“We should—” I swallow. “We should get to Mad Dog’s. Shift starts in twenty minutes.”
I try to feel grateful that the moment between us was shattered.
Friends can go shopping at a hardware store together.
Friends do notkissin the middle of said hardware store.
And Luke is the first good friend I’ve had in a long time. I don’t want to mess it up.
In the parking lot, Luke loads up his truck with the supplies—which he stubbornly and stupidly, if you ask me, refused to let me pay for—while I get settled in the passenger seat and tune the radio to a country station.
We both seem glad to let the music fill the silence.
So. We’re not going to talk about the fact that we definitely almost kissed.
Which is good.
Because it’s definitely not going to happen again.
CHAPTER 8
Closed for Business
It’s a good thing I got some relaxation time in before work, because this is one of those shifts where I can’t catch a break.
It’s loud and rowdy, and everyone needs me all at once, and I have to keep track of a million drink orders and open tabs and it feels like chaos.
By midnight, I’m running ragged and things show no signs of slowing down.
“Yo, Maddie!” A voice calls out.
I turn. It’s one of my obnoxious former high school classmates. Probably the worst part about working in a bar is having to serve people you’d just as soon punch in the face.
As I deliver drinks to the next table, I tell him, “Be there in a sec, Kevin.”
When I bend over, I catch him leering at my ass. I try not to roll my eyes as I come over to his table. They’re all a bunch of ex-football players, and they’re all drunk and brimming with that troublemaker energy.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
His eyes travel up and down my body, lingering at my breasts. “Is pussy on the menu tonight?”
“Maybe,” I say. “We’ll have to double check with your mom. She might be worn out already, though.”
There’s a chorus ofoooohsat the table. Kevin scowls at me, his face already flushed from too many beers. “Bring me a Bud Light.”
“Sure thing,” I say with fake sweetness, already turning on my heel.
As I take my first step away, a hand lands on my ass in a firm slap.
I whirl around, anger and surprise spiking through me, my tray nearly sliding from my grip.
It’s not the first time I’ve been groped—not by a long shot, sadly—but every time I feel the same spike of rage coursing hot through my veins.
I never tell Dad, because his version of rage would end in broken bones and him behind bars again, but I can channel my own anger.
I welcome that anger.
Kevin’s sitting back in his chair with a smug grin, arms spread wide like he’s waiting for applause.
