Morgan
* * *
Rory—five-foot-something of black leather, resting bitch face, and an ass so gorgeous I’ve cried just thinking about it—walks into my bar. She ignores the clang of the cowbell over the door and the cheers of the tipsy grannies in the corner and beelines for a stool at the counter.
“Good lord, put that away.” Shielding his eyes from my megawatt smile is my best friend and boss at On the Rocks, Hunter Price. “You’re gonna get someone pregnant with that thing. Maybe even me.”
I ignore him and slide over to where Rory’s taken a seat. Her matte-black motorcycle helmet sits on the bar next to her. “What would you like, my queen?”
Rory presses her lips together, rolling them under her teeth before answering. I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s to hold back a smile. She has never once protested against my nickname for her and that’s how I know she fucking loves it.
“The usual.”
“So a Call of the Wild IPA, loaded tots, and my undying adoration. Got it.”
I turn around and slide open the cooler, pretending to look for a bottle of the local craft beer. What I’m actually doing is watching Rory in the mirror behind the bar. Today, like every time she comes in, her long dark hair is in two braids, tucked back with a handkerchief over her head. Her lips, plush with a Cupid’s bow now that they’ve released from her teeth, are a lush red, a contrast to her pale skin. She finishes rolling her eyes and—to my complete satisfaction—her gaze drops to my ass.
These jeans are her favorite—I wore them just for her. Not that she’s admitted it. But they are my tightest ones, and in my loose scientific experiments, these are the ones that make Rory stare the most.
I quit lollygagging and pull the beer out, rip the cap off, and set it in front of Rory. Ten seconds later I’ve sent the order into the kitchen for the tots and I return to her, propping my chin on my fists and grinning at her.
Movement catches my eye. Hunter’s getting up, shaking his head at me and rolling his eyes.
He gives me a look that roughly translates to you are incorrigible and I love you anyway and wanders off, probably to play pool in the back.
“So, Rory. Back in town for your spa day?”
She scoffs.
“Therapy appointment?”
“Nope.” She pops the P.
I think for a minute. “Fire marshal training.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me.
“I’ll take that as a no. So when are you going to tell me what it is that brings you into town every other week?”
Rory doesn’t live here, pun intended. The town of Here, New York, has roughly two thousand Herevians and Rory’s not one of them. I would have bumped into her somewhere else by now. Instead, for the past two months, the only time I’ve seen her has been every other Sunday around 6 p.m.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” she says.
I’m honestly not sure whether that’s true or she just likes keeping a secret from me.
The front door opens again, that cowbell above it clanging, and the old ladies in the back shout “I need more cowbell.” Actually, it’s just Janet Mullins who shouts it. The septuagenarian has a collection of pop references over the years that she can’t let go of and the SNL skit is one of her favorites. Of course, this starts a fight with Mrs. Gardiner sitting next to her, who abhors anything the younger generations once thought was cool.
“Hey, Morgan.” The cowbell ringer is Heather, a voluptuous blonde I may have hooked up with once or three times. Now she’s married with a kid.
Small towns, ya know?
Still, Heather smiles at me and I give her a friendly one back. “You want a Sam Adams?” I ask.
“Nah, Collin’s got one for me.”
“Shout if you need more.”
“Will do,” she calls over her shoulder, walking toward the end of the bar where a group is gathered.
