“Funny way toasksomeone,” I mumble under my breath before straightening my backbone. I hate this joint. I hate my boss and I hate the man sitting at the table biting down on a smirk.
I go over anyway, because that’s what I’m paid to do.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I say, in a flat voice. “What can I get for you?”
Two of the men look up, buthekeeps his gaze on the table. “I’ll take a Bud,” one of them says.
“Yeah, make that two.”
I turn my attention to my self-styled knight in shining armor, debating whether or not to give him a piece of my mind, but then his lashes sweep up and his dark brown eyes lock onto mine.
A flutter runs down my spine, setting my nerves alight. I remembered him being handsome, but notthishandsome.
He leans back and loosely entangles his fingers between parted thighs. Hard muscles are defined beneath the expensive-looking cotton of his suit pants. His shoes are polished, his socks?—
Pull yourself together, Erin. When have you ever noticed a man’s socks?
When they look as mouthwateringly soft as these do, I offer my inner voice.
I look up at the sound of a man’s throat clearing and realize I’ve been undressing him with my eyes.
“What would you like, sir?” I ask, feeling the heat of a blush caress my throat.
“Whisky. Double. Neat.”
I wring my hands together—sweat is leaching from my palms.
“Two beers, one whisky.”
He throws a fifty down. “And get one for yourself.”
I glance at the note then back at him. He has a brow half-raised. He is actually taunting me. How much more insulting can this man get?
I pick up the note and force a sugary smile onto my face.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink.” I do, but I don’t want to accept anything from this man.
Turning to walk back to the bar, a ring of heat circles my wrist. I whip my head around to see him gripping me—leisurely but firmly. The two other men are looking on, unfazed.
“Not even a soda?”
Unable to walk away while he’s holding my arm, I tip my chin. “I’m not thirsty.”
I yank my hand from his grip and walk back to the bar. Bobby is viewing the scene with an anxious look on his face.
“You need to watch your mouth,” he hisses as I walk past him to the fridges.
I pull out two bottles and pop the lids off. “I was perfectly polite,” I reply. “He shouldn’t have been touching me.”
“Honey, he can touch whoever the hell he wants.”
Frowning, I lift the bottle of Johnnie Walker. “Why? What makes him so special?”
Bobby looks back at the table, then shifts sideways toward me.
“He’s an important person around here is all. If you get him pissed, you lose your job, you got that?”
I place the bottle back on the bar and turn slowly to face Bobby.
