Page 48 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

“Sorry,” I said. “Have I been stupid? I mean, you don’t look young enough to—” They laughed some more, and I went on desperately, “And if you’re Jennifer’s boss, you wouldn’t—” I stopped. “Help.”

“He was the Devils quarterback until a few years ago,” Jennifer said kindly.

She hadn’t laughed, but she’d looked like she wanted to.

“All-Pro, Super Bowl MVP, the works. Now he just owns things, and people don’t recognize him in bars.

I used to be his assistant. That’s how I know his stats.

He’d quiz me.” She sighed. “Nightmare ego.”

“I did not,” Blake said, but he was grinning hugely. “And I like to tell myself that football’s aging, is why I look older than my extremely youthful years. All that time out in the elements.”

“Ha,” Dakota said, and he said, “I heard that.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t know anything about football.

I knew who Harlan was, but only because he’s been in commercials.

I watch college basketball. I used to, anyway.

Now, of course, I do watch—when I can, that is, because—” I had to stop.

I also had to put my head against Sebastian’s arm and moan.

“It could be time,” he said, “to choose some whiskey.”

“Yes. Please. Which kind?” In answer, he handed me a leather-bound book that could have held the telephone numbers for all of Portland.

“You’re kidding,” I said, handing it right back.

“Help. I know, uh … Laphroaig. Which I hate. Johnny Walker. That’s a whiskey, right?

Jack Daniels. And I’m at the end of my list. I’m about to make as big a fool of myself ordering as I’ve done already, and we’ve barely sat down! ”

“Can’t have that,” Sebastian said. “It’s Alix’s birthday,” he told the others. “Can’t embarrass a woman on her birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” Owen said. “And you order some flights, that’s all.

Let the bartender choose, and you’ll get to try some new things.

They feed you good here, too. Got a ribeye that’s about as good as I’ve tasted, and that’s saying something, since I like to tell myself I raise some pretty fine beef. ”

“A three-pound ribeye,” Harlan said. “Watching you eat is a whole fascinating experience in itself, like studying the habits of the killer whale. Linemen. They’re another species.”

“Just because I don’t worry about my figure like some pretty people,” Owen said, “the kind that production assistants slather baby oil onto so the water beads up on their abs for that perfume commercial. In close-up.”

“It was not a perfume commercial,” Harlan said. “It was men’s cologne. It was a fragrance commercial.”

“Oh, pardon me,” Owen said. “Fragrance. My mistake.” And everybody laughed again.

So that was fine. Until Jennifer asked the question.

Sebastian

Pure self-indulgence, was what this was.

Two flights of whiskey, one of Speyside scotches, “which you may enjoy more,” the barman had said when Alix had explained her dislike of peat smoke, and the other a flight of bourbons.

Half a shot in each glass, so I didn’t even have to break training to sample them, and comparing notes with Alix, passing her a glass of some spicy thing that heated your whole self going down in the best possible way, and watching her try it, her eyes opening wide in surprise and pleasure …

I was clicking my phone’s camera, capturing her favorites, thinking that a locked liquor cabinet was going to be a good idea, Ben-wise, eating pork chops with spinach, and sharing some fairly decadent tempura vegetables with Alix, listening to the trash talk around me and smiling about it, and, yes, occasionally thinking about (a) when to give Alix her birthday present, and (b) how my plan for her birthday sex was going to go over, not necessarily in that order, and also appreciating how she looked in the same outfit she’d worn last night to pick me up.

I’d barely looked at it then, being mostly concerned with getting it off her.

The wine-colored sweater that slipped off one shoulder, the black leather skirt that hit just below her knees, zipped from the bottom, and was tight enough that she had to walk with that scissor- movement women use.

The black suede heels on bare legs, and the bedroom-tousled dark hair.

She looked devastatingly offhand, effortlessly casual, and sexy to the bone, and I was having a damn good time just looking at her and feeling that whiskey go down fiery-hot and silky-smooth.

That is, until Jennifer suddenly said, “Wait.”

Jennifer didn’t usually take the lead, conversation-wise, but Harlan stopped talking right away and asked, “What?”

She said, “Alix, I’m sorry, but—what was it that you do for a living?”

“Uhh …” She looked around. “I’m an electrician. Commercial variety.”

“Foreman,” I said, putting my arm around her, just in case.

“Yes,” Alix said. “A foreman. I wear a hard hat, steel-toed boots, and Carhartts every day, and if I’m not covered in mud, I’m not working.” Her chin up, refusing to be daunted.

“I’m sorry,” Jennifer said. “I didn’t mean— Oh, dear. Look. My family’s nothing fancy at all, and neither am I. Or Dakota, either. Oh—besides your art, of course. Sorry. I should be saying, I’m nothing fancy.”

Dakota was laughing. “You’re all good, because you’re right, I’m not fancy.

House painter. My stepdad was a house painter, too.

Electrician would’ve been a big old step up, huh, Jennifer?

They make a good living, whereas for me, it was all about juggling those bills.

And I didn’t wear Carhartts. I wore Dickies.

Overalls, and not the cute kind. And goggles, of course, not to mention the knee pads.

I was pretty much sex on a stick when I met Blake.

In fact, I believe I had water weed caught in the bottom of my ugly blue tank suit the first time he encountered me, like a slimy green tail. That was extra-special.”

“I didn’t mean that an electrician isn’t good enough,” Jennifer said, clearly still flustered. “How could you think— I’d never say that. I think it’s admirable, making it in a man’s world like you and Dakota have done.”

“Oh,” Alix said, looking thoroughly confused. “OK. I’m the opposite, though. Downwardly mobile, my family thinks.”

“Because your mother’s in investment banking,” Jennifer said. “Right? Isn’t she?”

Alix went still. “Uh—yes,” she said cautiously. “How did you?—”

“And your grandparents were some of the original Bay Area realtors, which they got into accidentally. California after World War II,” she told the others.

“I thought that was you when you said your whole name, except it’s Anastasia Alix, isn’t it?

Harlan said something about that after he met you the first time, and it’s just clicked, because I realized that I’ve read an article about your family.

Life never managed to beat the ridiculous romance out of my soul, I guess, and I’m good at names and faces.

Assistant, like I said. You have a distinctive face, and a distinctive name.

” She was laughing, a little embarrassed. “I’m starstruck. Isn’t that silly?”

Owen said, “Uh … what? I don’t get it.”

“Oh,” Jennifer said. “Didn’t I say? She’s a princess.”