Is it so wrong that I don’t want to be anyone’s spice? That I want to be the appetizer, main course, and dessert all rolled into one?
Shit, that reminds me. I missed my lunch break. My stomach growls as I catch a whiff of barbecue coming from the kitchen. Billy better have saved me some ribs for staff meal.
These curves don’t make themselves, after all.
When I glance up at the stranger, my tummy does another little flip.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t raise a flirtatious eyebrow.
No, he looks away.
And if I’m not mistaken—which I may well be, given the pink twinkle lights I put up in honor of Valentine’s Day—the handsome stranger’s sharp cheekbones redden in a flush.
Okay, I’m actually kind of charmed.
That’s when I know I’m in trouble. The man hasn’t even said a damn word and my heart’s already fluttering.
Stupid Valentine’s Day.
I go back to slicing the limes. The citrusy scentfloats towards my nostrils on the wave of a scent that’s even more delicious, something woodsy and deep.
It’s the handsome stranger. He’s sitting down right across from me now. Of course he just has to smell good too, like a subtle cologne that only makes me want to bury my face in his neck.
Not that I’m thinking of doing that.
I glance up quickly, real casual. Except that he’s looking at me already, and the way he’s looking at me—so serious, almost thoughtful, like my face is something he wants to study—makes my hand freeze midmotion.
He’s got a ridiculously handsome face. Tousled light brown hair and just the right kind of facial hair, enough to emphasize a sharp jawline and sharper cheekbones. Those eyes that, up close, seem to hover between green and blue, a shade like seaglass. He’s built and fit as hell, his black t-shirt stretching over a muscular chest and sculpted biceps.
He’s got perfect forearms too.
Fuck, I love good forearms.
I tear my gaze away. I give up on the lime-slicing before I accidentally cut my own finger off and slide a napkin across the counter to him.
“Be with you in a moment,” I say, then force myself to turn away as he nods in acknowledgement.
I take out some new bottles of whiskey to stock behind the bar, taking that same moment to collect myself.
I’mnotgoing to flirt with this guy. I’mnotgoing to start something. I’m done with men forseveralvery good reasons, and it doesn’t matter how pretty the packaging is on this one—the inside’s probably as rotten or hollow as any of the rest of the guys from my past.
I’m older and wiser and I know how to be happy and single on Valentine’s Day.
When I hear my dad’s grumbly voice behind me saying, “Appreciate you coming early” to someone, I ignore it. Tune out whatever conversation is going on behind me. Dad knows everyone in this small town. For how gruff he is, he’s pretty well-connected.
Probably because he used to be the president of the most notorious motorcycle club in Montana.
But, like me, he’s now older and wiser and not about that life anymore.
But then my dad says, louder, “Maddie. I want you to meet Luke, our new bouncer. Luke, this is my daughter, Madison.”
Sylvia chimes in, “But everyone calls her Maddie.”
I don’t even pause my restocking efforts. Every bouncer is the same, some huge meathead ex-biker with a tragic facial hair situation and a mouth full of chewing tobacco.
But then I hear the voice.
