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CHAPTER ONE

“Jesus. I ain’t straight, but damn if that man doesn’t make me think I could learn to like dick.”

Ainsley Hall finished pouring a beer, pushing the tap back then glancing toward the tavern door, curious who could have captured the attention of sixty-two-year-old retired Marine and hardcore lesbian Maren.

Because Maren didn’t do guys.

Period.

Then Ainsley saw…him.

“Hello, Thor,” she murmured under her breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“Right?” Maren replied with a deep, raspy laugh that said the waitress should at least try to curb her two-pack-a-day habit.

Ainsley let her gaze slide down the guy—it took a while because he was so tall—then back up again, grateful for the unexpected eye candy.

“He must be lost,” Ainsley said, when the man hovered in the doorway of Mick’s Tavern.

She followed the direction of his gaze, even though she knew exactly what he was seeing. Ainsley had grown up in this place, her dad the owner and namesake. Some people would probably think it was cool having a dad who owned a bar, and if her dad had owned one of those upscale, ritzy waterfront bars on the Inner Harbor, she would have agreed. But Mick Hall owned this piece of shit in the middle of Cherry Hill, one of Baltimore’s less-than-desirable neighborhoods.

Mick’s Tavern was the stereotypical dive, with too-dim lighting, windows covered with thin curtains that used to be white but were now yellowed with age and dust, sticky linoleum flooring that was torn in too many places, booths and chairs upholstered in cheap plastic—many of which were cracked with the stuffing coming out.

The place didn’t just need a facelift to be habitable. It needed to be completely gutted and rebuilt.

Not that the regulars gave a shit what the place looked like. Mainly because they matched the décor.

Grizzled old men occupied the tables and stools in front of the bar, dressed in dirty jeans, faded flannel shirts, and scuffed boots.

A few patrons were looking the same direction she was, studying Thor, who was still standing by the door. New faces at Mick’s Tavern were rare. Guys who looked like this one, in his crisp, new jeans, name-brand sneakers—though she didn’t have a clue which brand, because she’d never been able to afford anything with a name—and button-down shirts never darkened the door, so it stood to reason he captured a bit of attention.

Ainsley crossed her arms when his perusal of the tavern ended with her. She raised one eyebrow, giving him her best “well?” expression, because she expected him to turn tail and get the hell out fast. Or maybe he’d ask for directions to anywhere that wasn’t this dump because there was no way he was sticking around.

She was surprised when he held her gaze for longer than was polite, and then—what the hell?—smiled at her. And not a fake smile or a smirk but a real one. One that looked…friendly. The fact that a smile took her aback was definitely a sign that she was not hanging with the best crowd.

Or any crowd really, unless she counted Maren and this room of miserable misfits, none of whom flashed their pearly whites—okay, stained teeth—much.

“Do you know him?” Maren asked.

Ainsley shook her head. “I don’t think so. Pretty sure I would remember if I did.”

“True. You don’t forget a guy like that.”

“Maybe he’s already drunk? Or lost a bet?” Ainsley continued trying to come up with logical reasons why a guy as sexy as this one would walk into Mick’s Tavern and smile at her.

Before Maren could add her own theories, Thor approached the bar and sat down on a stool at the end.

Ainsley walked over to him. “Uh…can I get you something? Directions or…”

The man—who was even more gorgeous up close—nodded his head toward the taps. “I’d like a Natty Boh, please.”

Please?

Jesus. She really needed to get out of the bar more often if this man’s smile and manners were throwing her for this big a loop.

“Sure thing.” Ainsley grabbed a mug from the shelf behind her and poured the beer, surreptitiously stealing looks at the man.

He was at least six-five, and practically that wide, with broad, muscular shoulders and thick arms. He looked like he could bench a couple hundred pounds without breaking a sweat. She appreciated that he wasn’t one of those guys who felt like they had to wear their shirts a size too small to accentuate their beefcake statures. Thor did the opposite, because while his clothing fit, it was a tiny bit loose. Not that it was hiding anything. He was built like Mt. Everest, and she sure as shit wouldn’t mind scaling him to reach the top.

