It was busier than usual for a Saturday night. Most of the stools along the bar were filled, as were most of the tables in the back room. A cute older couple had been in earlier, nursing their one drink each and pouring quarters into the ancient jukebox, but they’d left. Now, instead of Lady Antebellum and Miranda Lambert, I was serenaded by the crack of pool balls coming from the back room, and assorted screams and cackles from the other side of the bar.

I stifled a yawn. I should’ve taken a nap this afternoon when I’d had the chance. I’d tried. I even set Izzy up in front of the television and lay down on the sofa beside her, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the guy who’d come into the luncheonette and what happened when he’d touched my hand.

The sensation had faded, but the experience remained vivid. The only person who might’ve understood what had happened or could explain it, was my dad. But he’d been gone for almost six years.

Like him, I’ve always been a bit psychic. Nothing like Miss Cleo or that chick from Long Island. Simple things. Guessing middle names, figuring out what card someone’s hiding behind their back or what number they might be thinking of. Useless stuff, really.

My dad? He had a real gift. He knew when to schedule a picnic or a trip to the shore and when to stay home. If the phone rang, he knew who was calling before any of us answered it. (Although that was an easy one. It was almost always Diane, my best friend since kindergarten.)

He knew when the Giants or the Nets were going to win, and he often dreamed the winning lottery numbers. But he never played. He wouldn’t use his gift to help himself. He said it wouldn’t be right.

The only time he ever pursued one of his visions, or whatever you want to call them, was when he met my mother. He swore from the moment they met that she was the one. He just had to win her over. And he did. I’d never seen two people so in love. They used to embarrass the hell out of me, but at least I grew up knowing what love was supposed to look like.

But there was more, and that’s probably what had me feeling so unsettled.

I was pretty young, maybe eight or nine, when I remember hearing my parents talking about Dad’s new boss. He said the guy was going around the warehouse introducing himself to everyone, and he shook my father’s hand. That night, I overhead my dad telling my mother that the moment their hands touched, he knew the guy would be dead within six months, and he was.

I had been so freaked out, I was afraid to let my father hold my hand for weeks after that.

I put down the rag that I’d been using to wipe down the bar and stared at the spot on my hand. Was that it? The guy hadn’t looked sick. Far from it. But you never know, right? A chill settled over me, and I tried to shake it off. I was giving myself far too much credit.

What I could do was nothing more than a party trick. I couldn’t predict anyone’s illness or death.

And I damn sure wouldn’t want to either.

“Something wrong with your hand?”

My head snapped up, and my hand flew to my chest. “Preston. You scared the shit out of me. What’re you doing here?”

“Scared you? I walked in the door and said ‘hello’ three times. You’ve been staring at your hand for the past minute at least. You got a splinter or something?”

I wiped my palm against my thigh like I had something to hide. “No. Just thinking. Tired.” I lifted up on my toes and leaned across the scarred mahogany bar, meeting Preston’s lips and inhaling his warm, woodsy scent.

Preston Jamison was the most pulled-together man I had ever seen: close-cropped, sandy hair, a handsome face, and a mouth full of perfect teeth to go with his perfect smile. He was wearing some expensive-looking shirt and a pair of khakis, and though he wasn’t wearing one of those expensive suits of his, he still stood out among the bulk of our clientele in their grease-covered Carhartts and smelly T-shirts.

We’d been seeing each other for several weeks. Nothing serious, but I did like him. Besides, I didn’t have time for anything serious anyway.

“How’s my girl?”

“Busy.” I nodded toward the peals of laughter coming from the dining area. “It’s women’s league night.”

“Sounds like they won.”

I hoisted a tray of drinks for the bawdy bowlers. “That, or they’re really good losers.”

When I’d finished passing out drinks and collecting empties, I returned to my spot behind the bar, just as my best friend’s fiancé and his racing crew burst through the door arguing about chains or belts or some other nonsense that must’ve gone wrong on their modified stock car that night. They planted themselves around Preston, drawing him into their little world, while I grabbed a handful of Buds from the cooler.

“So has Rain figured out your middle name yet?” Wally asked Preston.

“Wally.” I gave him the stink eye. I didn’t want Preston thinking I was some nutcase, which was how most people responded when they found out I considered myself to be a somewhat psychic.

“What’s this?” Preston looked amused, a look he often wore around Wally and the guys, as if they’re there for his entertainment.

“Rain’s psychic. She knows things.”

I strolled over to the end of the bar where a thin, bearded man sat wearing a worn and faded Caterpillar cap pulled low over his eyes, and grabbed his empty mug. I slipped it under the spout and pulled the tap handle.

