Standing six-foot-three, he was the forty-six-year-old, tall, dark, and handsome bar owner with mischievous Mediterranean-blue eyes. He made the time behind the bar fun for everyone. And he seemed to enjoy the ribbing he got from Ben, who loved to push Alejandro’s buttons. It was quite entertaining for everyone around.
Like tonight.
No matter how often Ben tried to fluster him, he usually failed. Alejandro had a daughter and was well practiced at the art of smart ass comments. He knew how to dish it right back.
When he was out of earshot, I glared at Ben teasingly. “You are so getting fired for sexual harassment.”
He barked out a laugh and grinned as he made a cocktail. “He wouldn’t fire me, Nicholas. He loves me. And he knows I’m just pulling his chain because I can.”
I snorted. “Yeah, okay. Just be careful how often you pull that chain, Benjamin.”
His eyes widened playfully as he slid closer to me, so I was the only one to hear him. “A man can dream. And goddamn, he’s a handsome devil.”
I laughed at his assessment. He wasn’t wrong.
Ben Williams was twenty-five years old, six-foot-two, and sported short dark hair that he kept longer on top, so he had to keep his hands in it. When we worked together behind the bar, we got lots of attention from the flirty customers. Ben was a good-looking dude, and many of our customers agreed. Strangely enough, Ben never took any of them up on it, and I had a feeling it might have something to do with our boss.
I loved working here, and applying after college had been the best thing I could have done for myself.
Baseball season was in full swing, and even though Portland didn’t have a team yet, Seattle did. Most of the baseball fans who came in pulled for Seattle or San Francisco, so Alejandro made sure to tune two of the four 97-inch OLED televisions to those games. I was convinced the investment in those televisions had paid off because they were one of the biggest draws for our bar. It was the closest thing to being there, and our customers loved it.
Tonight we had Seattle playing Colorado on one side of the bar, and San Francisco playing Atlanta on the other. All four teams were in contention to make the post-season, and we always drew a crowd when they played. Alejandro knew I was an Atlanta fan, and if they were playing in our time zone, he had it on for me.
I’d made the suggestion that we create a social media profile for the bar in order to post weekly games and events for customers. Alejandro loved the idea and put his daughter, Anna, in charge of it. She’d done a great job, and business was booming. He’d even gone so far as to buy the wait staff and bartenders' t-shirts for our favorite teams during baseball season. Like I said, best boss ever.
We were slammed from seven until almost eleven p.m. Miraculously, both games were exciting with the lead swinging back and forth until the ninth inning. Most of our customers were happy, and happy fans buy lots of beer. So to make sure everyone had a good time without getting too drunk, our genius boss ran some stadium favorites appetizers half-price to encourage more people to order them. He also bought a popcorn machine to offer unlimited bags of freshly popped popcorn on special game nights and put Anna in charge of that, too since she couldn’t legally serve alcohol. He was savvy like that.
Anna had started working at the bar more and more, learning how things operated. And something told me she really enjoyed it even more when Ben was working behind the bar.
Sometime around the eighth inning of the Seattle-Colorado game, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, putting myspidey senseon alert. I knew where it was coming from, because I’d been experiencing that same reaction or sensation or whatever the fuck it was since last September.
It was Preston James, and he’d just walked in and took a seat at the end of the bar where he sat watching me.
When I finished pulling the last round of IPA’s for one the waitresses, I grabbed one from the chiller and popped the lid off. Setting in front of him, I shook my head in disgust.
“We can never be friends as long as you keep wearing that shit right there.”
I motioned toward the blue and orange Met’s t-shirt he wore, then to mine.
Preston’s lingering stare slipped down my body with so much heat I could almost feel it. Then he looked down at the offending shirt and ran his hand over what had to be abs of steel. I bet he had one of those abdominal machine things from the 80s, just like my mom. And that made me smile.
When he caught me staring, I raised my brows and acted as if I were waiting for an answer. “Do you seriously like that team?” I didn’t care if he did or not, but I needed to draw his attention away from my shameless gawking at him. I enjoyed the flirty banter we had going on.
One side of Preston’s mouth turned up in a smile as he wordlessly brought the bottle to his lips, never taking his eyes off mine. I was distracted and mesmerized by the way his lips wrapped loosely around the top of the bottle. When he tipped his head back, exposing his Adam’s Apple, I bit my lower lip as it bobbed when he swallowed. His chiseled jaw was covered in what I referred to as perma-scruff.
Preston James was intoxicating, and if I didn’t stop staring and snap out of this erotic moment, I’d be drunk off my ass.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was waiting for a drink, but returned my now-irritated attention back to the gorgeous man in front of me.
“Well? Are you a fan?” I leaned down on the bar, moving closer to him.
He set his bottle down and rolled the neck between his fingers. I almost got lost in that, but managed to keep myself focused.
“That’s complicated. They were my team when I was a kid at home, but not so much now.”
The words rolled off his tongue like condensation from a cold glass.
I scrunched up my nose. “Why?”