Because having a body like his should be blessing enough, but the man also possessed a seriously hot face. He had dark hair and eyes, a chiseled jaw, and he sported a beard.

Sure…most of the old guys in this place had beards. However, theirs were unruly and long and made them look like a bunch of rejects from a ZZ Top audition. But not Thor. Nope. His beard was neatly trimmed, short, and the perfect frame for his perfect face.

Ainsley shook herself for staring like an idiot, then walked over to deliver his beer. “Here you go. Wanna start a tab?”

The man nodded and tossed her a credit card. She ran it, sneaking a peek at the name.

Coulton Moore.

She snickered when she realized his last name rhymed with Thor.

Appropriate.

She handed him the card back, then glanced at the sketch pad behind her on the counter. On slow evenings like this one, she passed the time by drawing. It was either that or play games on her phone, because she had zero interest in watching whatever sport was in season and playing on the ancient TV hanging behind the bar.

She started to pick up the pad when Maren returned from making a trip around the tavern, gathering dirty glasses and plates. She gave Ainsley a pointed look, then not so subtly tilted her head toward Thor…er…Coulton.

Ainsley narrowed her eyes and shook her head, because in what world would a guy who looked like him pay even the slightest bit of attention to a girl like her? She didn’t need to know a goddamn thing about Coulton to know she wasn’t his type. GQ Greek gods didn’t typically go for scrawny women with too many tattoos and piercings, jet-black hair tinted magenta at the ends, and a fashion sense that ran strictly along the grunge line.

Tonight, she was rocking black jeans that were ripped to hell—torn naturally through years of wear—and a faded Steve Miller Band T-shirt she’d lifted from Dad’s dresser this morning because she was behind on laundry. It was also due to a lack of clean clothes that she was going commando right now.

Ainsley was Courtney Love.

Coulton was Captain America.

Maren, her beloved waitress and only friend because she had zero social life, had been riding Ainsley’s ass lately about dating, something she hadn’t done much of in the past year or two.

“Much” was probably the wrong word. Because Ainsley didn’t date at all.

She’d washed her hands of the entire male population because, in her experience, they were shitheads and not worth her time. Of course, she knew they weren’t all shitheads, but Ainsley had learned the hard way that the only ones she seemed to attract sure as hell were.

She’d only had three long-term relationships in the past, and that included her high school boyfriend Tiger. Tiger was the actual name on his birth certificate, which probably should have been Ainsley’s first red flag because it turned out the asshole was always on the prowl. Tiger—unbeknownst to her—slept with at least a dozen other girls while they were dating, several of whom had been good friends.

From there, she moved on to Jagger, a struggling musician who struggled to hold down any real job for long. She’d dated Jagger for three years, and for about half of it, they’d been happy. Happy enough that she agreed to get an apartment with him because she was desperate to move away from Mick and her brother Eli.

Unfortunately, after they became roommates, Jagger’s true colors were revealed. He had a drinking problem, and damn…he was a mean drunk. Ainsley didn’t consider herself weak or a pushover, but she was also tied to a stupid lease. Which sucked, because Jagger was a stage-five emotional abuser, textbook example. When drunk, he found countless ways to tear her down, only to apologize and beg for forgiveness the next morning.

It was the explosive end of her relationship with Jagger that led to the third—and last—guy she’d ever slept with.

Montgomery Miles.

Again…the name should have been an indicator of trouble ahead, because Montgomery was a prep-school, country club, up-and-coming prosecuting attorney. Completely different from every guy she’d never known. She’d thought all those Richie Rich things were incredibly impressive when they were dating. It was only after the blinders were ripped off that she realized his background served to make him the snooty-ass, condescending jerk he really was.

So yeah…

Three strikes and she was out.

Done.

Maren held Ainsley’s gaze, lifting her eyebrows in that stubborn do as I say way of hers.

“Talk to him,” Maren mouthed.

