“Damn it. Way to be unreliable,” Holden says to me, annoyance dripping from his voice. “Here.” He slides a twenty-dollar bill across the table to Henry.
I narrow my eyes at the pair of them, but I don’t have time to figure out what they’re playing at. I pick up a beer, chug half of it, and turn back to the bar.
As I walk away, I hear Holden demand his money back and Henry answer, “Double or nothing.” The asshats are betting onhow I’ll react to Delaney being here. Let them bet. I’ve got more important things to address.
I wait patiently in Delaney’s line three more times over the next thirty-five minutes. I’ve tried everything I can think of to get her to talk to me, but she won’t budge.
I’ve just returned to the table and added four more beers to the conglomeration that I’ve previously dropped off. But this time, when I turn to go back to the bar, Holden is in my path.
“Stop, Harrison. Okay, man?” He places a hand on my shoulder.
“Take your hand off of me and move out of my way.” My tone leaves no question that I mean business.
“What are you hoping to accomplish? Do you want to embarrass her? I’m guessing you’ve already accomplished that.”
“Fuck you. She won’t tell me why she’s here,” I growl. I don’t say that it worries me that maybe we aren’t paying her enough, or she’s in some financial trouble, or something else just as bad.
“She doesn’t have to tell you. It’s her business. You think this is easy for her? Having her bosses show up when she’s working a side gig as a bartender in a low-cut blouse probably doesn’t top her list of fun ways to spend her Friday night.”
“Go to hell. Don’t look at her blouse or any part of her,” I hiss.
“Really? That’s what you took from what I said? Fine, asshole, be my guest. Go ahead and screw up any chance you have with her.”
Holden steps around me, and I stand still for a few seconds. Then, despite the fear niggling at me that he might be right—that I might ruin things with her—I head back to her line and step into it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Delaney
When my anger gives way to feeling overwhelmed and frazzled by Harrison’s ridiculousness, I stop mid-pour and glance up at him. I don’t care that there are people around us—I can’t do this right now.
I stop pouring and look directly at him.
“Is this fun for you?” Maybe it’s my shaking voice, but something in his eyes softens. “Does making me tense and?—”
“No. Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you.” As if on instinct, his right hand reaches for my face, but I take a half step back, and he loses the ability to reach me.
“Don’t, Harrison. I can’t do this right now. Please go.”
His face falls, and regret washes over his features. He opens his mouth, presumably to argue, but I’m exhausted, and when his expression changes, I think he finally gets it.
The pinched, pained look on his face confuses me. But he steps back and trudges away without another word.
My next customer steps up to the counter, and I plaster on the best smile I can muster. “Just give me one second to wash my hands, please.”
“Okay, sure, honey,” the older man says kindly, his features soft with compassion. Wonderful, now the attendees are feeling sorry for me.
I wash my hands and return to him, feeling more in control of myself.
The gentleman orders a couple of drinks—a vodka mixed with a peach-flavored liqueur, and one glass of bourbon. As I’m creating his order, he says, “You know, a man usually only acts that crazy if he’s got feelings for a woman.”
I finish making the drink I’m on and glance up at him. I smile—a genuine one this time—touched by his effort.
“I think he’s just crazy.” I’m hoping it came across lighthearted, as I intended.
“Trust me. I’m pretty sure I’m right,” he says with a hearty laugh. “Only time will tell. If I ever run into you again, you’ll have to let me know how it ends.”
I chuckle. “All right, will do.”
