There were a lot of things I didn't have tonight. Not enough staff to cover the dining room and bar.
Another man said, ”If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't believe it."
Not enough time to hammer out updated financial projections before meeting with my business partner tomorrow morning.
He asked, “Do you think it's legit? If I text this number, am I gonna find out it's the local pizza place?"
Not enough tolerance for out-of-towners here for an authentic autumn weekend in Maine. Especially the ones who took off their wedding rings while ordering a Moscow mule.
Other man replied, ”A certified dime piece was sitting in your lap. Even if it is a pizza place, you're still winning."
And not even an ounce of patience for Brooke Markham and her bullshit.
He said, “I’m gonna text her. Can't pass up an opportunity like this one."
Something inside my head snapped. Whether it was the muscle keeping bad choices from overruling good sense or my tenuous hold on everything I'd tried to keep in check, the seal was broken.
I gave the door one last scowl before turning and snatching the napkin out of that asshole's hand. "Not a chance in hell."
For a second, he had the decency to look guilty. But assholes bounced back quick and this one was no exception. "Does this involve you?"
From the other end of the bar, two of my regulars, Bobbie Lincoln and Rhys Neville, shifted away from the televised baseball game. Their concerned expressions seemed to ask whether I needed assistance. I shook my head. I had this well in hand.
"Yeah, it involves me."More than you'll ever know."Get the fuck out of here."
* * *
The main doorbanged open five minutes before midnight and I knew it was Brooke before glancing up from the evening's receipts. No one flung a door quite like Ms. Markham.
I knew she'd come back. A masochistic part of me had spent the past four hours craving it. There was no other explanation for me leaving the door unlocked long after my last customer settled up for the night. But this knowledge was more than a basic understanding of her operating system. The air changed when she was around. It was charged, unpredictable, almost dangerous. No,alwaysdangerous. There was no trusting this woman.
"You gonna fix those hinges for me?" I gestured toward the threshold with a roll of quarters. "Because I can see from here they're loose from the rough treatment you're giving them."
"Get me a screwdriver." She stomped across the empty tavern, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and anger rising around her like a bank of coastal fog. If I knew anything about Brooke—and fog—I knew I wouldn't be able to see the hand in front of my face real soon. "I'll tighten them right up after you and I have a little talk."
I returned to my receipts. "Sorry, sweetheart, closed for the night."
She slipped onto her usual stool, the one near the end with a sniper's view of the tavern. "Would you care to explain to me what the fuck happened here, Jed?"
"Gonna need you to be more specific, sweetheart."
Brooke paused, laced her fingers together on the bar top. "I came in here earlier."
"That you did." I nodded as I shuffled the cash again. I couldn't even count when she stared at me like that. "Left without paying too."
"Put it on my tab."
"Last I checked, you haven't opened a tab." I shoved everything into a bank bag and finally shifted to face her. A feral smirk pulled at her lips and her brilliant blue eyes sparkled. I'd never seen anything more beautiful—or infuriating—than the wrath she kept simmering beneath the surface.
And it was a goddamn problem. Of course it was. Pissing her off made my damn day, but moments like these, when it was me and Brooke and all that fog rolling around us, made for a different kind of day.
"Then let me open one right now." She drew her narrow shoulders in, lowered her lashes, and peered up at me. I wanted to believe that move was pure and unpracticed, although Brooke got everything she wanted not because she deserved it but because she knew how to demand it. "I think you know I'm good for it."
So fucking dangerous.
I ran my palm over my head, tugged the hair knotted at the base of my skull. "Like I told you earlier, I don't have time for this." Didn't have the time, the mental fortitude, the goddamn strength. "Get to the point or get the hell outta here."
Every ounce of sweet drained from her. In its place was rock salt in the shape of an obnoxiously lovely woman. "What happened with"—she pointed to the empty stool where the stuffed shirt from Manchester had sat—"that one?"
