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Summer sat at one of the tall tables in the bar, spinning a half-empty glass under one hand. She’d only come out because she couldn’t stand the self-recriminating silence between her own ears anymore.

She was starting to regret that decision, largely thanks to the beer-sodden idiot who couldn’t take a hint and was currently leaning on the edge of her table like he had a right to be there. He hadn’t taken the other seat yet, which was a minor miracle.

But he hadn’t taken the hint of her book, and he hadn’t taken the hint of her going back to it, either. Just kept yammering on, taking every slight word she gave him as an excuse to talk about himself. She now, if she cared to recall the last five minutes, had his name, number, history to the last five years, address, and favourite beer, none of which she gave a damn about.

And then he waved a waitress over and ordered beer for them both (she hated beer, actually), and she leveled a fulminating glare at him.

Which the idiot totally ignored. She was going to have to cause a scene, wasn’t she.