“Mark made it up. He’s been telling people it’s our newest specialty drink.”
Of course he had.
I grabbed bottles and started mixing—rum, pineapple juice, blue curacao, lime, something that would taste like a tropical vacation and a hangover at the same time. I had no idea what made it a “Pirate’s Puck,” but if people were ordering it, I’d figure it out.
Two beers from the tap.
Three rum drinks.
One experimental Pirate’s Puck that I was making up as I went.
I looked up to set the drinks on Jacks’s tray—
And froze.
A guy with dirty blond hair was sliding into the booth in the corner.
He wasn’t wearing a tie.
Wasn’t wearing a dress shirt.
Wasn’t spreading his stack of papers across the table.
He was wearing a tight white T-shirt that showed off shoulders I hadn’t fully appreciated and jeans that stretched across his backside as he bent to pick up a cocktail napkin. He still looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and a five-o’clock shadow that suggested he hadn’t shaved today, but also somehow still unfairly hot.
He was watching the TV, whereHorny Rivalswas now in full swing, two hockey players arguing in a locker room about something that was definitely not just about hockey.
And he was smiling.
If only slightly.
Like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Boss?” Jacks said. “The drinks?”
“Right. Yeah.” I set them on the tray, my handsmoving on autopilot while my brain tried to process the fact that Chase was here again.
In my bar.
On a Sunday night.
Looking like an updated, even more delicious blond version of James Dean.
“You okay?” Jacks asked.
“Uh, yeah. Fine.”
“You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost. Just—” I gestured toward Chase’s table. “He’s back.”
“Ooh. The hottie lawyer.” Jacks followed my gaze. “Can that shirt get any tighter? Maybe he wants you to rip it off him.”
“Oh, stop.”
Jacks grinned. “You gonna go talk to him?”
“I’m working.”
