“Shots—make ’em strong.”
“Two Sin Bins!”
Orders crash into me from every direction. People lean over the bar as if that’ll get my attention—except it just guarantees I serve the person next to them first. Beck rattles a shaker next to me. Someone laughs too loudly near the dartboard. The TV over the bar blasts USA against Finland Olympic hockey commentary.
My hands go on autopilot—tap, garnish, pour, wipe, repeat.
I’m mid-pour when another Sin Bin order comes in, and I’m already cursing Dessa—occasional-bartender-turned-baseball-girlfriend to catcher Garrett Dawson—for ever convincing us this drink needed to be a special.
Once I finally get a second to breathe, I start wiping down the bar when Beck slides in beside me, bumping his hip against mine.
“You’re glowing tonight.”
“It’s sweat,” I reply, swiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
He grins. “Sexy.”
I roll my eyes. “Everything is sexy to you.”
“That’s not true. Only people who can multitask under pressure while smelling like vanilla and hops.”
I flick a bar rag at him. “Charming.”
“Always.” He leans an elbow on the bar and watches me with that easy I know I’m pretty confidence he was born with. Beck is the kind of guy who looks good doing absolutely nothing—defined forearms and broad shoulders without the bulk, a tattoo peeking above his collar, and the cherry on top, a lazy smile that promises trouble he’d never apologize for. My type.
He watches me pour a margarita with way too much interest for someone who’s supposed to be restocking limes. “Need help?”
“You’re supposed to be cutting fruit.”
“You’re supposed to be having fun.”
“I’ll put that on my to-do list.”
The corner of his mouth curves upward. “Put me on there too.”
I snort-laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. Smooth.”
He shrugs. “Just speaking truths.”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, focusing very seriously on salting the rim.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You know I’m flirting, right?”
“Yes.”
Which is the problem. Because this should feel good. Familiar. Easy. Beck is fun. Beck is uncomplicated. Beck is the kind of guy I used to flirt with for sport. Six months ago, I did exactly that. Now it’s different. All I can think about is how different flirting feels with someone who doesn’t send my pulse into a tailspin just by existing.
I turn to grab a bottle from the shelf. When I spin back, he’s closer—close enough that his whiskey and oak cologne curls between us. Close enough that another inch would violate several of Jake’s workplace guidelines.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” he says, softer now. “New guy?”
My heart stutters. Does he mean Miles? Would he even know?
“No,” I lie, because the truth is messy and involves fake dating, drones, and a kiss that wrecked my sleep schedule.
Beck studies my face, like he’s searching for a crack. “You sure?”
Before I can answer, a customer waves an empty beer in the air. I step away, grateful for the interruption.
