Page 63 of Beneath Your Beautiful

We came at the same time. In shockwave after shockwave, my body convulsed against his. He filled me up so completely, and I was everything and nothing all at once. Overwhelmed by the flood of emotions, unshed tears caught in my throat. It scared me how hard and how fast I’d fallen, and how I could no longer imagine my life without him.

I hung onto him, holding him close, loving the feel of his weight on top of me, and having him still inside me.

“You’re killing me, baby,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Baby. I loved the way it sounded rolling off his tongue. “Gently, I hope.”

“Sometimes that’s the worst way.”

* * *

“Two margaritas,” a brunette shouted over the DJ’s music. I did a double-take. The girl looked a lot like Joss. Tall and willowy with high cheekbones and boobs spilling out of her plunging neckline. Thankfully, it wasn’t her. “And a Cosmo.”

“Maybe I’ll have a Pina colada,” her friend said.

“No salt on my margarita,” her other friend said.

“Make mine a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Two margaritas, one without salt. A Cosmopolitan. A Pina colada. And a Long Island Iced Tea,” I repeated.

“Wait,” the brunette said. “That’s like…” Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Six drinks.”

“It’s five,” I said.

“Uh, duh.” She tossed her hair and pulled a face like I was an idiot. “There’s only four of us.”

Uh, duh? Were we back in junior high? It wasn’t my fault she couldn’t count.

She turned to her friends to ask what they wanted but got sidetracked by a conversation about Brazilian waxes. She was all for them. “It’s the only way to go. I know the best place on…”

I moved on to a guy who ordered three draft beers without turning it into a major debate. It made my job easier. No hassle, no fuss, no stupid questions. I couldn’t count how many times people had stood right in front of the clearly labeled taps and asked me which beers we had on tap.

I poured the beers, set them on the bar, and collected the guy’s money. When I returned with his change, Joss-lookalike snarled at me. “I was here first.”

“What can I get you?” I asked calmly. Sometimes it took the patience of a saint to be a bartender.

“Like, maybe, a decent bartender.”

I gritted my teeth and tried not to let it show that she was testing my limited patience. I was this close to lunging across the bar and slapping her. Not that I would. But it was tempting.

“Give me your order and I’ll serve your drinks.” I forced a smile as fake as her boobs. Now I was just being catty. But I thought they were fake. They were hard to miss, and they defied gravity.

“A Cosmo. Two Long Island iced teas. And a margarita. Think you can handle that?”

What I couldn’t handle was her snippy tone. Deep breaths. Stay calm. Physical violence wouldn’t solve anything. Neither would a bad attitude. I repeated the order back to her in my most professional voice then asked, “Do you want the margarita with salt or without?”

“Whatever.” She waved her manicured hand, fobbing me off. I set out the glasses on the bar mat. I’d do half the glass with salt and the other half without. If she was going to be rude about it, she could just suck it up. If I didn’t have to worry about customer relations and professionalism, I’d put her in her place.

“Start a tab,” she said when I set the drinks in front of her, then turned her back to me.

“I’ll need your card.”

She turned back around and pulled a face. “Like we ever pay for our own drinks.”

“I can’t run a tab without a card,” I said firmly.

“Bitch,” she hissed, digging around in her bag, and tossing two twenty-dollar bills on the bar.