Ainsley shook her head again, so Maren—the bitch—casually picked up Ainsley’s drawing pencils, slid them in her back pocket, and walked through the swinging door that led to the bar’s small kitchen to wash dishes, smirking over her shoulder as she did so.

Ainsley didn’t care. She still had her phone, so the last laugh would be hers. All she had to do was pull it out and play games to kill time, but she made the mistake of looking at Coulton instead.

She expected to find his gaze glued to the TV, so she was shocked to realize he was looking at her. Shit. Had he just watched that whole exchange?

Ainsley expected him to smirk, but instead, he just smiled at her again.

“Nice tats,” he said, opening the door to a conversation.

Before she could think better of her actions, she stepped toward him and—God help her—started making small talk.

“Uh…thanks. You have any?”

He shook his head. “No, but I’ve always wanted to get one. Just hard to decide what you want to ink on your skin forever, y’know?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“I guess all of yours have meanings?”

They did, but Ainsley’s reasons for choosing her tattoos were personal. “Sure do. So, what brings you in?” she asked, in an attempt to change the subject. She was still certain he’d made a wrong turn.

Coulton took a swig of his beer. “Got a friend who lives nearby. I’ve driven by the tavern quite a few times the past year. Thought I’d check it out.”

Ainsley frowned, because as uninviting as the inside of Mick’s Tavern was, the outside was worse. “A friend, huh? So you don’t live in Cherry Hill?”

Coulton shook his head. “Nope.”

“Lucky you,” she muttered.

He gave her a curious look.

“You have to know it’s not a great neighborhood,” she added.

“ You live in Cherry Hill?”

Ainsley nodded. “My whole life.”

“I’m Coulton, by the way,” he said, introducing himself.

“Ainsley Hall,” she replied, just before her phone started ringing.

She pulled her cell out of her back pocket and grimaced when she saw the caller ID. She wanted to ignore the call but couldn’t, on the off chance there was an emergency.

“Excuse me,” she said to Coulton, turning her back to him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, as she answered the phone.

Her father, the only chain smoker she’d ever known who could give Maren a run for her money, had been diagnosed with emphysema and COPD a couple years back. He’d continued to run the tavern for about a year afterward before it got to be too much for him. Nowadays, he just sat in his ratty recliner in the apartment they shared with her useless brother, hooked up to oxygen, watching crime drama on TV all day and waiting to die. Given the gray pallor of his skin lately, she was starting to worry he wouldn’t have much longer to wait.

“You pick up my prescription?” Mick asked…or rather, barked.

“Yeah,” she replied, wondering how in the hell he thought she could forget, given the way he’d badgered her about it all damn morning.

“Good. Just took my last pill.”

“Okay,” she replied.

“Stop on your way home and grab me some nicotine patches. I’m out,” he demanded.

Ainsley closed her eyes, her temper flaring. Why hadn’t he asked for those this morning when he was nagging her about the stupid pills? Now, she’d have to go four blocks in the opposite direction to hit the all-night convenience store before walking home after closing.

The Hall family wasn’t known for their patience, and as she was a Hall and her father’s daughter, she failed to find any. “Why didn’t you ask this morning, Mick?” she asked, voice raised.

Mick, taking exception to her tone, lost his temper bigger. He always did. “Because I didn’t fucking know I was out, you stupid cow!” When she was younger, Mick’s loud, intimidating bellow used to scare her, but nowadays, while his words were still hateful, he couldn’t say them with the same volume and tone. Due to a lack of air, the best he could manage was a wheezy grumble.

“You can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Ainsley? I ask for one goddamn thing and you act like it’s some big damn deal.”

She rolled her eyes. He asked for one goddamn thing a minute, but pointing that out would only prolong this fight and she didn’t have the energy. For the last year, she’d been running this tavern with only Maren’s help, which meant she was here from open to close, six days a week, for three hundred and twelve days a year. Mick didn’t believe in closing for the holidays because the regulars at the tavern preferred to do their celebrating over pints rather than with their families. Considering the patrons, she suspected their families didn’t mind their absence around the Christmas trees or Thanksgiving tables. Of course, she wasn’t one to judge because she preferred working on those days rather than spending them with her family too.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Anything else, oh lord and master?”

