She smiles and winks. “That just means more tips, honey.”
My face turns red, and I tug it down my legs a little only to pull it down lower on my hips. “I don’t have the thighs for this.”
She shuts her locker door. “Pfft, you have great legs; nobody likes a Bony Betty.”
Matt’s voice in my head telling me thatthunder thighs are not appealingjust got a little quieter. I look back in the mirror and try to see the skirt the way Sammy does. It’s a little tight, and short, for my comfort, but I’ll see about buying something else in the next couple of days.
When I first walked out of the little break room, I felt more self-conscious than I have in years. Way back when, during fertilization, when little zygote me was picking and choosing which genes it wanted, for some reason I chose my mom’s wide hips and big boobs, something I’m always trying to hide or downplay.
However, it’s impossible to hide or downplay anything in this tight shirt and miniskirt.
I’m standing at one of my tables taking an order when I hear Stony say in the background, “You want your usual, Tuck?”
He’s asked several people through the course of the evening if they want their usual, so I don’t really pay attention until hecalls me to the bar. Sliding a mug of beer toward me, he says, “Take this to table seven, I already know what he wants, so don’t bug him. He’s not a talker.”
Fine by me. I’m not here to chit-chat, so I grab the beer and freeze in my tracks when I turn to see the asshole who pulled over with his sister when I was on the side of the road. The cowboy hat he just set on the table upside-down is filthy with a gross white ring around the brim, his T-shirt isn’t much better with dirt and sweat around the collar and down his chest, and his hair is stuck to his head like he’s been sweating all day.
He glances up at me as I set the mug of beer down. “Thank y…” He takes a double take and squints at me like he’s Clint Eastwood or something. “You’re still here?”
For some reason, the question rubs me the wrong way. Should I not be here? Am I not welcome?
Wiping my palm against the front of my half apron to soak up the cold condensation from the glass, I link my fingers in front of me like a shield and clear my throat. “I am. Temporarily.” I don’t know why I felt like I needed to add the temporary part, maybe to send the message that anyone in their right mind would only want to be here temporarily.
Then I realize how mean that sounds, and I immediately want to take it back. So far, everyone in this town has been really nice. Ugh, why does he get to me so much?
He’s wearing the same frown as the other night, except now I can see him clearly in the light. He’d be gorgeous without the scowl. His hair and his scraggly beard are the same light auburn color, just a few shades lighter, and he would be considered a redhead.
His angular jaw is sharp, and his nose straight under eyebrows that look perfectly shaped, and I wonder if he plucks them or if they are naturally like that; if they are, I’m jealous.
His dirty t-shirt is tight across his broad chest and around his bulging biceps, the fabric molding to each dip and curve of his muscles. The poor chair under his slumped posture seems small compared to his long body, his legs splayed open and taking up space.
The hazel eyes staring up at me look tired, no, not just his eyes, all of him looks tired. From the way his body slumps in the chair to the light purple moons under his eyes, regardless of how mean he was to me the other night, the nurturer in me wants to give him a break.
A dark, palm-size dirty spot stands out on the front of his jeans over one knee, like he’s been grabbing or holding it, and I remember his limp the other night when he was begrudgingly helping me.
Leaning back in his chair, one hand falling to his leg and his other resting on the table, he assesses me like I’m a germ under a microscope. “No one’s forcing you to stay.”
Never mind, he’s just a jerk.
God, his manners are nonexistent. Our eyes are locked in an invisible tug of war, and I spin the ring Grams gave me for my eighteenth birthday on my right middle finger with the tip of my thumb. “You’re not very nice, are you?”
Something flashes in his eyes, and he breaks the staring contest to look toward the front of the pub, a large sigh lifts his impressive chest, and his finger softly taps against the wood of the table. “Thank you for bringing my beer.”
I've been dismissed.
8
TUCKER
GUILT SQUEEZESmy chest, and I stare over the heads of the people across the pub at the front door until she walks away. What the hell is she doing here, anyway? I haven’t asked Ryder about her car, I don’t really care about her car, but the problem must be serious and expensive, or she wouldn’t be working here.
But why is she workinghere? I’m not sure what it is about her that irritates me so much. When we were at her car on the side of the road, I thought it was just the pain in my leg that had my hackles up. Even now, my jaw is clamped together like a vice, which happened after I looked up to see her serving my drink.
This is my place. Even if it is a bar that most people in town come to, it’s my retreat. From my overwhelming family, and the life that pulled me back kicking and screaming. Adding her to the list of things that I would rather not deal with is pissing me off.
Why do you care if she’s here or not? Just ignore her like you do everyone else.
Running my palm down my face, I grab my beer and drink half of it. She hasn’t done anything to me, there’s no reason to act like an ass. In fact, pre-fucked-up me would have already hit on her, laying the charm on thick. She has the perfect curvy hourglass figure that gets my dick hard.
