I cock an eyebrow up at him with a snort. “Miss me, did you?”
“Your stool started complaining about how cold it was in here, without your ass on it. I almost splurged on missing person posters.” He dons one of his shit-eating grins, and I don’t know if it’s just because of what Marcus and Caleb have put in my head or what, but I find myself—I don’t know—noticing it, I guess? I mean, Gordy’s about as stone-faced as they come ninety-nine percent of the time. I’m not sure if I’m just taken aback right now because I’ve just realized I’m one of the few he does smirk around… or if it’s just genuinely a nice looking smirk.
He does have nice lips, I guess. For a dude. Fuck, that’s weird, isn’t it? Admiring a mouth like his, I mean. It’s just a mouth. We all have a mouth, I know, but why does his look fucking kissable underneath all the dark scruff? And, furthermore, why am I envisioning it?
It’s only now, when my brain isn’t in a post-drunken haze, that I register other times I’ve envisioned those lips on another part of me. Times when I’d wake up wondering why my sheets were stained with my orgasm, just like they’d used to after I’d pounded a pillow thinking about all those David BeckhamGQcovers. Because, if I’m being honest, the man standing in front of me right now does bear a striking resemblance to the Beckster…
Trying to snap out of my thoughts, my eyes lift from his mouth and find him studying me back, brows pinched. “Something in my teeth?” he asks me.
“Do you use lip balm?” I deflect quickly, trying like hell to ignore the way my dick is stirring in my jeans.
“What?”
“Your lips. They look, uh, soft. Do you use lip balm?”
Shaking his head, he starts making his way down the bartop with a cleaning rag. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, Wee-Waters, but I’m starting to think perhaps you were dropped on your head one too many times as a child. You probably shouldn’t just blurt that shit out. It’s giving ‘you sure do have a purdy mouth’ vibes.”
I scoff. “Why you always gotta be such an asshole? What did I ever do to you?”
He shrugs. “I’m a dick to everyone. Don’t think you’re anything special.”
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I don’t.” That much is true. Hard not to think that way when that’s all you’ve ever been made to feel.
Seeing that the few other patrons in here tonight are all taken care of, Gordy tosses his towel over his shoulder and leans back, propping his ass on the counter behind him. He crosses his ankles, settling in with his black-and-gray tatted, sinewy arms folded over his broad chest. Fuck, and here I am noting how goddamn goodhis armslook in those rolled up cuffs of his button-down flannel, now? Who the hell even am I?!
“How’d the twin terrors do tonight?” he asks, startling me from my visual appraisal of him.
“I’m sorry—what?” I blink back my shock. He asked about my girls? The ones who he’s only met less than a handful of times?
“Your daughters had a play tonight, did they not? I asked how they did…”
“So good,” I tell him proudly, because, believe it or not, I did actually watch the show instead of stewing in my jealousy all night. “Tati was the most adorable little snow angel up there, and Terra—well, she forgot her reindeer lines once, but she ad-libbed and the audience loved it. Fuck man, of all the ways Sarah and I went wrong, at least we can’t add ‘making cute kids’ on that list.”
He nods. “Can’t argue with that. They are adorable. Sarah getting them for Christmas this year?”
“Yeap,” I drawl, popping the p. “She and Steven Stephens are going down to Mass so he can meet her parents, I guess.” I snort. “They’re just going to love his pedigree. I was never good enough in their eyes. I swear, it’s like some people only see you in dollar signs.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “I hear that.”
I tilt my head. “Trista-Lynn’s parents?”
He shakes his head. “No. Oddly enough, they’re decent people. Which makes zero sense, given how she turned out the way she did. It’sherthat’s the problem, she got too used to their money, I guess. That’s all she expected out of life with me. As soon as she saw that I was stickin’ around here to run Portside and not going into the MLB, she decided to cut me loose.” His roughly stubbled jaw flexes, and he spins to start hanging the clean mugs back up—effectively putting an end to our little chat.
I’m shocked as hell he even gave methatlittle detail, not gonna lie.
Whydidhe decide not to continue with his baseball career anyway? The rumor around town was that it was from an injury. But hell, even now—eyeballing the way he generously fills out every inch of his clothing—he looks fit as a fiddle. If fiddles looked like they were cut from stone, that is. It’s clear to see he still works out, since working at the bar isn’t a physically intense job. Not like with mine on the boat, anyway.
What made him decide to stick around to take over Marlin’s bar after he died? He certainly doesn’t seem passionate about the job. Most barkeeps at least have a knack for engaging with their customers, but Gordy hasn’t ever been like that. He’s a stone wall. Well, one who is tatted from his neck clear down to his knuckles, and who can also expertly pour a mean drink.
But it’s obvious I shouldn’t keep prodding for details. Just when I’m about to change up the subject, since it was clear he doesn’t want to bring up the past, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Glancing at the caller ID, I see it’s my landlord.Odd. I’m all paid up, and it’s after normal business hours on a weekend…
“What’s up?” I answer the call.
“There was a small fire in the store earlier,” he tells me. “It’s all out now, and it’s mostly just smoke damage, but—I’m sorry, Gannett. The sprinkler system to the whole building went off, and there’s been some water damage too.”
“Fuck,” I huff out, scrubbing my palm down my face.
You alright?Gordy mouths to me. I nod, holding up a finger.
