.

My mouth was open and ready to dispute his rebuttal since I knew it was coming, but hearing that, it clamped shut. I slouched in my stool.

And I did this not thinking anything of Jamie wanting me in his shirt. Because there was absolutely nothing to think about it.

Nothing at all.

“See?” I glared at the bartender.

Smiling, he held his hands up in surrender and took a step back. “Leave you guys to it then,” he said, then he looked at Jamie. “Good seein’ you, man.”

“Same,” Jamie replied.

I watched the man move down the bar, then shifted my attention onto the lying loser’s profile.

“So?” I asked.

Jamie turned his head. He brushed some wet hair out of his eyes, saying nothing.

Seriously?

“Are you going to answer my question?” I further probed when he didn’t follow my lead.

“Which one? You asked me about thirty,” he replied, giving attitude with his response.

I scowled. He was way off, but whatever. I decided on repeating the first question, and the one I was most curious about.

“Why are you smoking now if you’re trying to quit?” I asked.

Jamie studied me for a breath and then looked away, focusing behind the bar again as he informed me, “Think you can figure that one out yourself.”

I stared at his profile and thought back to his reason for dragging me here, hearing his words ring out to me in my head.

“I scared you,” I offered.

His eyes slid to mine as he took another drag.

Swallowing, I nodded. Right. Stress was the trigger. That was understandable. People smoked and drank when they were stressed out.

And Jamie was stressed and smoking because of the stunt I’d pulled.

Damn.

I drank my beer, not liking the unsettling feeling washing over me as I took ownership of being the cause of his stress, and then I pushed those feelings aside because I had more questions I wanted answers to.

“So how long have you been trying to quit?”

Jamie blew the smoke out above him while stubbing out his cigarette, then grabbed his bottle and chugged a good bit of it.

“My turn,” he said after swallowing, instead of answering me. He turned his head and read my confusion. “You got shit you wanna ask me and I got shit I wanna ask you. Just answered one of yours. Now it’s my turn. That’s how this is gonna go.”

“Technically, I answered for you,” I reminded him.

“And technically, you should’ve told me you were fuckin’ scared, but you didn’t,” he bit out.

“I wasn’t scared. I was just nervous.”