Reminds me of when she was fourteen, leaving for school in a skirt past her knees, then hiking it up to mid-thigh as soon as she was around the block. Another time, I would’ve teased her about it. Not today.
“You got a problem working for me, Dyson, just say it.”
So now I’m Dyson.I finish filling the glass, watching the foam settle before meeting her narrowed eyes, daring me.
I want to say it… and more. But the second I open that vault, we’re having an entirely different conversation.
“No problem here,boss.” I slide the glass down the bar.
“Whatever,” she mutters, tossing her thick locs over one shoulder. “Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
“Might wanna get on that liquor order, then.”
“What order?”
She’s serious.“The one sitting on your desk. I printed it two days ago with a note that saidPlease sign.”
“Why didn’t you just sign it?”
“Because that’syourjob.”
“Then make it yours.”
“Your control-freak father insisted on signing everything.”
“Well, he’s not here, is he?” she snaps. “I don’t like paperwork. Consider it a promotion until he returns.”
“Do I get a raise?”
“You get a chance to prove yourself.”
That strikes a blow. For six years, I’ve kept this place alive. Bartender, weekend DJ, the reason the crowd keeps coming back. My specialty cocktails. My music. My regulars. I know every inch of this business. But Maurice Webber still refuses to see me as anything other than my past.
I should’ve left a long time ago. I’ve had offers. Better pay, bigger scenes. But I stayed for reasons I’m not about to examine. My motto is to skim the surface. Don’t dig deeper to where the shit’s all buried.
“I’ll do it,” I say. For her—not that I’ll admit it out loud. “Can’t risk running out of stock.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”
“Do you even know what our inventory levels are?”
“I’m more of a big-picture thinker.”
“Right. You stick to sketching those shirts we don’t need, and I’ll make sure we don’t run dry.”
She levels me another blistering side-eye before sashaying toward the office, hips swinging like punctuation.
I tell myself to let her go. Let her win this round. But ignoring mybetter instincts, I toss the bar towel down and follow, catching her just inside the doorway of her old man’s sanctum.
“Five years, and you’re still running.”
“Back off.” She bristles like the thorns on the rose inked along the swell of her cleavage.
I should heed the warning. Shouldn’t let myself get distracted by perfect tits and all the unresolved tension sticking to my skin like sweat. But something thick and reckless pulls me closer. Close enough to see the pulse tripping in her throat. Close enough that if I dipped my head, I could taste it.
Dumb idea.
Lot’s always been off-limits. Too important to screw up. But now, she’s drawn some kind of enemy line between us, and hell if I know why.
