Chapter One
Dice
I couldn’t care less where you stick it.
Lot Webber has no business managing a bar.
But I knew this train wreck was coming as soon as I heard she was back and her father requested a mandatory staff meeting.
“Listen up!” Maurice barked, leaning on a cane that had become his sidekick since his limp worsened. “Doctor says the knee’s gotta be replaced. I can’t put it off any longer. In my absence, Charlotte will be in charge.”
She stood off to the side, eyebrows shooting up into two sharp arches the instant he dropped the name bomb. Lot hatedCharlotte.She said it sounded like someone delicate and demure. She was neither.
I wasn’t proud of the small, perverse pleasure I got from her scowl. But the joke’s on me.
Days later, here she is—like sin dipped in rebellion, curves and confidence for days, and my brain short circuits on the spot. That face card, a mane of mahogany locs with gold clips catching the glow above the bar, and a tiny hoop glinting in her nose, were already enough to set a man’s life off course, but the rest… shit.
Black crop top stretched across her tits, a heart with a dagger through it, readingSavagein blood red that wasn’t far from the truth. A plaid shirt is tied low at her waist, hanging over her round hips and that generous gift of an ass I’ve had dozens of fantasies about. Beneath it, are black tights, her thick legs flexing under the weight of combat boots—platform heels that look like she’s ready to stomp somebody’s soul, and I have a feeling it would be mine.
I shift the bottle in my hand, pretending not to notice the sensual punch of white musk and something smoky radiating off her skin.
“Lot.” I make my voice sound casual. “Can you draw somewhere else? Some of us have work to do.”
“Iamworking.” Her hazel-brown eyes lift from her sketch pad, flashing with annoyance. “I’m out here getting inspiration.”
“For what?”
“New shirts. Edgier logo.”
I hand off the whiskey and wine to Tiff, the waiting server, then glance down at my white polo with a ship and Docks Barstitched in ocean blue.“What’s wrong with this one?”
Not that I care. It’s just an excuse to keep her talking. She’s barely said ten words to me since she came back from New York after ghosting me for five years.
Five. Fucking. Years.
And now she’s standing in my way, still fine as hell, still full of fire and attitude, still making me feel shit I don’t want to feel.
“It’s dated,” she says, shooting her trademark side-eye that only makes me itch to get under her skin.
“The honeys have no complaints about me in this shirt. Or out of it.”
“I can’t account for their poor taste,” she deadpans. “But for the record, fraternizing with customers is bad for business.”
“Sure that’s not personal?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I couldn’t care less where you stick it, as long as it’s not in our customers.”
“Right.” I smirk.
Lot and I—we’ve got history. Started as neighborhood kids. Grew from there into something undefined. Not just friends. Never lovers. A connection without a label. She was the first person I ever felt anything real for. The first person to see through my jokes and the bullshit behind the mask. The first person I trusted.
Didn’t stop her from leaving. Or from cutting me off when she did.
Christ. I don’t need this. But Bayside Harbor’s too damn small to avoid her. And—for now—she’s my boss.
“Hey, Dice!” Benny, my right hand, calls from the other end of the bar. His voice cuts through the Whet Wednesday hum. “Midnight Ale!”
“Heard.” I grab the tap, but before I pour, Lot sticks the pencil behind her ear and braces a hand on one hip. My gaze drops—traitor that it is—to the expanse of brown skin, soft round stomach, and the dangling belly-button ring winking like a beacon. Her father would lose his mind if he saw her behind the bar dressed like this. Not that his opinions ever stopped her.