“Yeah. Lose the fucking attitude. It’s no wonder you’re not married. What man’s going to saddle himself to your smart-ass mouth?”

Before she could respond to that lovely comment, Mick hung up on her.

She wrapped her hands around her phone and throttled it, imagining it was her dad’s neck. Then she shoved the phone in her pocket and sighed heavily. It wasn’t like she expected him to say thanks or show her any appreciation.

That wasn’t Mick’s way. He was a spare the rod, spoil the child kind of guy. Spankings—and the well-placed backhand when she became a teenager—were pretty much part of the daily routine during her childhood. Maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing if her mom had stuck around to offer something resembling affection. However, Mom had cut and run when Ainsley was six, Eli eight.

Mick had raised them on his own, though she used the word raised sparingly. Mick’s life as a single parent had been exactly the same as when he’d been married. The only difference was he’d started dragging two kids along with him to work.

As such, she’d grown up in this tavern, sitting at a booth with her brother doing homework or coloring, watching whatever sport was on TV, eating the cheap microwave food her dad sold to the drunks for dinner. Her bedtime was split into two halves, the first happening on a lumpy couch in the back storeroom that doubled as her dad’s office. Once he closed the tavern for the night, he’d wake up her and Eli, the three of them would walk home at midnight, and she’d spend the rest of the night in her bed.

Child services would have had a field day with her father, but no one who drank at Mick’s gave a shit about the two little kids sitting in the corner, listening to their dirty jokes, watching their drunken brawls, and sucking in all their secondhand smoke.

Ainsley had never taken a puff of a cigarette in her life, but she figured she could look forward to the same ailments Mick now suffered from, given all the secondhand smoke she’d breathed in as a little girl.

She rubbed her eyes. God, she was tired. And it was still three hours until closing time.

“Boyfriend?” Coulton asked, making it clear he’d been listening.

She shook her head. “My father.”

“You call him Mick?”

“Yeah. The word dad doesn’t apply to him. Indicates a relationship that’s not really there.”

“So you’re not close?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what the fuck we are. This is his place.”

“Oh, of course. Mick. Should have put that together,” Coulton said, giving her a self-deprecating grin. “Is it his night off or something?”

“No. Mick hasn’t been able to run the tavern the past year, so I do.”

“Hey, Ainsley,” Petey called out. “You fucking working or what? I’m empty. Get your scrawny ass over here.”

And that was a perfect example of why Coulton’s “please” had sounded so strange.

“You just took the last swig, asswipe, so I’m pretty sure you’re not dying of thirst,” she retorted.

She’d gotten her Miss Manners lessons at Mick’s, so she probably shouldn’t throw a stone when it came to other people’s rudeness. Glass houses and all that crap. Trudging in Petey’s direction, she decided she was done making small talk with the hot guy. Nothing was going to come of it, so why bother?

She refilled drinks for a few of the guys, purposely remaining on the opposite end of the bar, away from Coulton. He made it easy to stay away by nursing his beer. As long as it was half full, she didn’t need to go ask if he wanted another.

Ainsley listened with half an ear as Petey and Brant bitched about some supervisor at the factory where they both worked. Apparently, their new boss was a third their age and fresh out of college with some fancy degree in manufacturing or management or something else equally useless. Petey was pissed because the young guy was trying to make a lot of changes that wouldn’t work.

“Same fucking thing every year. Some new asshole comes in, tries to fix what’s not broken, then moves on, leaving us to deal with the next twat and his big ideas,” Petey griped. “Got a right mind to fucking quit.”

Ainsley rolled her eyes in unison with Brant, because Petey threatened to quit his job—the same one he’d worked for nearly forty years—every day.

She started to say as much when the tavern door opened.

Shit.

