Page 3 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

W ednesday night should be perfect. The bar is closed, I have a date with a man who makes my knees weak, and the Naughty Girls Book Club has spent two hours this afternoon styling me like I'm starring in my own romance novel. And they are convinced that I am. One of the types our favorite author, RJ, writes. Not a regular vanilla romance, but a ‘Daddy Dominant meets his perfect submissive’ romance novel. The kind I believed didn’t come to fruition until several other members happened to find their very own Daddies.

"It's bullshit, Mom!" Josh's face is flushed, his eighteen-year-old righteousness in full force. "You can't just start dating some random guy!"

"First of all, language." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Second, I'm forty-two years old. I don't need your permission to have dinner with someone."

"Dad's only been gone?—"

"Five years." The interruption cracks like a whip. "Your father has been gone for five years, Joshua. And he would want?—"

"Don't." Josh's voice breaks. "Don't you dare tell me what Dad would want."

The front door chimes.

Of course.

Of fucking course Jason arrives early, because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

He takes in the scene in one sweep. Josh's defensive stance, my carefully styled hair now falling from its pins, the broken beer bottle Josh knocked off the bar in his anger.

"Everything alright?" His voice is calm, neutral.

"Fine," I say.

"Fucking perfect," Josh spits at the same time.

"Joshua Michael Mitchell." I've reached the end of my rope. "You do not speak that way in my establishment."

"Your establishment?" Josh laughs, but it's bitter. "Right. Your bar. Your rules. Your new boyfriend."

"I'm not—" I start, but Jason steps forward.

"You must be Josh." He extends a hand. "Jason Schaeffer. I'm consulting with Dale Morrison on the new winery."

Josh ignores the offered hand. "I know who you are."

"Then you know I'm not trying to replace anyone." Jason's tone remains even, but I catch the steel underneath. "I'm just taking your mother to dinner. Respect isn't optional, here. Especially when it comes to your mother."

The authority in Jason's voice makes both Josh and me freeze. It isn't loud or aggressive, just absolutely certain.

"You don't get to tell me?—"

"I'm not telling you anything." Jason moves closer to me, not quite touching but close enough that I feel his warmth. "I'm observing that you're upset, which is understandable. But taking it out on your mother by breaking things and cursing? That's not acceptable."

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Someone who recognizes a good woman trying her best." Jason's hand settles on my lower back, and I have to fight not to lean into him. "Someone who won't stand by while she's disrespected in her own place of business."

Josh's face goes red, then white. "Mom?"

I should defend my son. Should tell Jason to back off, that I can handle this.

Should tell him that he has no right intervening with my son.

The manchild standing before me who is having big emotions about the situation.

While I appreciate him defending me, he doesn’t have to step in with Josh.

There are emotions after emotions piling up inside of me.

A lot of words I know I should say. I sigh deeply and instead, I hear myself say, "Go home, Josh.

We'll talk tomorrow when you've cooled down. "

"You're choosing him over me?"

"I'm choosing not to have this conversation while you're being destructive and disrespectful." I'm amazed at how steady my voice sounds. "Go home. Now."

Josh stares at me like I've grown a second head. Then he storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar.

The silence that follows is deafening.

"I should..." I gesture vaguely at the broken glass. "I need to clean this up. I'm sorry. You should go. I'm clearly not?—"

"Karen." Just my name, but it stops my spiral. "Get the broom. I'll help."

"You don't have to?—"

"I want to." He shrugs out of his jacket, another expensive one that has no business being near broken glass. "Unless you'd rather handle it alone?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. This isn't about broken glass. This is about whether I'll let him in, even a little.

"Broom's in the back closet," I say softly.

We work in companionable silence, him holding the dustpan while I sweep. When the glass is disposed of, he asks, "How often does that happen?"

"Josh losing his temper? Rarely. He's a good kid, just..."

"Protective. Hurt. Probably scared of losing you too." Jason washes his hands at the bar sink. "It's natural. Doesn't make it okay, but it's natural."

"I've ruined our dinner plans."

"Have you?" He dries his hands, then crosses to where I stand. "The reservation isn't until seven-thirty. We have time."

"Jason, I'm a mess. My son just?—"

"Your son just acted like a teenager who's struggling with change." His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks. "You handled it well."

