Page 1 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

T he thing about running your own bar is that you're never really off duty.

Even at seven in the morning, when the Prairie Harbor sun is barely kissing the horizon and decent folks are just stirring their first cup of coffee, I'm already at The Gathering Place, prepping for another day of pouring drinks and listening to troubles.

I know better than to mop in heels. But, I have an appointment at nine at the bank and am meeting with a potential new investor after.

"Just a quick swipe," I tell myself, spotting the sticky patch near the pool table where Tommy Henderson spilled his beer last night.

My sensible flats are in my office, but I'm already dressed for the day.

I've decided on a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and the killer red pumps Emily bought me for my birthday.

My daughter insists I need to "stop dressing like a mom" now that both kids are practically grown.

The wet floor has other ideas about my fashion choices.

One second I'm upright, cloth in hand. The next, my heel catches the slick spot I've just created, and the world tilts sideways. I go down hard, my temple cracking against the corner of a barstool on the way. Stars explode across my vision as I hit the floor in a graceless heap.

"Shit, shit, shit." I press my hand to my head and it comes away bloody. Perfect. Just perfect.

The bell above the door chimes.

"We're closed—" I start, still sprawled on the floor like a damn fool, trying to simultaneously stem the bleeding and preserve what's left of my dignity.

"What the hell happened here?"

The voice is deep, commanding, and absolutely not from around here.

I look up, a mistake, since the movement makes my head spin, to find a man standing in my doorway like he owns the place.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with silver threading through dark hair and a jaw that could cut glass.

He wears an expensive-looking charcoal suit that fits him like a second skin, and his storm-gray eyes are already cataloging the scene: me on the floor, blood on my fingers, mop bucket tipped sideways.

"I said we're closed." I try for stern but probably sound pathetic.

He's already moving, those long legs eating up the distance between us in three strides. "You're bleeding."

"I'm aware." I attempt to push myself up, but a firm hand on my shoulder keeps me in place.

"Don't move. You could have a concussion." He shrugs out of his suit jacket and kneels beside me, pressing the expensive fabric against my temple without hesitation. "What were you thinking, mopping in those shoes?"

The scolding tone should piss me off. I've raised two teenagers and run this bar for five years on my own. I don't need some stranger marching in here and…

"I asked you a question."

My mouth falls open. The sheer audacity of this man. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His fingers are gentle as they hold the makeshift compress in place, but his voice brooks no argument. "Mopping in heels is reckless. You could have seriously hurt yourself."

"I did hurt myself."

"Could have been worse." Those gray eyes bore into mine, and something low in my belly clenches. "You're lucky I walked in when I did."

Lucky? I'm bleeding on my own bar floor before eight in the morning, getting lectured by some overdressed city boy who—his thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a drop of blood I'd missed, and my train of thought derails completely.

"Where's your first aid kit?"

"Behind the bar. But I can—" He interrupts me again. He’s got to let me get at least one full sentence out, right?

"You can sit still and let me help you." He stands in one fluid motion. "That's what you can do."

I watch him navigate my bar like he belongs there, finding the first aid kit exactly where I'd said it would be. His movements are efficient, controlled. Everything about him screams competence and authority, from the way he organizes the supplies to how he washes his hands without being asked.

"This is going to sting," he warns, returning with antiseptic and bandages.

"I'm not a child."

One dark eyebrow arches. "Could have fooled me, with decision-making skills like that."

The antiseptic bites into the cut, and I hiss through my teeth. His free hand cups my jaw, steadying me, and his firm but careful touch, sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"Sorry, baby. Almost done."

Baby. The endearment should rankle. I'm forty-two years old, for Christ's sake. A widow, a mother, a business owner. But something about the way he says it, casual and caring at the same time, makes warmth pool in places that have been cold for too long.

"There." He applies a butterfly bandage with practiced ease. "You'll want to watch for signs of concussion. Dizziness, nausea, confusion."

"I know the signs." I do. Josh played football in high school; I've been through the concussion protocol more times than I care to remember.

"Good." He sits back on his heels, studying me with those intent eyes. "Now, want to tell me why you're here alone at this hour, doing maintenance in completely inappropriate footwear?"

"Want to tell me why you're walking into closed establishments and bossing around the owner?"

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Jason Schaeffer. I had a seven-thirty appointment with Dale Morrison about consulting for his new winery. He said to meet him here."

Oh. Dale mentioned something about bringing in some hotshot sommelier from Chicago. I'd forgotten he uses The Gathering Place as his unofficial office for morning meetings.

"Karen Mitchell." I accept the hand he offers to help me up, trying to ignore how his grip makes me feel small and protected. I'm not small, I'm at least five-foot-eight in these heels, but next to him... "Dale usually shows up around eight."

"And you usually open the bar at seven to prep?"

"How did you?—"

"Your routine is written all over this place. The chairs aren't down yet, but the register's been counted. I can smell the coffee brewing in the back, but you stopped to mop first." His gaze travels down to my ruined shoes. "In heels."