Just when she thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

She walked toward the cash register, which was unfortunately on Coulton’s end of the bar, as her brother Eli strolled in and made a beeline for it.

“Hey, Painsley,” he said with a smirk. He’d been using that same stupid nickname since she was a kid, thinking it such a clever play on words.

“You come in to work?” she asked, even though it was a waste of breath. She and Eli were supposed to be running the tavern together, but she could count on one hand—with fingers left over—how many times her brother had chipped in since Mick’s illness left him homebound. For the first couple of months after taking over, she’d made a schedule, foolishly thinking Eli would abide by it. More the fool her.

Eli crossed his arms, looking around at the dozen or so people scattered around the bar. “Seriously? You and Maren can’t handle this?”

“What do you want, Eli?” Ainsley had officially hit the limit on what she could take from her dad and brother today.

“Came to get an advance on my pay,” he said, moving into her personal space, trying to force her away from the register.

“You have to work to get paid,” she pointed out, not budging. The only way this son of a bitch would get to the cash register was over her cold, dead body.

“Stop fucking around,” Eli grumbled.

“What is it about my face that gives you the idea I’m fucking around?” she asked, scowling, crossing her own arms.

“Move,” he said, with that slight tinge of desperation she recognized all too well. “I need some cash.”

She groaned. “Tell me you aren’t gambling again.”

Eli’s eyes darted to the side, a sure sign he was about to lie. “I?—”

“You said you were done with that,” Ainsley continued, without letting him spout a bunch of crap. She wasn’t in the mood to hear his bullshit. “Mick told you last time he wouldn’t bail you out again. You start this shit up and he’s gonna kick you out of the apartment for?—”

“It’s a sure thing,” Eli insisted.

Ainsley scoffed dramatically. “Oh, well, if it’s a sure thing,” she said sarcastically. “Why not take all the money from the cash register? Hell, let me grab my purse. I think I have a few bucks in there. Maybe we can dig behind the cushions in the booths, see if we can drum up some extra change to kick in.”

“You don’t always have to be such a fucking bitch,” Eli retorted.

She shot him a nasty grin. “I don’t have to, but it’s just so much fun.”

“Goddammit. Get out of the way, Ainsley.” Eli bumped into her, intent on physically shoving her away from the register.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Coulton start to rise, but she responded faster. She and Eli had been brawlers since childhood, so she knew right where to hit.

Reaching beneath the counter, she pulled out her baseball bat, shaking it in Eli’s face.

“Back the fuck up,” she said through gritted teeth. “This isn’t an ATM.”

Eli scowled but took two steps away. He was familiar with her bat and well aware that she had no problem swinging it. “You’re forgetting that half this bar is mine.”

“ None of this is yours. It’s Mick’s.”

Eli gave her a shitty grin. “Yeah, but we’re going to inherit it when the miserable old bastard kicks off, which if we’re lucky should be any day now. He’s not looking so good.”

Ainsley hated how much Eli looked forward to their father dying, but she understood where it was coming from. While her relationship with their dad was strained as shit, Eli and Mick’s bond was shattered. They’d butted heads since the day Eli learned to talk, neither of them bothering to hide their outright hatred for each other. While she and Eli had both gotten plenty of beatings when they were kids, Mick seemed to take a perverse sense of pride in really hurting Eli, who was scrawny like her and nowhere near as tough as he liked to think he was.

Ainsley could only assume Mick viewed his beatings as a way of toughening up his son. She and Eli could probably keep a team of therapists busy for months, analyzing the impact their fucked-up childhood had on them.

Regardless, she wasn’t in the mood to play this game with Eli. “Yeah, well, for now, the tavern is still Mick’s, so try to take money from here again and I’ll break your hand.” Ainsley held the bat in front of her, her threat genuine.

The tavern barely made enough to cover the rent on their shitty apartment, feed them, and cover their father’s medical bills. They didn’t have enough to squander on Eli’s “sure things,” which were never sure.

“You’re a fucking cunt, you know that?” Eli shouted.

