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MACKENNA

" W hat's eating you, Kenny?" Hank asks as he slides my two free shots of bourbon in front of me.

Hank is the most attentive and the only bartender at On the Rocks. Even though it's one of the few bars in our cozy town of Mercy, Ohio, Hank manages the crowd masterfully. Well, the term crowd is generous. It's more like a handful of the unemployed and underemployed drowning their sorrows before the evening rush begins.

"Work is slow," I reply to Hank with a shrug as my eyes get lost in the dark brown liquid swirling around the small glass.

Hank nods apathetically. "You're one of those fancy computer programmers, right? Isn't that AI stuff taking over? You shouldn't be surprised that work is slow when the machines are taking the job of a hard-working woman like yourself. Here, take the last slice of lemon meringue. On me."

Tangy, sweet scents of pie cut through the strong aromas of the alcohol as I decide I want to savor the dessert after slamming down my bourbon. The smooth burn of the free shots warms my throat, and the sweet taste of free pie is comforting.

The baker next door knows his way around everything sweet, and with his bar attached, Dean Rockland is one of the leading businessmen in our town. He's also leading the pack as one of the most eligible bachelors. My heart flutters every time I think about him, but then disappointment settles in once I remember how much I've distanced myself from him and the idea of dating altogether.

The bar phone ringing over the jukebox rock ballad draws my mind back to what was eating me. What's eating me?

Ha, that's a laugh.

Who's eating me?

That sounds much better than wallowing in my slow-growing client list and lack of income.

Hmm.

When was the last time someone buried their face between my thighs?

Hank's screech of joy stops my mind from scrolling through my memories of sexual escapades past. Everyone in the bar turns their attention to his phone call.

"What's going on, Hank?" I shout at him between bites of pie.

"Joe-Marie hit the jackpot! I'm getting out of here. Take care of the place 'til Dean gets in, will ya, Kenny?" Hank starts to abandon his post slinging drinks.

"Can I at least get a rum and coke before you head out, Hank?" a guy asks as our sole bartender dashes out the door.

One of the best parts about our small town is the level of trust we have in our community. So, I reluctantly get off my stool and out of my funk of frustration to get behind the bar until Dean shows up. Even though we're not on ' let's talk everyday ' terms, I'd never let his place go to shit because his bartender won the lottery.

Orders are coming in, and I'm serving drinks as more people file into the bar to watch the Bengals play their last football game before the playoffs. This brings me back to bartending in my senior year of college when I was desperately counting down the days until I earned my degree in digital marketing. Perhaps work wouldn't be so slow if I could actually code like a programmer.

Everyone is all smiles until the energy shifts. A glance over my shoulder has me in Dean's sight. He's as chiseled as his name—Rockland—sounds. Thick eyebrows are set in a firm line with a stoic expression on his face. It's not lost on me that he has an amazing body under the apron and smells delicious.

Dean has these soft blue eyes that pull me into a calm space. My mouth waters as my mind draws a blank, but the hustle and bustle of the patrons at the bar snap me out of my trance.

"Two rum and cokes coming right up," I tell the guy at the bar, who's been ordering round after round since Hank rushed out. I turn to Dean and tell him, "Table in the corner is on their fifth pitcher. The Bengals are getting their asses handed to 'em tonight. They might get rowdy. Uh, those girls are on their second round of wine, and I'm about to clock out. Tips are under the drawer."

"Stay." Dean's voice tells me he's asking and not demanding. "Please. I'm not good at this part, Mackenna."

He gestures toward the people lining up at the bar to place their orders, and I get it. It takes a special kind of person to be social when you don't want to be. There's also the fact that he can't ask for help, even when he needs it. So, these few words are the same as hell freezing over, and I won't have him ask me twice.

A glance around the bar shows he won’t be able to handle the growing crowd alone. To his surprising relief, I nod. "If we're going to be slinging drinks back to back like the old days, you can call me Kenny."

"No," Dean says with a smile and leans close so only I can hear. "You never liked it when I called you that, and I don't plan to start now. Thank you for staying."

"Thank you for coming," I reply with a wicked grin and a wink as I continue to move from one end of the bar to the other.

