Page 22 of My Office Rival (Keep Your Enemy Closer #2)

JASON

C ynthia and I pulled up to a nondescript building and parked the car.

“It doesn’t look like much.” She eyed it nervously. “I’m not really a country girl, Jason. Is this the type of place where everyone is going to turn around and look at me when we walk in?”

I snorted. It did look like that type of place.

The squat brick building faced a parking lot made up mostly of motorcycles and pickup trucks.

There were no frills, no plants, and no sign.

I’d looked at the map for the closest bar since I didn’t relish driving drunk on dark country roads, and this little place was it.

“If it is, I’ve got you.” I knew how to handle myself in a dirty bar.

I was a city lawyer now, but at one time in my life I had been able to throw a punch in a bar fight with the best of them.

Cynthia didn’t know that, though. She saw what I wanted the world to see—suave, sophisticated, unruffled, cold. When in reality, I burned .

“Okay, okay. Let’s go. But I’m going to be really annoyed at you if someone tells me I don’t look like I’m from ‘ round here .”

“God forbid.” She had a point, though. This was the shittiest little bar in a small town where we outsiders. I swallowed thickly and steeled myself. Time to get out of your comfort zone .

Cynthia extricated herself from the car, her tight blue jeans molding over her ass.

She looked amazing, like a weekend wet dream, in her tight black sweater, jeans, and white sneakers.

Her flaming red hair spilled down her back, and her lips were glossed with something that kept me sneaking peeks while she was talking, just to watch the flash of her white teeth against the pink plumpness.

“Stick with me though, okay?” I caught up to her and put my hand on the small of her back. She startled.

“You’re a worrier,” she said.

“Humor me, please.”

She huffed, but let me open the metal door for her.

I ushered her inside, and my eyes adjusted quickly to the dim interior.

No one turned to stare, but a distinct hush passed through the crowd at the bar.

It was cleaner than I had expected, with a long wooden bar and lots of decorations.

News clippings, old cowboy boots, Christmas lights, two-dollar bills.

Two pool tables bookended the space, and a few small windows were scattered with a seemingly random hand. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

The patrons looked like ranchers, locals, and bikers.

I forced myself to relax, to push down the memories from years ago of bars just like this.

The crowd looked peaceful, easy. They’d even turned away from us after a minute or so, though I spied a few men checking Cynthia out, including one guy with offensive tattoos.

Yikes. She was already at the bar, hands on her hips, comfortable as could be.

She had no idea how people could turn, how a friendly face could hide a rotten interior.

I tamped down my dark thoughts and stepped in behind her at the bar.

I brushed her hair off her shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Pretend you’re with me.” I put emphasis on the words so she knew I meant as more than just friends.

She shivered as my lips moved against her ear. “Why? This place seems harmless enough.”

“I’m just being cautious.” I didn’t say that I was scarred from a lifetime of shitty little towns and shittier people. “I don’t like the way these guys in the back are checking you out. ”

“I can handle myself. I grew up in New York, remember?” She raised a hand when I started to protest. “But I’ll go with it.”

“Thank you.” I pulled her flush against me, and she muttered something that sounded like ugh, men under her breath. With a smile, I turned to the bartender and ordered two cheap beers. I knew full well Cynthia preferred martinis, but this wasn’t a martini type of place.

I gave her a warning squeeze on the shoulder, and before she could offer, I paid in cash. I kept the wad of bills hidden beneath the bar, and then hustled her to a dark booth in the back, where I sat facing the room.

Cynthia slid in across from me. “You’re being really weird. Why are you so jumpy?”

“You noticed that?” I bought time by sipping my beer and scanning the room.

“Yes, I would have to be blind not to,” she said. “Plus, you’re usually pretty calm and collected.”

Because I made a point of being that way. I met her warm brown eyes, inquisitive under her arched brows. She raised one while she sipped her beer and made a face at the taste. “Also, did you have to get beer?”

“I didn’t want to stand out,” I replied.

“See, you’re doing it again. There’s no reason to be weird about this bar.” She waved her hand around. “It’s not like the people here are drug dealers or gang members. Hell, there are worse bars around the corner from my parents in Queens.”

“I have issues.”

“You can say that again.”

I unclenched my jaw slowly and inhaled deeply.

You owe her an explanation. Stop being weird.

“I grew up in a few small towns across Tennessee. My, ah, foster families lived across the state. I started working in bars at age sixteen for extra cash.” I looked away from her careful scrutiny, my stomach twisting.

I was only giving her a small fraction of the story, and why?

No colleague had ever learned this truth .

She tilted her head, those dark eyes soft when I dared to take a peek. “So that’s why you hate small towns? It’s not just the lack of cocktail bars and public transportation?” She gave me a small smile.

“I could never live in one, that’s for damn sure.” I swigged my beer, grateful she wasn’t pressing for more details on my childhood.

“Me neither.” She shook her head.

“For me, it’s the anonymity of New York, and the sense of importance.”

She nodded. “It’s the center of the world. There’s something exciting happening on every corner. You can be anyone there.”

“Exactly.” She’d named the reasons why I loved it.

We fell silent for a minute, but it was a comfortable silence. When had things become comfortable between us? It would be impossible not to be entranced by her. That was it. Anyone would be sucked in by her whirlwind.

“So, do you go out a lot in New York?” she asked.

“Here and there.” How did I tell her that I felt too exposed at most bars? I wasn’t a risk taker. Not anymore. I preferred a quiet table somewhere exclusive, where I could keep an eye on the room and control the situation. Where roles and expectations were neatly defined. Only then could I relax.

“How do you meet women, then?”

I nearly spit out my beer at the question. “Uh, just like everybody else, I guess.” How did I tell her about the apps that were different, that catered to a specific type of interest?

“Wow, you’re really forthcoming. Please go on.”

I closed my eyes. “There are apps, Cynthia.”

“Well, duh. I’ve been on one a time or two myself. Look, I’ll even show you my profile. In the spirit of friendship.” I cracked an eye to see her tapping away at her phone. “Don’t click on anything, though. I don’t want anyone in this grimy bar to think I’m trolling for dudes.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “That would be a travesty,” I agreed. I grabbed her phone from her as she admonished, “Don’t laugh.”