“Yep. I had to channel all my psychic ability to know Fish needed a refill.”

“That and the empty glass,” Preston pointed out.

I winked at him. “Exactly.”

“C’mon, Rain,” Wally said. “Tell him his middle name.”

“I can’t always do it.” I scanned the perimeter of the rectangular bar. Everyone’s glasses were full and no one seemed to be in need of anything.

“She’s got a record going,” Wally’s brother, Bobby, said, adding his two cents. “Twenty-seven in a row. No misses.”

Preston set down his bottle. “Oh, this I’ve got to see. Get over here, sweet cheeks.”

I glared at him, but given the wild way he was grinning at me, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Okay, but I’ll warn you. I’m not feeling it tonight, so no promises. Give me something that’s yours. Your keys, wallet, something you’ve touched or held.”

He dipped into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out the keys to his Corvette.

“Now give me the first initial of your middle name.”

“That doesn’t seem fair, to give you hints.”

“Stop whining and give her the initial,” Wally demanded.

“Fine,” Preston said. “It’s F.”

Palming the keys, I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind. Narrowing my focus, I paired vowels with his name: Fa, Fe, Fi, Fo, Fu. I giggled. I did it again. Fi stood out. This was a tough one. I wasn’t feeling a typical boy’s name.

I opened my eyes, and I immediately wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.

“It’s not Frederick or Francis. It’s a family name.”

I squeezed the keys and closed my eyes again. Jamison was Scottish or Irish in origin. There was a buzzing—no, a fizzing. Fizz. Fitz. Fitzpatrick. I squeezed harder.

Got it!

Opening my eyes, I smiled and handed Preston his keys.

“Well?” He returned his keys to his pocket.

“Well, you tell me, Mr. Preston Fitzgerald Jamison.”

His jaw dropped. Bingo!

“How’d you do that?” he asked.

“Because she’s psychic!” Wally crowed, slapping Preston on the back so hard I thought his head would roll off.

I left Wally and the boys to regale Preston with tales of my supernatural accomplishments while I filled mugs, mixed drinks, and made my rounds.

By the time I’d rung up the last of the lady bowlers, it was closing time.

“Zamykamy!” Irena clapped her hands and shouted, as if the few remaining customers had already wasted enough of her time. “Czas się zbierać!”

“C’mon, boys. You heard the lady. Time to go,” I hollered, translating Irena’s Polish into something they’d understand.

Preston nursed the last of his drink while I settled up with Fish.

“You comin’ home with me tonight, sweetheart?” Fish asked, slurring his words and steadying himself on the back of his stool.

“Not tonight,” I said, like I told him every time he asked. “I don’t think your wife would like that.”

“Screw ’er!”

“That’s your job, babe.”

Wally and the crew rose from their stools and shuffled toward the door.

“You guys okay to drive?” I knew damn well Fish wasn’t, which meant he’d leave his car like always, and Wally, Bobby, or Dennis would drop him off at home.

“Zamykamy! Zamykamy” Irena called from the kitchen door.

After a few more minutes, I herded everyone out the door except for Preston. I clicked the lock behind them.

“Have a drink with me,” he said.

“I’m drinking club soda.”

“C’mon. I’m buying.”

I laughed, but still, I gave in. “Tequila?”

He gave me a slow, sexy smile. “How about a body shot?”

“How about a glass?” I suggested with a frown, in spite of the crazy little thrill that ran through me.

“Okay, but just this once.” He winked.

I poured us each a shot of tequila and set out the salt shaker and two wedges of lime. He grabbed a wedge, put it between his teeth, and waggled his eyebrows.

Okay, rich boy.

I picked up his hand and licked along the inside of his wrist, then sprinkled it with salt. I licked the salt, took my shot, then stood on my toes while he leaned forward. I bit down and sucked on the lime in his mouth, shivering as my lips brushed his before I pulled back. I tucked a wedge between my teeth, and waited.

He took my arm in both hands and ran his tongue from my wrist to the inside of my elbow, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he sprinkled it with salt and licked it again, much slower this time, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He tossed back the tequila, and after he bit his lime, he tugged it from my mouth, spit it out onto the bar, and with his hand against the back of my head, pulled me forward and kissed me.

It was just the right amount of tequila, citrus, and tongue.

When he let go, I actually swayed.

“You have to be anywhere right away?” he asked, his voice low and throaty. “I wouldn’t mind spending a little time with you.”

My voice deserted me after that kiss, and that was with two feet of mahogany between us.

I swallowed hard. “I think that can be arranged.”