Dean grins with a slight snarl, leaning in to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek that stamps a smile on my face. We've always had this ebb and flow where I can let my guard down around him. However, the last time I got too comfortable, I realized I was out of sorts, and Dean did too much to put me back together. I hated myself for a while and tried to keep my distance from him, but here we are, constantly drawn back together.

We move in unison, finding a rhythm easily as I take orders and Dean pours. It's easy to see that I'm far more generous with alcohol than he is, and rightfully so. It's his place. It's only right to be conservative with his inventory.

By the time he announces the last call, the frustration from my lack of work washes away with one last swipe of the towel across the countertop. The last stool is empty, and the TV is off. Dean sighs as he closes the register, yawns, and stretches before looking toward the back of the bar.

A long hallway has restrooms on one side, an office, and a back door leading into an alley behind the buildings lining Main Street.

"Are you going back to Sweet's tonight?" I ask him. It's hard stopping my grin every time I think of a bakery next to a bar, and he owns them both. Sweet Treats. On the Rocks. I have no idea how he has the energy for it.

Dean nods before running his fingers through his thick brown hair, which he keeps short. I try to remember how soft it is, but then I remember the pain it took me to forget. Still, I hate knowing he will be working until the bakery opens in a few hours.

"How about I come help you prep if you let me keep all the tips from tonight? You get to go to bed before the sun rises for once."

"I don't know, Mackenna. You know how hard it is…" He smiles and lets the end of his sentence drop.

I have to stop myself from reaching for his crotch to see exactly how hard he could be. Control is the name of this game, and neither of us seems to win it. We lose control whenever we're in the same room together, but we decided to give each other space.

It's been almost ten years since we were next-door neighbors and six months since I got so hammered in this same bar, he picked me up off the floor. In those moments of Dean taking care of me while swirling through my grief, I wasn't ready to let him be there for me.

The perfect gentleman at all times. Even when I'm drunkenly throwing myself at him, he protects me from trauma-based choices. However, the embarrassment slithering through me keeps me away from his bakery, but I have my favorite stool as a regular in his bar. A bar I can drink at without dwelling on what I wanted us to be because Hank's the best bartender at On the Rocks. Now Hank is gone, and I might have to deal with all the words I never said to Dean while loathing my career over free shots of bourbon.

"How's your family doing?" he asks, sympathy rolling through his tone.

"Better than me," I admit. "Pop keeps himself busy with all of his furry patients at the vet clinic. Maddie's still flipping that house over on Grave Street. Rye's slinging smiles and sundaes at her parlor."

"Right." He nods. "The ice cream spot on Smith."

I smile because I know he already knows. Dean's been looking after the Monroe sisters since we were little. I pushed him away before, but he didn't push back. He never pushes me to do anything I don't want or anything he knows I don't want.

A sigh of what-if pushes through my lips as I find my voice to silence my thoughts and speak. "The kids are all right. Listen, Dean, I just … I don't know how to thank you, and this is just me trying?—"

Dean puts his hands up to stop me from talking, and then he holds it out for me. The moment I slip my hand into his, he pulls me close. A hug from Dean is like hot chocolate on Christmas morning. He smells like it, too, but now there's an essence of cognac sprinkling into his sweet cinnamon and pastry aroma.

"You smell too good for me," I moan into his embrace.

"You won't be saying that in the morning," he laughs. "That is if you're serious about coming with me."

"I've always been serious about coming with you," I tell him as I pull out of his hug.

"Tease," he mutters with a slight shake of his head.

My mouth says the things my body wants, but logic forces me to change the subject. "Let's go laminate some dough or fold things into batter."

He snorts and kisses me on the top of my head. Dean keeps his arm around me as we walk out of the bar's back door, into the alley, and through another door that leads into the bakery's kitchen. It's freezing as we step inside, sending a shiver down my spine.

"I'd turn the heat up," Dean says as he glances down to see what's obvious. My nipples are as hard as rocks, and I can see the desire glazing over his blue eyes.

"Heat isn't good for what we need, right?" I ask him, turning toward him and letting the hardness of my breasts brush against his arm. He grunts and shakes his head.

"Fuck me," he mumbles.

I smile and stroke the side of his face. "I'm trying not to."