This time, Ainsley didn’t have a chance to respond before Coulton interfered. Not that she would have responded. Cunt was her brother’s second-favorite nickname for her after Painsley. Due to his constant use of the word, it didn’t have the power to wound her anymore.

Coulton, however, clearly didn’t feel the same way. One second, her brother was giving her a dirty look, trying to crowd her, the next, he was shoved against the back wall of the tavern, his feet dangling a couple inches off the ground.

“You need to watch your mouth,” Coulton said.

Eli, the idiot, didn’t seem to gather just how outmatched he was when he spit back, “She’s my fucking sister. I can call her whatever I want.”

Coulton shoved him against the wall again, harder, and Eli grunted in pain.

“No. You can’t,” Coulton said.

Ainsley hadn’t been wrong about her first impression of him. The guy really was Thor. Which was wreaking havoc on her libido, because as he held her brother aloft, his muscular arms rippled and his brawny shoulders flexed…and her girlie parts woke right the hell up.

She caught a glimpse of Maren, standing on the other side of Coulton and Eli, the waitress’s lips curled in a too-satisfied grin. Maren hated Eli, so Ainsley was surprised the waitress was merely smiling. Maren loved to see a few fists fly, so she was showing great restraint in not urging Coulton to pummel Eli.

Glancing around the tavern, she realized everyone was watching the scuffle unfold. Ainsley considered letting it play out a little longer, because the old guys led very small lives and she figured they deserved a bit of entertainment.

However, Coulton’s grip on Eli was a strong one, and her brother was red-faced and struggling to breathe.

Ainsley put her hand on Coulton’s forearm. She couldn’t resist giving it a squeeze. Jesus Christ. She was going to have to rethink her superhero. Coulton might actually be Superman, because the man was made of steel.

“We’re cool,” she said to Coulton. “My brother was just leaving.” She stared Eli down until he gave her a quick nod, silently agreeing to get out.

Coulton held her gaze long enough that she started to question whether he was going to do as she said.

“Seriously,” she added. “This is just another Sunday night around here. No biggie.”

Finally, after thirty more seconds, Coulton loosened his grip and released her brother.

Eli tried to straighten the wrinkles from his shirt, scowling at Coulton, then at her.

When it looked like her brother was going to say something else stupid, she shook her head in warning. She’d called the giant off this time. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to again.

One, because Coulton looked seriously pissed.

And two, because she didn’t want to. Like Maren, she thought a few punches to the head might be the only way to knock some sense into her idiot brother. Not that it had ever worked in the past. God knew Mick had given it the old college try.

Eli scowled, then sidestepped Coulton and stormed out of the tavern without another word.

“You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that,” Coulton said.

Ainsley shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.” She intended for her words to lighten the mood, but they sent things in a different direction.

“By who?” Coulton asked.

She laughed, despite his deadly serious tone. “You want a list?” she joked.

For a second, it looked like he was going to ask her to start giving him names, but Coulton finally calmed down, his shoulders loosening as he gave her—goddamn, his teeth were white and perfectly straight—another one of those gorgeous smiles.

“All better?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, trying to recall the last time anyone had stood up for her.

Now it was Coulton’s turn to shrug as if he was embarrassed by her gratitude, the fierceness she’d seen in his face as he’d held her brother, melting away completely. “No problem.”

She tilted her head and smiled before she could catch herself. “Nice biceps, by the way.”

Jesus, Ainsley. Stop flirting.

“Nice bat.”

Ainsley laughed. But before she could say anything else flirty, the room erupted into a flurry of noise and movement as Coulton reclaimed his stool.

Maren slapped Coulton on the back and told him she was buying him a beer. Petey and Brant shifted along the counter so they could sit next to him, asking if he’d ever done any boxing. Another group at a nearby table ordered a pitcher, despite already closing their tab, just in case there was any more excitement, they explained.