"I let you fight my battle."

"No." His voice is firm. "You let me stand beside you. There's a difference. Partners don't fight each other's battles, instead, they stand together when battles come."

Partners. The word makes something flutter in my chest.

"We barely know each other."

"Then let's change that." He smiles, and it transforms his serious features. "Come to dinner with me, Karen. Let me feed you, pour you wine, and learn what makes you laugh. No pressure. No expectations. Just two adults enjoying each other's company."

"I need to fix my hair."

"Your hair is perfect." He tucks a fallen strand behind my ear. "You're perfect. Battle-worn and beautiful."

"I'm not perfect. I'm a mess. My kid hates me, my life is complicated, and I haven't dated in twenty years."

"Good thing I like complicated women. The simple ones bore me."

Despite everything, I laugh. "You're insane."

"Probably." He steps back, giving me space. "But I'm also hungry, and you look like you could use a good meal and better wine. What do you say?"

I think about Josh's anger, about the broken glass, about all the reasons this is a bad idea.

Then I think about the book club this afternoon, how they rallied around me with makeup and advice and encouragement.

Think about Susie saying, "Honey, that man looks at you like you're Christmas morning. Don't let fear rob you of joy."

"Okay," I say. "But I'm driving separately in case I need to escape."

"Fair enough." He grabs his jacket. "Though for the record, I'd never give you a reason to run."

Something in his tone makes me believe him.

Twenty minutes later, I park outside Chez Laurent, Prairie Harbor's only upscale restaurant. Jason is waiting by the entrance, having beaten me there despite leaving after me.

"Speed demon," I accuse.

"I was motivated." He offers his arm. "Shall we?"

The restaurant is dimly lit, intimate. The hostess leads us to a corner table that feels wonderfully private. Jason pulls out my chair, and I try not to melt at the simple courtesy.

"Wine?" He studies the list with professional interest.

"You choose. You're the expert."

"Dangerous words." But he smiles, ordering something French I can't pronounce.

"Tell me about Chicago," I say once the waiter leaves. "What made you leave?"

His expression shutters slightly. "Divorce. Final papers signed a year ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We wanted different things. She wanted a husband who worked normal hours, attended country club functions, played golf on weekends." He shrugs. "I wanted someone who understood that passion for your work isn't a character flaw."

"How long were you married?"

"Twelve years. No kids. She didn't want to 'ruin her figure.'" His smile is rueful. "What about you and Mark? Dale mentioned you were high school sweethearts."

The wine arrives, saving me from answering immediately. Jason tastes it, nods approval, and waits while the waiter pours.

"We met in college, actually. Got married right after graduation. Had Emily at twenty-two, Josh at twenty-four." I take a sip of wine. God, it's good. "He was a good man. A good father. When the cancer came..."

"You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. It was fast. Six months from diagnosis to—" I swallow. "The kids were so young. Emily was fifteen; Josh only thirteen. I had to be strong for them."

"You've been strong for everyone for a long time. When do you get to be soft?"

The question undoes me. "I don't know how to be soft anymore."

"Sure you do." He reaches across the table, taking my hand. "You were soft when I bandaged your head. Soft when you let me help with the glass tonight. You've got more softness in you than you think."

"Is that what you see? Softness?"

"I see a woman who's had to be iron for so long, she's forgotten she's also silk." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "I see strength that comes from survival, but also exhaustion that comes from never resting. I see someone who needs permission to let go."

"And you want to give me that permission?"

"If you'll take it."

The waiter appears with menus, and I'm grateful for the interruption. This is too intense, too much too fast. But God, it's also intoxicating.

We order and fall into easier conversation.

He tells me about wine regions, about difficult clients, about the satisfaction of finding the perfect pairing.

I tell him about bar fights, about regular customers who've become family, about the time Susie accidentally served vodka instead of water to the Methodist minister.

"His sermon was very animated that Sunday," I finish, and Jason's laugh is rich and genuine.

"I bet it was." He refills my wine glass. "How long has Susie worked for you?"

"Since I bought the place. She’s Mark's cousin, actually. Helped me figure out the business side when I was drowning in grief and paperwork."

"Family business, then."