“Yup.” I politely smile, wiping the sweat off my brow, while she sits on the barstool across from me, looking fresh as a daisy, and sexy as hell to boot. “And I’d love to shoot the shit with you, I really would…” Total lie. I would rather clean the men’s bathroom at closing time on a Saturday night. “But we’ve got beers to sling and drinks to mix, so if you’ll excuse?—”
“Since Pres is busy, why don’t I walk you to the front of the bar?” Jace interrupts, giving her one of his megawatt smiles. “I’ll take your picture in front of Zander’s signed photo, and on the way, I can tell you some funny stories Pres has told me about him. He’s practically her brother.”
“Really?” she says in a daze, looking up at Jace like he’s God himself.
Sorry, sweetheart. Pretty sure he’s the devil.
He drops the towel he’s been carrying around like a prop for the last ten minutes on top of the bar and plants another kiss on my cheek before he whispers, “Gotta keep these Maniacs happy. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t see him for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I wake up around eleven, bleary-eyed and sore. Forcing myself out of bed, I throw on a pair of sweats and an old Creeds T-shirt and shuffle into the kitchen in search of caffeine.
If I have one vice, it’s coffee. I’m that person who doesn’t believe coffee should be relegated to certain times of the day, and I definitely think decaf is a sin.
Even though I work odd hours, I usually don’t allow myself to sleep in this late. But last night, when I got home, I was so tired I barely had the energy to strip off my clothes before my head hit the pillow. I’ve worked some tough shifts in my life, but that one was a doozie. It also didn’t help that I was frustrated and angry with Jace and myself the whole time.
He had the good sense not to ask to sleep over. We barely exchanged five words after I locked up. When we finished closing out the register and cleaning, he walked me to my car, gave a quick kiss on my cheek, and scurried away.
Am I being too harsh?
He’s not always late, and he did try to make it up to me by texting an apology this morning and offering to help with inventory.
I let out a heavy sigh as I make a large pot of coffee and grab a leftover blueberry muffin I bought from a local bakery yesterday. My kitchen is small but modern, with updated appliances and cabinets. Hendrix calls it millennial white—white cabinets, white countertops, and a white-tiled backsplash to finish it off. Although it does lack a bit of charm, there is at least an island with a small breakfast nook.
Once my coffee is ready and the muffin is warmed, I head to the equally small living room and settle onto the sofa with a blanket.
Creeds is located in Malibu, close to where I grew up, but my apartment is about forty minutes inland. It’s a bitch to drive at night, but there’s no way I can afford to live in Malibu on a bartender’s salary.
Not unless I live off my parents, and that’s not fucking happening.
The Creed family is legendary, not just for our bar—or my brother’s new rock star status—but also for the work my father does in the music industry.
Lance Creed, my dad, grew up with a deep love for music and traveled all across the country, chasing bands and doing all sorts of things I probably don’t want to think about. But during those wild years of his youth, he also built relationships and made connections, which eventually led to the creation of the Creed Agency.
Today, my dad is the most sought-after music manager in the industry and represents some of the biggest names around.
A couple of years ago, he also added a recording studio in the mix, and shortly after, he officially handed the family bar over to me.
I’ve been trying to make him proud ever since.
I’m about halfway through my muffin and scrolling through Creed’s social media when my phone pings, alerting me to a new text.
I pull it up, but stop short when I see it’s from an unknown number.
Unknown number
Is this still Presley Creed’s number?
Don’t fall for it, Pres. It’s probably a scam.
I know that as soon as I reply, someone will be blowing up my phone asking for money to get out of a foreign prison, my Social Security number to pay back taxes, or worse—sending me random dick pics because they think that’s what women want.
Hey, maybe you’ll luck out and get all three!
My finger hovers over it, ready to delete, but then, something stops me.
But what if it’s not a scam?
