Page 3 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

“On it!” I say, already sprinting to the bar.

I could very much use a hundred-dollar tip.

Besides needing a new phone, rent is due next week.

I had to give up my second job after the accident, and living on the sick leave payments—while an amazing benefit—have made things tighter than leather pants at a glam rock concert.

I grab the drinks myself, using a pair of steins from Octoberfest, which are bigger than my head. After filling them and tossing in a couple of limes, I spin around to head back to the table in what feels like under thirty seconds.

But it’s not quick enough.

A man fills the doorway to the bar.

And I do mean fills . He’s close to Mac’s size, and Mac is lumberjack large.

He’s wearing a leather jacket sprinkled with rain, jeans, and this Italian brand of leather sneakers I know you can’t buy here, size ginormous.

I can’t see his face. Only dark, slightly damp hair peeking out from under a black baseball cap, sunglasses, and several days’ beard growth.

His gait is unhurried. Begrudging, even, like he doesn’t want to be here.

But his strides are so long that we get to the booth at exactly the same time, even though I was going as fast as I could while holding two filled-to-the-brim glasses.

Unfortunately, because I was practically running, it takes me a hair too long to stop, and to my horror, the steins smash him in the chest.

We both watch as twin sloshes of bubbly water darken his faded gray t-shirt.

“Please,” he says in a low, clearly irritated tone. “After you.”

His voice is so deep and rumbly I feel it in my chest. I’m embarrassed, but the sarcasm is unnecessary.

“My apologies,” I say, whipping the glasses away just quickly enough that a touch more water splatters him.

He makes an exasperated sound, which only annoys the shit out of me.

So I set the glasses back down. “Oh gosh!” I say sweetly.

I whip a folded-up cloth from my apron, shaking it out so he can see it’s yellow, with little bunnies on it.

“ Don’t worry, I keep this on me for babies who make spills.

” I make a show of mopping up the table and decide to lay it on thick by also mopping up his shirt.

Except the moment I touch him, I falter.

The man’s chest doesn’t yield at all to my touch.

It’s like cleaning up a marble statue. A warm marble statue, with—I see in my periphery—icy blue eyes burning right into me.

Between those two things and the heat radiating off him my cheek light up like an inferno.

I clear my throat, telling my back-flipping stomach to get its act together. “There we go!” I should win an Oscar for keeping my voice steady. “All better. I have crayons too. If you’re interested.”

The man makes a sound of deep annoyance, which cools my elevated temperature and brings me back to petty joy.

I wouldn’t normally act like this, even to a rude customer, but it’s been a shit day.

A shit few weeks, if I’m being honest. An accident ruined my favorite hobby—my personal therapy source—and has somehow reverted years of personal growth, bringing me right back to the state of mind I was in during the very worst time of my life, after a totally different accident.

Now this hungover asshole—whose friend or whatever she is to him—has to offer to pay the server a C-note to make sure he doesn’t act out even more? Not on my watch.

I purposefully block his entrance to the booth as I set the drinks down. “Here you go!” I say cheerily. I give an apologetic look to the woman for not having the drinks ready like she wanted, but she gives me an it’s fine look. I’ve probably lost the tip.

“Can I sit?” the man clips.

I bite my cheek to keep from snapping I don’t know, can you? I take a minuscule step aside, just enough for him to get in.

The booth is smaller than the others. On the evening shifts, when I normally work, I usually have to interrupt people making out to serve them.

This morning, it gives me great satisfaction to see this overgrown tree struggle to wedge himself into the space, cursing under his breath as he contorts his long legs under the table.

Once he’s pretzeled into place, I continue to utilize my most chipper server voice. “So, you two need a minute with the menu?”

The woman fixes her eyes on the man, an expression on her face like she’s gearing up to talk to a child. “You think you can manage some eggs, triangle?”

Triangle? I can appreciate pet names, but that one’s weird.

“Scotch,” the man grumbles in a deep, raspy voice. “And fuck you with the triangle shit.”

Anger curls in my chest. He’s not rude. He’s an absolute asshole. “Hey!” I say. “You can’t?—”

But the woman is already leaning over the table. “Fuck you , triangle , for showing up hungover when we just talked about how important today was. This is your career, not mine.”

Okay, so she can hold her own.

“My career is your career, Tru,” he says, his voice low. The words could be spiteful, but they sound almost…apologetic.

Okay, there’s some kind of dynamic here that I do not need to be a part of. “I’m going to come back,” I say, already backing away.

But the woman’s nostrils flare as she glances up at me, smiling apologetically. “No. We’re ready. I’ll have an oat milk latte, please, light foam, and two poached eggs, medium. He’ll have…eggs. A bunch of eggs. And bacon. No, sausage. Actually, whatever meat you’ve got.”

The man glares at his companion. “I don’t need all that.”

“Aziz says you need protein.”

“Aziz says I need to drink yogurt fresh out of a cow’s tit.”

“Udder,” I say.

Whoops.

The man wraps his hand tightly around his glass. “I thought you said this place was safe,” he says to the woman.

What does he mean, safe? It doesn’t matter. It’s not safe if I’m standing here, ready to slap him upside the head. “So. Dealer’s choice on the meat?” I have other tables to deal with.

“Yes,” the woman says. “Please.”

I turn to leave, but the man says, “No.”

“No?” the woman asks, looking irritated. “Aziz?—”

“Not that. I’ll eat whatever meat she brings me.”