"They're nice heels," I defend weakly.

"They are," he agrees, and is that heat in his eyes? "Doesn't make them appropriate for manual labor."

"I've been running this bar for five years. I think I know what's appropriate."

"Do you?" He reaches out, thumbing away another drop of blood I'd missed. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like a woman who needs someone to take care of her before she hurts herself worse."

The words should infuriate me. I've spent the last five years proving I don't need anyone, thank you very much. Mark's death forced me to be strong, independent, and capable. I've raised two kids, kept a business afloat, held my whole world together with sheer determination and good bourbon.

But standing here, with this stranger's hand gentle on my face and his jacket ruined with my blood, something inside me wants to melt. To let go. To stop being strong for just one damn minute.

I step back, breaking the spell. "I should get you a new jacket."

"Don't worry about it."

"But the blood?—"

"Karen." The way he says my name, firm and final, makes my protest die on my lips. "It's just a jacket. You're more important than dry cleaning."

When was the last time someone said that to me? That I was more important than the mess, the inconvenience, the thousand little catastrophes that make up daily life?

The bell chimes again, and Dale Morrison's cheerful voice booms across the bar. "Karen! You're here early. Oh good, you've met Jason. What happened to your head?"

"She fell," Jason answers before I can. "Slipped while mopping."

Dale's face creases with concern. "Jesus, Karen. You okay? Should you see a doctor?"

"I'm fine." I touch the bandage self-consciously. "Mr. Schaeffer was... helpful."

"Jason," he corrects. "And I'm glad I was here."

Something passes between us then, a recognition maybe. Like we both know this isn't going to be the last time he'll patch me up, literally or figuratively. The thought should scare me. Instead, it makes my pulse race in a way it hasn't in years.

"Well," Dale claps his hands together, oblivious to the tension. "Should we get some coffee and talk wine? Karen makes the best coffee in Prairie Harbor."

"I don't doubt it." Jason's eyes never leave mine. "But maybe she should sit down. Head injuries are nothing to mess around with."

"I'm fine," I insist, then promptly sway on my feet.

Strong hands catch my elbows, steadying me. "Chair. Now."

"You can't just order me around in my own bar." I push my hands flat against his chest.

"Watch me." He guides me to a barstool with gentle but inexorable pressure. "Dale, why don't you grab the coffee? I'll keep an eye on our patient."

Our patient. Like we're a team. Like he has any right to…

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks once Dale disappears into the back.

"Like what?"

"Like you can't decide whether to throw me out or ask me to stay."

God, am I that transparent? "Maybe both."

"Fair enough." He pulls up another stool, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that makes me want to lean in. "For what it's worth, I vote for staying."

"Why?"

He considers the question, those gray eyes thoughtful.

"Because you have a cut that needs watching.

Because I hate drinking coffee alone. And because.

.." He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"Because something tells me you're not used to letting people help you. And that's a damn shame."

I want to argue, to tell him he doesn't know me, doesn't know what I'm used to. But the truth is, he's seen right through me in about ten minutes flat. It's unsettling. Thrilling. Terrifying.

"I'm not good at accepting help," I admit.

"I noticed." His smile is crooked, boyish almost. It transforms his stern features into something warmer. "Good thing I'm persistent."

"Is that a warning?"

"Not at all. It’s a promise."

Dale returns with coffee, launching into excited chatter about tannins and soil conditions, but I barely hear him.

I'm too aware of Jason beside me, the space between us charged with possibility.

Every time I shift, he notices. When I wince at a particularly loud laugh from Dale, Jason's hand briefly touches my knee under the bar, a silent check-in.

This man is dangerous. Not in a physical way, but in how he makes me feel: seen, cared for, small in the best possible way. Like maybe, just maybe, I don't have to carry everything alone.

As Dale drones on about harvest seasons, Jason leans close enough to murmur, "How's your head?"

"Still attached."

"Good. I'd hate to see it roll away. It's too pretty."

Heat floods my cheeks. When was the last time I blushed? "Mr. Schaeffer?—"

"Jason," he interrupts to correct me again. "And before you deflect with sarcasm, just say thank you."

"For what?"

"The compliment. The help. Whatever you need to be grateful for." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "Practice accepting good things, Karen. Starting now."

I swallow hard. "Thank you."

"Better." He straightens, returning his attention to Dale, but under the bar, his pinky finger brushes mine. Just once. Just enough to let me know this conversation isn't over.

I have a feeling nothing with Jason Schaeffer is ever really over. He seems like the type who finishes what he starts, who follows through, who doesn't give up easily.

The thought probably should worry me more than it does.

Instead, as I sit here in my ruined heels with a bandaged head and blood on my silk blouse, all I can think about is how his hands felt in my hair. How his voice went soft when he called me baby. How for just a moment, I wanted to let him take charge of more than just first aid.

The Naughty Girls Book Club is going to have a field day with this.