“You even dragged two other employees into it.”
“Calliope is the one who told me about the complaint,” I argue quickly. “They wanted to see too. I didn’t drag them.”
“You’re management,” he says, his voice tight. “You’re supposed to set an example, dammit.”
The disappointment in his voice hits harder than the anger.
It lands square in my chest.
Like a punch.
I suddenly feel about six years old.
Like I just got caught doing something stupid by my daddy.
I push off the stool.
“Whatever,” I mutter. “I’m leaving.”
Before I can take a step, his hand catches mine beneath the bar.
I freeze.
Instead of pulling me back down and forcing me into the seat, he simply laces his fingers through mine.
Casually.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Then he lifts his beer and takes a long drink.
His eyes never leaving the television.
My brain completely stops functioning.
Our hands are still linked under the bar.
His palm is warm. Large enough to completely envelop mine.
“I need to go,” I say softly.
His fingers flex against the back of my hand.
“Porter,” I whisper his name like a plea.
“Not here.” His voice is low.
Tempered.
“Go to my office,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.”
Then he drops my hand just as the bartender returns.
“Anything else, Mr. Garrison?”
“Yeah,” Porter says calmly. “I’ll take another beer.”
I stand there for a second longer.