Despite everything, I find it hard to contain the snort that slips out.

“Fuck, that’s not what I meant.” For the first time, the man turns his face fully to me. This time, I completely fail to contain my laughter. His cap says SASSY . In big, sparkly diamond letters that glitter under the lights overhead.

“Goodness, I thought you were the fashion horse,” I say to the woman.

“It’s not his,” the woman says with a sigh. “Not mine either.”

Before I can wonder whose exactly it is, the man clears his throat. “Scotch.”

It takes a minute to get that he’s asking for a drink.

My mirth vanishes. Being rude is one thing. Treating servers like servants? Not on my watch.

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” I ask.

“No,” he sneers. “I’m just naming types of tape.”

This fucking guy. I fold my arms, my jingling bracelets accentuating the motion. “I’m so sorry, sir, but I don’t serve people who speak like toddlers. Unless they wear diapers and love to play with blocks. Although, gosh. Maybe that tracks!”

The woman—Tru?—makes a slight choking sound.

The man’s jaw nearly pops out of his skin. He swipes his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes under his sunglasses.

“Listen, bangles,” he says, flattening his hand on the table.

“I’m having an extremely rough morning. I don’t need this shit from anyone, let alone my brunch waitress.

So if you could pretty please just jingle your way back to the bar and get me a scotch from one of those pretty little bottles on the top shelf, I’ll make it worth your while. Okay?”

Fuck physical therapy. Fuck therapy therapy. Turns out all I need to feel like my snappy self again is this absolute asshat on a platter.

I give him a sweet smile. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I’ll bring you my favorite kind. Would you like two, to make you feel better?”

The woman’s eyes widen and her mouth opens, but I give her an I’ve got this look, and she snaps it shut again, choosing to trust me.

The man leans his head back against the booth. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”

“Wonderful. B-R-B!” I spin around, bracelets jingling.

Everyone’s staring when I turn, which is weird. But maybe they heard the way the jerk was talking to me too.

I quickly take care of the family I was helping earlier, slipping the little boy a handful of crayon packs as they pay their bill. Then I place Kissing Booth’s order.

“I’m sorry,” Luke, our weekday helper, says, poking his head out of the kitchen a moment later as I’m making the latte. “Does this say boiled goat? ”

“Extra rubbery, please.” By luck’s great fortune, Mac’s doing this incredible Moroccan goat curry as a main this month. Boiled chicken just doesn’t have the same pizzazz.

Luke is still frowning, so I give him my most winning smile. “You can do that for me, right?”

Luke blushes. He’s barely out of high school, skinny as a rail, and sweet as apple pie. “Sure, Christine,” he says, though his brows remain furrowed as he returns to the kitchen .

“Chris, please, honey,” I say. I’m only thirty, but I think Luke is all of nineteen, so I can say things like that.

He blushes harder and vanishes into the kitchen.

Mac must be in his office waiting for me, because Luke wouldn’t dare follow through with that order if he was in the kitchen. But Luke loves me, so Dicks “R” Us gets very special meat in his mouth this morning.

I finish a gorgeous latte for the woman, then make Dick’s “drink.” Satisfied, I head back to their table with a skip in my step I haven’t felt in a good while.

When I get back, it appears I’ve interrupted some kind of disagreement, because Dick is stony and tight-lipped.

Well, he’s about to pucker up everywhere when he sees what I’ve brought him.

I set Dick’s glass in front of him.

Tru places a neatly manicured hand over her mouth for the second time this morning.

Dick just stares.

My skipping heart and adrenaline-lined stomach expect a fight. I’m ready for it. I know just how it’ll go. What the hell is this? he’ll ask. It’s scotch, just like you asked for, I’ll reply.

But that’s not how it goes. Not at all.

Instead, Dick takes his sunglasses off, setting them neatly on the table.

Okay, so he’s going to be a little bitch about this. That’s fine, I’m ready. If I wasn’t wearing short sleeves, I’d roll them up. “I’ll just wait until you have your first sips,” I say, pure saccharine. “Make sure everything is in order. ”

Dick pulls his hat off next, setting it beside his sunglasses.

When he does, his deep brown hair flops down over his forehead.

Damn, that’s nice hair. Why do men always get the most gorgeous hair?

He probably washes once a week with the same soap he uses on his balls.

Actually, who am I kidding? This man probably doesn’t wash.

Dick wraps his big fingers around his glass. Then he turns to me.

If I were holding my tray, it would clatter to the ground.

I had a sense, before, that we were being watched.

But now? I can actually feel everyone’s eyes on us, and I know why.

I hear the murmurs too. From the corner of my eye, I see the barback gape, oblivious to the soda running over the rim of the glass he’s filling.

It’s clear now why Dick was covering up.

He was trying to hide those sinfully high cheekbones and thick-lashed blue-gray eyes People magazine called “the world’s dreamiest pair of peepers.

” Eyes I know as intimately as my own in the mirror.

A distinctive straight nose that ends with a square tip, like it was chiseled from marble.

Full lips, with a distinctive little scar over the top one by the cupid’s bow.

“Well, fuck,” I say as Dick holds up the tumbler filled with not scotch whiskey, but two Scotch eggs I so cleverly stuck in it.

Because this is not Dick. This is the man I fantasize about when he pulls off his motorcycle helmet in my dreams. The Duke. My duke.