Page 2 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

" A Manhattan should be like a good man: strong, smooth, and just sweet enough to make you forget your troubles."

I deliver this wisdom to my afternoon bartender, Susie, while trying not to think about the man who's consumed my thoughts for the past three days.

Jason Schaeffer left my bar that morning with Dale, but not before extracting a promise that I'll text him if I feel dizzy.

He wrote his number on a napkin with the kind of penmanship that belongs in a different century, definitely not one that's being taught today in schools, I should know.

I have two children in the public school system.

I shoved the napkin in my desk drawer like contraband. I'm not sure why I don't throw it out, since I have no intention of ever calling him.

"Earth to Karen." Susie waves a hand in front of my face. "You've been stirring that Manhattan for like five minutes."

"It needs to be perfect." I strain the amber liquid into a chilled coupe glass, garnishing it with a whiskey-soaked cherry. "Practice batch."

"Uh-huh." Susie's knowing smirk says she isn't buying it. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the silver fox who's been at table six for the past hour?"

My hand jerks, nearly dropping the glass. I force myself not to look. "We have a customer?"

"Boss, your radar must be broken. Tall, dark, and daddy material walked in an hour ago. Ordered a glass of the Vouvray. Which, by the way, who orders Vouvray in a sports bar?"

A wine snob, that's who.

"He's a wine consultant Dale brought in." I keep my voice carefully neutral. "Probably checking out the local establishments."

"Checking out something," Susie mutters. "His eyes have been glued to your ass every time you bend over to grab bottles."

"Susie!"

"What? I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. Even Murphy noticed, and Murphy wouldn't notice if a tornado hit the pool table."

I risk a glance toward table six. Jason sits facing the bar, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that have no business looking that good. He catches me looking and raises his glass in a small salute.

Fuck. I'm so busted.

"He wants you to bring him another drink," Susie singsongs. "Specifically asked for you."

"We're not that kind of establishment."

"No, but you're that kind of woman. The kind who deserves a man who looks at her like she hung the moon." Susie hip-checks me toward the dining area. "Go on. I'll hold down the bar."

Sometimes the thing we fight hardest is exactly what we need most.

The thought comes unbidden as I grab the wine bottle and make my way to his table, trying to ignore how my pulse kicks up with each step.

"Jason." I keep my voice professionally pleasant. "Another glass?"

"Only if you'll join me." He gestures to the empty chair across from him. "I hate drinking alone."

"I'm working."

"It's three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. The lunch rush is over, and happy hour doesn't start until five." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "I've been watching. You can spare ten minutes."

"You've been watching?" I don't know if I should feel complimented or scared.

"Hard not to." He leans back in his chair, all casual confidence. "You run this place like a choreographed dance. Everyone knows their part, their timing. It's impressive."

I pour his wine, then surprise myself by sitting down. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"It's not flattery if it's true." He studies me over the rim of his glass. "How's your head?"

"It's good."

"Let me see."

"I'm fine, really."

"Karen." Just my name, but the way he says it makes my arguments dissolve. I find myself leaning forward, letting him examine the butterfly bandage at my temple.

His fingers are gentle as they brush my hair aside. "Healing nicely. Though you should have had stitches."

"It wasn't that bad."

"No?" His thumb traces just below the cut, and I fight not to shiver. "You always minimize your injuries, or is that special treatment for me?" He leans in close. "You can't be strong all the time, baby. Sometimes you need someone else to carry the weight."

The words are soft, meant only for me, and they hit like a shot of whiskey, burning and warming in equal measure.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do." He sits back, but his eyes never leave mine. "Dale told me about your husband. I'm sorry for your loss."

My spine stiffens. He's bringing up trauma he has no right to know about. "That was five years ago."

"Doesn't make it less significant. Or less hard to carry alone."

"I'm not alone. I have my kids, my friends, my coworkers and..."

"People you take care of," he finishes. "But who takes care of you?"

The question hangs between us like a challenge. I want to tell him I take care of myself, thank you very much. That I don't need anyone checking my wounds or making sure I sit down when I'm dizzy. But the words won't come.

"Make me a Manhattan," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"You were practicing when I came in. Show me what you've got."

Grateful for the escape, I stand. "Any particular way you like it?"

"I like my Manhattans the way I like my women, perfectly balanced with just enough bite to keep things interesting."

Heat floods my cheeks. "That's—that's not how anyone normal orders a drink."

"Who said I was normal?" He follows me to the bar, taking a seat on the same stool he occupied three days ago. "Besides, something tells me normal bores you."

He isn't wrong. Normal is safe, predictable. Normal is Tom Fletcher, who's been trying to ask me out for two years with his friendly smile and hardware store ownership. Normal doesn't make my heart race or my skin tingle.

Normal definitely doesn't watch me work like I'm performing just for him.

I select rye whiskey, high proof, spicy, complex. My hands move on autopilot, but I'm hyperaware of his attention. The way he tracks every movement, cataloging my technique.

"You're staring," I murmur, stirring the cocktail with perhaps more focus than necessary.

"You're worth staring at."

My hand trembles slightly as I strain the drink. "Jason?—"

"You don't take compliments well." It isn't a question. "Someone should fix that."

"Are you volunteering?"

"I'm not the volunteering type. When I see something I want, I take it. The real question is, are you ready to be taken?"

The glass slips, and only his quick reflexes save it from shattering. His hand covers mine, steadying both the drink and me.

