Chapter Two
Ryker
What the hell is wrong with me?
The bar is finished, and I’m finally settling back into mountain life. I need to focus on getting customers into the distillery, not obsess over Ivy.
A twenty-two-year-old girl.
A girl twenty years younger than me.
My best friend’s little sister.
A girl I don’t have any fucking right to want, to need, to think about… which is why I didn’t follow her home. I can’t.
This sick fixation has to stop. I can’t think about her round ass, her firm tits, the way her nipples poke through the fabric of her tank top, the way her voice gets all high-pitched and cute when she’s annoyed.
Fuck!
My cock twitches at the mere thought of her crossing her arms over her chest in defiance. She needs structure. She needs direction. She needs a man who’ll hold her, love her, and teach her right from wrong.
She needs me.
That thought is exactly why, no matter how many times I try to convince myself to stay away, I end up going after her again.How could I not?My stomach is clenching in pain thinking about something happening to her on the walk back toher apartment. Granted, it’s not that far, and Rugged Mountain hasn’t seen a crime in years, but I don’t want Ivy to be the first.
“Everything okay?” Marin, the bartender my brother hired for the day shifts leans across the counter for a bowl of cherries. “You look lost. Is this because Ivy left?”
“What?” I narrow my brows and twist toward her. “No. I’m thinking over what I need to order for this week’s shipment. The next supply truck comes this week. You been in the supply closet lately?”
The girl nods slowly, and I get the feeling she can see straight through me. “Yeah, what are you thinking?”
“How are we doing on pickles and olives?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I think I saw a few jars. I could go check.”
“Yes, please.” I nod and lean up from the counter to grab a pad of paper from beneath the register. If I pretend to write shit down, maybe I won’t look as approachable.
At our parent distillery in the city, I take a back-of-house role. Archer is the one that takes care of the interpersonal and front-of-house shit. I much prefer it that way. It’ll be nice when he’s back from the bar expo.
I’m halfway through my fake list when the bubbling brunette returns. “Pickles are fine. We’ve got like eight jars, but we only have one olive jar left, and we’re low on cherries too.” She grabs a glass from under the counter. “Oh, and the blackberry whiskey is low.”
“About that,” I say, turning to Marin. “If Ivy comes back in requesting alcohol, please don’t give it to her. She’s… she can’t hold whiskey.”
Marin narrows her gaze as she stares down at the bar, and I get the feeling I’m going to get some entitled lecture. “With all due respect, I’m not going to refuse her. She’s a grown woman. If she wants to drink, she can drink.”
“Not at this distillery, she can’t.”
She hitches her hip and stares toward me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Why would I joke about that?”
“I don’t know, ‘cause it’s hilarious that you think you can control everything.”
I shake my head and sigh. “It’s not control. It’s care. You wouldn’t let a friend drive drunk, would you?”
“Is she driving drunk? She wanted one shot.”
“And you gave her five.”
