Bishop’s brows shoot up. “Fuck.”
Sebastian actually groans.
But me?
My eyes are glued to the opinionated girl doing all the talking. She’s laughing now, full, unrestrained, eyes bright as she gestures at the TV.
“I’m serious,” she says, pouring a drink. “Doctors, teachers, utility workers—those people actually matter. But sure, let’s give some guy a private jet because he can throw a ball.”
“Well,” Killian murmurs, “that feels personal.”
I should be offended, but I’m not.
Instead, I’m smiling.
Because she’s not wrong. And because, I’m going to guess, she has no idea who just walked into her bar.
It’s been long enough since we’ve been here that the management has changed. She’s new to me, so I clock her mid-rant. She’s slim but not fragile and she stands like someone who learned early not to give ground to anyone, her weight balanced, shoulders back, feet planted like she’s ready to move if she has to. There’s strength there, the kind that doesn’t flex or advertise itself.
That’s what I notice right away.
Then there’s her hair. It’s dark and thick and pulled into one of those messy knots on top of her head like she did it without a mirror and didn’t care how it turned out. Not that it looks bad. On the contrary, it suits her. A few strands have escaped and brush her neck when she moves. It’s not styled, or polished. It looks like it does whatever the hell it wants, but something about that feels deliberate.
Her face isn’t soft, but that’s not a bad thing. She’s got high cheekbones, sharp brows, and a mouth that looks like it learned a long time ago not to smile unless it means it. Her eyes are dark and steady, the kind that miss nothing and probably forgive less.
When she steps out from behind the bar she’s dressed in a pair of tight ripped jeans and a cropped Alley Tap T-shirt, she’s got this punky-I-give-zero-fucks vibe going on and it totally works for her.
Hell, she’s…she’s really pretty.
But probably not approachable.
She comes across as the kind of woman who would cut you at the knees if you underestimated her. Though staring at her while she’s loudly dismantling my entire profession, all I can thinkis?—
“Nice rack.”
“What?” I turn to Killian who is also ogling the boisterous bartender.
He smirks and repeats himself as she comes from behind the bar and heads toward us. “I said she has a nice rack,” he whispers. “She’s hot. I’d tap?—”
I lift my hand. “I swear to God, if you say you’d tap that, I’m going to punch you in your fucking face.”
Kill’s brows raise in surprise. “Whoa…I think our big brother is in love.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m older by about four minutes, loser, and I’m not in love. It’s called being respectful. You can look that word up in the dictionary.”
Killian teasingly repeats the word back to me slowly as if he’s trying to remember how it sounds. “Re-spect-ful…”
“What can I get you guys?”
The girl from the bar stands in front of us now. She doesn’t greet us, nor does she look at us. Not once. And I kind of like that more than I should, because if she saw who she was talking to, she might feel bad about her rant a few moments ago.
Sebastian orders first, polite as always. “IPA please.”
Killian flashes his grin. “Meh, I’ll take whatever’s cold.”
She deadpans. “That narrows it down.”
He shrugs. “Surprise me.”