"Breathe, baby."

That endearment again. I should object. Should tell him I'm not his baby or anyone else's. Instead, I do what he says. I breathe.

"Better?" His thumb strokes over my knuckles.

"I don't know what you're doing to me."

"Sure you do." He lifts the Manhattan, taking a slow sip without releasing my hand. "I'm showing you it's okay to let go. To lean on someone. To stop being the strongest person in every room."

"What if I don't know how?"

"Then I'll teach you." He sets the glass down, his eyes intent on mine. "Time for your first lesson. When someone offers help, you say yes. When someone gives a compliment, you say thank you. And when someone makes you feel safe enough to drop your guard, you let them catch you."

"That's three lessons."

His laugh is rich, warm. "Overachiever. We'll work on that too."

"I don't need to be fixed."

"Never said you did." He turns my hand over, tracing the lines of my palm. "But maybe you need to be cherished. Cared for. Maybe you need someone who sees how hard you work to hold it all together and tells you it's okay to rest."

Tears prick my eyes. Damn him. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm.

"I know you're stubborn and strong and probably too independent for your own good.

I know you've been taking care of everyone else so long, you've forgotten what it feels like to be taken care of.

And I know you felt it too. There was a recognition when we met.

Like coming home. Two souls who know each other. "

I pull my hand back, needing distance. "This is crazy. You live in Chicago. You're here for what, a few weeks?"

"Six weeks. Maybe eight." He picks up the Manhattan again, considering. "Plenty of time."

"For what?"

"To show you that submission isn't weakness but the ultimate form of trust. And learning to trust again, beautiful girl, is exactly what you need."

My knees actually wobble. This man, no, this stranger, is reading me like a book. Worse, he's reading the pages I keep hidden, the ones I barely admit exist.

"Table twelve needs drinks," I say weakly.

"Susie's got it." He nods toward my bartender, who is indeed handling the new customers with efficiency. "Stop running, Karen."

"I'm not running."

"No?" He stands, moving into my space without quite touching. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Then prove it. Have dinner with me."

"I can't. I have to work."

"Tomorrow night. You're closed on Wednesdays."

"How do you know that?"

"I pay attention." His fingers ghost over the bandage at my temple. "Dinner. Let me take care of you for a few hours. No bar to run, no customers to serve. Just you and me and a meal you don't have to cook. Say yes, baby. I dare you to say yes to something just for you."

The dare hangs between us, and I know he sees right through me. I can't resist a challenge, especially one wrapped in that velvet-over-steel voice.

"One dinner," I hear myself say.

"Good girl."

Two words. That's all. But they hit me like a lightning strike, sending heat straight to my core. My reaction must show on my face because his eyes darken, pupils dilating.

"Interesting," he murmurs.

"Don't."

"Don't what? Notice how your breathing changed? How your pupils dilated? How you're pressing your thighs together right now?"

"Oh my God." I cover my face with my hands. "You can't just?—"

"Say what I see?" He gently pulls my hands down. "Why not? You're a beautiful woman with desires you've been ignoring too long. Nothing shameful in that."

"I don't do this. I don't date customers. I'm not that type of woman."

"Shh." His thumb presses gently against my lips.

"You don't have to do anything except show up tomorrow.

Seven o'clock. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful.

Let me handle the rest. You're safe with me, Karen.

Even when you're falling apart, especially then. Trust me, baby, you're safe with me."

I believe him. That's the terrifying part. This man I've known for less than a week feels safer than anyone has in years.

"Okay," I whisper against his thumb.

"There's my brave girl." He drops his hand, stepping back to give me space. "I should go. You have a bar to run, and I have some calls to make."

I watch him pull on his suit jacket, smooth and controlled once again. Professional. Proper. Like he hasn't just tilted my entire world off its axis.

"Jason?"

He pauses at the door. "Yes?"

"The Manhattan. How was it?"

His smile is slow, dangerous. "Perfect. But then, I had a feeling you would be."

The door closes behind him, and I sag against the bar.

"Holy shit." Susie appears at my elbow. "That was the hottest thing I've ever witnessed. I need a cold shower and I was just watching."

"Susie!"

"Nu-uh. Don't you dare minimize this. That man just verbally did things to you that should be illegal in public." She fans herself dramatically. "And you have a date tomorrow."

"It's just dinner."

"Karen Elizabeth Mitchell, that was not 'just dinner' energy. That was 'I'm going to worship you like the goddess you are' energy." She grabs my shoulders. "The Naughty Girls are going to lose their minds."

Oh God. The book club. We meet tomorrow afternoon.

"Don't you dare cancel," Susie warns, reading my expression. "They'll hunt you down. Besides, you need outfit advice."

She's right. I haven't been on a real date in... I can't remember. Mark and I were together since college. After he died, dating was the furthest thing from my mind. And now…

Now a man who looks at me like I'm precious and calls me baby girl is taking me to dinner.

"I need wine," I decide.

"You need lingerie," Susie counters. "The good stuff. The kind that makes you feel powerful even if no one sees it."

"It's just dinner!"

"Keep telling yourself that, boss." She pours me a generous glass of red. "But that man has plans for you. Good plans. Dirty plans. The kind of plans that end with you forgetting your own name."

I take a large sip of wine, trying not to think about Jason's hands. His voice. The way he commanded my attention without raising his voice.

When someone makes you feel safe enough to drop your guard, you let them catch you.

The question is: am I brave enough to fall?