“You would fire me for not groveling to some guy in the bar?”
“He’s not ‘some guy’ Erin. Just take my word for it. Don’t fuck with him, please.”
A thread of annoyance wraps around my spine.
I knew there was something a little dark about the stranger, given the tattoos inked across his knuckles, but to hear himdescribed as an ‘important’ person you don’t want to fuck with, only makes me more irritated. And maybe a little clammy.
I take the drinks over to the table and place them down one by one, keeping my eyes averted from anyone else’s, then I walk away before he can try and give me his spare cents.
For the next twenty minutes, I busy myself cleaning glasses and serving drinks to the few other patrons littering the bar. I manage to not look at him once, but every now and then I feel a warmth on the side of my face.
Eventually, the other two men get up and head for the door, but before I have a chance to sigh in relief, my stranger is walking toward the bar.
His dark hazel eyes hold mine captive as he approaches.
Not drifting them away once, he removes his jacket, hooks it over the peg beneath the bar and slides onto a stool. Then he rolls his white shirt sleeves up to his elbows and rests his forearms on the bar.
Ink crawls from his fingers, right the way up, covering strips of prominent, faintly veined muscle.
The sight makes me breathless.
“So, you’re a barmaid.”
I swallow and tear my gaze from his. Heat floods into my hairline from where I stared at him for too long.
“I’m pleased to see your observation skills are intact,” I quip, lifting a murky glass to polish.
“Didn’t picture you in a dive bar.”
“Didn’t picture you stalking me,” I shoot back.
He chuckles. “This is close to where I do business.”
I arch one brow. “Figures.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Three nights.”
“Enjoying it?”
“No.”
There’s a long moment of silence which makes me look up only to see him watching me closely, with a curious glint in his eye.
“How did the lawyer meeting go?”
I blink. “That’s none of your business.”
“And the moody teenager?”
I fake a smile. “That’s none of your business too.”
“Why did you send the shirts back?”
I prop my hands on my waist. “I didn’t need them.”
“You could have donated them to Goodwill.”