The atmosphere in the bar shifted from depressed and silent to something akin to a party. People started talking to each other rather than staring at the TV or their phones, and for the first time in months, someone asked to borrow the darts, asking Coulton if he wanted to play.

Ainsley was shocked when he said yes.

Maren shifted next to her, the two of them leaning against the counter, watching a small crowd of men stand in front of the dartboard, trash-talking and laughing.

“What the hell happened?” Ainsley mused.

Maren chuckled. “Something.”

Ainsley gave her a confused look.

“When is the last time something—anything—happened in this place?” Maren asked.

Ainsley had to give it to Maren. She made a valid point. “Still not sure why he’s here,” she muttered.

Maren shoulder-bumped Ainsley. “Who gives a shit why? I swear to God, I’m pissed I didn’t think to pull my phone out and take a picture of that giant slamming your waste-of-flesh brother against the wall. Nat is getting so lucky tonight.”

Ainsley snorted. Nat was Maren’s longtime girlfriend. “I’m sure Nat will be thrilled to know it was a sexy guy who got you all hot and bothered.”

Maren shrugged. “She doesn’t care where I get inspired as long as she’s the recipient of my creative juices.”

Ainsley crinkled her nose. “Ew. No, no, no. No talking about your juices because…gross.”

Maren barked out a loud, raspy laugh. “Prude.”

“Slut.”

Maren continued laughing, one that dissolved into a wet cough, as she went to see if anyone needed another round.

Ainsley remained where she was, watching Coulton throwing darts with Petey and Brant. When he first walked in, she thought he looked out of place, but his easy camaraderie with guys who were at least twice his age had her rethinking that.

Of course, with his back turned, she also had the opportunity to enjoy the new view. Of his tight ass. Maren made a valid point about Coulton’s ability to inspire.

Ainsley hadn’t felt a sexual attraction to anyone in so long, she thought that part of her had died.

It was now very painfully clear it had not.

Her eyes quickly darted away when Coulton looked over his shoulder and caught her staring at his ass. Her cheeks heated—Jesus, was she blushing?—when he gave her a quick wink.

Ainsley snorted then turned around, pretending to wipe the counter behind her. Unfortunately, a huge mirror hung on that wall, so when she chanced a glance, she saw he was still looking at her and grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

She narrowed her eyes, the two of them staring at each other through the reflection, then she forced herself to look away and escape to the kitchen to regroup, because she wasn’t the type of girl who ogled. Or flirted. Or blushed.

Grabbing a tray of clean glasses, she took a steadying breath, determined to put the pretty man out of her mind and focus on the job at hand.

Something easier said than done when she returned to find Coulton back at the bar.

“Finished playing darts?”

He nodded. “I was putting more holes in your wall than the board.”

She lifted one shoulder. “It’s not like the holes would make this dive look any worse.”

Coulton grinned, then started a conversation about his preferred drinking game—beer pong—as she restocked the glasses. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, probably because they weren’t talking about anything personal, the two of them chatting about favorite cocktails, bands, and movies. When he asked about the sketch pad, she played off her art, called it doodling, even though her drawings were so much more than that to her.

The sad part was, the entire time they talked, Ainsley found herself wondering what the hell was wrong with the guy because there was no way anyone could be this nice.

Trust issues much, Ains?

After an hour or so, Coulton stood. “Got an early morning. Guess I should head out,” he said.

She was tempted to ask what he was getting up early for, but instead, she just nodded, sorry to see him go because she very seriously doubted he’d return.

“I’ll cash out your tab,” she said.

Handing him the bill, he signed it, then stuffed three twenties in the tip jar.

“Thanks,” she said, trying for an air of casual indifference and failing. That was a hell of a tip. She was lucky to get a few lousy bucks from the rest of these guys, and that was after they’d spent hours here guzzling beer after beer.

“See you later, Ainsley,” he said.

She frowned, trying to decide if he meant those words or if that was just his way of saying goodbye.

“Um, sure,” she said. “See ya.”

Coulton gave her another one of those easy smiles, then turned and left.

See you later.

God, she really hoped she did.