But tonight, with the alcohol swirling through my blood and Kellin’s potential investment dangling just out of reach…
The words hit a little too close to home.
Maybe I can’t manage anything without my father.
My shoulders tighten at the thought, and my lips thin against my will. Before I can smooth them back down, Kellin frowns. Just the smallest twitch of his mouth, along with a thin furrow in his brow.
I won’t let my personal issues derail this. “Flattery won’t convince me to accept your proposition just like that.”
Kellin’s eyes narrow, and his mouth curves into a dangerous, sensual smile that sets fire to my nerve endings.
“I didn’t realize I’d propositioned you yet.” His soft tone sizzles down my spine and heats my cheeks.
No amount of makeup will hide this much warmth. “You know perfectly well that I meant yourbusinessproposal?—”
Before I can draw that firm line, a young server dressed in a crisp black uniform hurries toward the table with wide hazel eyes.
“Charlie?” I sit up, wine forgotten. “What’s wrong?”
Charlie fidgets with the hem of his waist apron as he catches his breath. “Can you please come to the bar?” His thin face pinches. “There’s a customer refusing to leave.”
As soon as he finishes his request, shattering glass echoes throughout the restaurant.
My heart sinks. This isn’t the good impression I wanted to create for Kellin.
I rise, tossing my napkin in my chair. “Please excuse me.”
I don’t wait for Kellin to answer. Power walking, I follow Charlie toward the bar. I don’t see Eric near the rope. Hopefully he’s already at the bar.
Taking a deep breath, I scan the restaurant for the problem customer. “What exactly is going on?”
Charlie chews on his lip while fidgeting with his apron again. “This guy is raving about his bill. He’s totally wasted.”
This couldn’t have happened on a worse night. “Is he a hotel guest?”
He shrugs. “Phoebe didn’t think so, but she wasn’t sure. He could have checked in today.”
I swallow a curse. “Where’s Segun? He should already be here.” My night manager is best-suited for handling incidents like this.
“No one’s seen him?—”
“Fuck you!” A ragged voice bellows over the din of chatting diners. More glass shatters. Patrons begin twisting in their chairs and craning their necks toward the bar.
Just what I need. A spectacle.
After a few more steps, I spot a well-dressed, fortysomething man at the bar.
He’s swaying back and forth as he points at Ricky, my seasoned bartender. The man’s salt-and-pepper hair is disheveled, his face reddened from alcohol or anger. Both, by the state of him.
His rambling voice slurs. “I decide when I’ve had enough!”
Ricky’s got both hands braced against the bar, stress creasing his square forehead beneath his sandy hair. His greenvest is damp at the front—did this guytoss his drinkon him?—and his tanned knuckles are white against the bar top.
When he catches sight of me, his shoulders visibly relax.I’m too old for this, his expression says.
He can’t be a day over fifty. No need to be dramatic.
I nod at the drunk. “Ricky, please call this gentleman a cab.”
