“You were right,” she says absently as she tears her gaze from mine to inspect the burger and fries in front of her. “This looks amazing.”
“My tips are very important to me,” I tease. “I’ll grab you more to drink. Let me know if you want extra ketchup or something.”
I casually check her out. Not in a creepy, pervy way. I’m just curious about her situation. The wedding dress she’s wearing is wrinkled and a little ruined, like it’s already lived a life before it got here. The hem is smudged. The buttons are holding on by pure will. And damn, there are a lot of buttons. This dress looks like a torture device, and I wonder what made her choose it in the first place.
Her hair is beautiful. It’s long and blonde, falling in loose waves down her back, and her curls frame her face in that effortless way that looks soft and dangerous at the same time.
Not the time or place, man.
I glance up at her face, settling on her eyes once more. They’re bright blue and look like they’ve been through enough today. She certainly doesn’t need the bartender admiring her soft hair. Her mouth is set in an expression as if she’s trying to be brave, but the occasional chin wobble gives her away. Despite being fragile and tired after whatever the hell happened at her apparent wedding, I can tell there’s a strong woman underneath all that tulle and mascara.
Jewelry glints at her throat and ears, delicate and understated, like she doesn’t need help being noticed. This woman is ritzy as fuck and confident in her jewelry selection. It tells me she’s not from some small town around these parts. She comes from money. You can tell a lot about a person and their accessories.
Bartending sure sharpens a man’s observational skills. Mine are certainly on point.
People stare at her because they can’t help it. I stare because something in my chest tightens every time she shifts her weight, exhales, or looks like she’s about to bolt.
Care to unpack that thought, Cal?
Maybe another time.
She looks like someone who ran hard and didn’t quite know where she was supposed to land. I’m glad she landed here.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better when you have some food in you.”
Finally, she does. Immediately, just inhales the food like it’s her last meal and moans in delight, and damn if that sound doesn’t shoot straight to my dick. I shake my head. This is someone’s almost-wife.She’s off limits. Every woman who comes into this bar is off-limits to me. I don’t mingle business with pleasure. These days, I don’t even seek out pleasure. I’m focused on what I have going on.
But something about this woman is different.
I place another fresh water in front of her, and she looks at it, then me.
“Hydration,” I say with a wink. “We take it very seriously around here.”
A CeeLo Green song comes on, and she laughs. “I love this song.”
The laugh of hers is back and it warms me more than I’d like to admit.
She picks up the glass and drains half of it, needing it more than the food. Good sign.
I leave her to go check on a few regulars and even playfully thump one guy on the head for staring too long at the runaway bride. I know he means well, but there’s a sliver of protectiveness in me I can’t name right now.
A few minutes later, she leans across the bar to get my attention. “Hey.”
I saunter over, snapping a towel over my shoulder, and raise my eyebrows. “Yes?”
She hops off her stool. “Can you watch my drink and bag while I go to the restroom?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “Of course.”
She shoves it across surface toward me, and I set it behind the bar. I also reach for her drink, too, tucking it safe behind me.
I watch her hobble in her heels, and for reasons I can’t explain, all I can think is that I’m glad whatever brought her here didn’t get to win. I hope somewhere there’s a groom regretting his life today. I know I would be if I lost a woman like her.
When she comes back, I hand her back her drink.
She eyes me like she’s reassessing me. “Are you always this nice to your patrons?”
I smile and say, “Life’s too short to be a dick.”
