It takes another Bloody Mary before he closes the distance between us. When he finally comes around to my side of the bar, he squeezes into the tight space between my stool and the empty one beside me, sets his drink down next to mine, and says simply, “I appreciate the drinks.”
He has a northern drawl and dark eyes that look like buttons set in his face. This close, I see that his red beard is shot through with strands of gold, and tiny indentations on the bridge of his nose suggest that he frequently wears glasses. Raising my drink to him, I kick back what might be my fourth Leprechaun and tell him, “A small price to pay for a little company.”
With a grunt, Paul climbs onto the barstool beside me, leaning heavily on my thigh to help him up. Once he’s seated, his hand stays in place, hi
