Page 51

She comes downstairsafew hours later. The baseball team at the back of the bar has been joined by a couple dozen tourists, and a handful of college bros, getting a jump on their Saturday night. I’m wiping down tables, my back to her but I don’t need to see her to know she’s there. Moving on to wipe down the next table, I turn, angling myself so I can see her.
She’s standing at the base of the stairs, ignoring me even though I know she’s just as aware of me as I am of her. She makes a show of checking her phone and slipping it into the little black purse she’s carrying before letting her gaze flicker over me for a moment. The second our eyes connect, a flush rushes over her skin and she looks away.
She’s wearing a dress—but not the dress. It’s white, the top of it snug, sculpted over her breasts, the V of it plunging between them just enough to give the hint of cleavage before flaring out over her hips, caressing the perfect curve of her ass, the hem of it skimming her knees. She’s wearing the same heels as last night. The red ones. The only pair she owns. It’s one of the outfits she wears when she works gallery openings for Miranda. It’s professional and feminine. Completely appropriate and suitable.
I want to bend her over the nearest table, lift that completely appropriate skirt and fuck her so hard she can’t walk. Pull her hair and come all over her ass.
What the fuck is happening to me?
“Lookin’ good,” Conner calls out from behind the bar, shooting me an evil grin before he refocuses on her, making her blush. “Come have a drink with me, Legs, before Prince Charming sweeps in and takes you away from all this.” He’s been calling her Legs since the day he met her and every time he does, she blushes. Before last night it annoyed me. Right now, I want to punch Conner in the throat. And that motherfucker knows it.
I ignore them, just keep wiping, staying as far away from her as possible, while she laughs and approaches the bar to have a seat. From the corner of my eye I watch Conner mix her a vodka soda while they talk. Whatever he’s saying to her has her laughing. It feels like forever since I made her laugh.
You don’t want to make her laugh. You want to make her come.
I grit my teeth and keep wiping.
A large group of college kids push through the door, loud and raucous, heading straight for the bar. Conner ignores them, focused on whatever Cari is saying to him. He’s trying to force me back behind the bar.
Well, fuck you.
After a few minutes, Conner motions at me with his hand. “Come take care of these fuckers, I’m busy,” he says, openly challenging me.
I consider telling him to fuck off but I don’t. I toss the bar rag over my shoulder and approach from the other side, still keeping as far away from Cari as possible, until I’m behind the bar. The group starts calling out drink orders and I fill them, focusing on pouring liquor over ice and working the taps until they’re moving away from the bar, drinks in hand to play pool or throw darts.
“Hey,” Lisa says in my ear, coming out of nowhere, her hand sliding down my back before anchoring itself to my hip. “Call me crazy but it feels like you’ve been avoiding me.” She’s been trying to get my attention all day long. Standing too close. Following me into the office when I went in to switch out my laundry.
“I’ve never worked a Saturday night before—just don’t want to fuck it up,” I tell her, brushing her hand off my hip.
Not getting the hint, she reattaches herself, lifting herself on her tiptoes to set her chin on my shoulder. “We never got a chance to finish what we started last night.”
I want to push her away and tell her it’s not going to happen—ever—but I don’t. Instead, I move away from her under the pretense of drawing myself a pint. “Yeah, about that—I was drunk.” I shake my head, trying to keep my voice low because I don’t want to embarrass her. “You’re a nice girl—”
She follows me to the taps, standing so close I can feel her lips brush against my ear. “You know what they say about nice girls...” She reaches down to wrap her hand around my cock, rubbing her thumb across the head. “We swallow.”
I flip the tap off and grab her by her wrist. “It’s not going to happen. Ever,” I tell her, jerking her hand off my dick. “So, don’t touch me.” I expect her to start screaming about how I’m hurting her but she doesn’t. She just turns and leans into me, pressing her rock-hard nipples against my arm like being grabbed is turning her on.
Jesus. I’m beginning to think Declan was right about this girl.
I let go of her. “Stay away from me,” I say through gritted teeth. “What happened was a mistake. Not one I’m looking to repeat.”
Something flashes in her eyes and for a second, I think I’m going to have a problem, but then it’s gone and she smiles. “Okay,” she says, moving away from me, her cocktail tray tucked under her arm. I stand there for a few seconds. At least I found the cure for the perpetual hard-on I’ve been sporting for the past 24-hours.
When I turn around, I find Cari staring at me.
She watched the whole fucking thing.
Thirty
Cari
I sneak another lookat my phone. It’s eight minutes until seven. At least eight more minutes of sitting here, pretending I don’t care that Patrick is completely ignoring me while some crazy-ass cocktail waitress is practically jerking him off behind the bar. While I’m pretending, I sip my vodka soda and fantasize about smashing my rapidly emptying glass against her stupid face.
“Want another one?”
I look up to find Conner standing in front of me, a bottle of Kettle One in one hand, the mixer gun in the other. I do want another one. I want another six. A gallon of the stuff. Enough vodka to blind me sounded good right now. Instead I shake my head, placing a hand over my glass. “No, the last thing I need is showing up for a date with Everett Chase, half in the bag.”
Conner motioned my hand away from my glass, giving me a shot of club soda from the gun without the vodka. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”