Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

“It’s green, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s a veggie.”
Sloane shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“I so agree.”
We share a smile. At that moment, I happen to glance over
to the opposite side of the restaurant.
Sitting by himself at a table, his back to the window, a pint
of beer in his hand, the stranger I bumped into outside the
restroom stares at me.
Because he removed his dark sunglasses, this time I can
see his eyes.
They’re the deep, rich brown of Guinness stout, set wide
beneath a stern brow, and surrounded by a thicket of black
lashes. Focused on me with startling intensity, those eyes don’t
move or blink.
But oh, how darkly they burn.