"Liars go to hell," he countered, his eyes flickering briefly toward the back of the room. I followed his gaze. Michael was still there, leaning against a pool table with his arms crossed, his eyes dark and fixed on me with a brooding intensity that made my skin prickle. He’d been watching me like a hawk all night, yet he wouldn't come over.
"You know," Tucker whispered, leaning in closer, his voice dropped an octave. "Landry’s got a real talent for looking like he’s about to hit someone even when there’s no one in the crease. It’s making the beer go sour. Why don't you help me change the mood?"
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
"Dance with me." He reached out, offering a calloused hand. "One song. The floor's half-empty, and I promise not to step on your toes. I’ve got surprisingly good footwork for a guy who gets paid to be a human shield."
I hesitated, feeling Michael’s gaze sharpen from across the room. He was practically vibrating with a silent, cagey energy. A petty, delicious spark of defiance flared up in my chest. If he wanted to be distant and guarded, if he wanted to play the silent sentinel instead of talking to me, then he could watch me dance with his teammate.
"You're a bold man, Tucker," I said, untying my apron and tossing it onto the back counter. "But don't expect me to be a shrinking violet. I lead."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," he laughed, catching my hand and pulling me out from behind the bar.
The dance floor was just a cleared space near the jukebox, but as he pulled me into a loose frame, the world outside the barseemed to fade. He was a good dancer. Steady and surprisingly graceful.
"You're pretty brave, dancing with the boss's favorite bartender," I teased, looking up at him.
"Brave? Honey, I survived three periods against the Avalanche’s top line today," he chuckled, spinning me slowly. "A little glare from Landry is a walk in the park. Besides, he needs to learn that if you leave a prize on the shelf, someone’s gonna come along and see if it’s for sale."
"I’m no prize on a shelf."
"No," he said, his eyes turning momentarily serious as he caught my waist. "You're the whole damn store. And he’s acting like he’s got a 'Closed' sign on the door when he hasn't even paid the rent."
I laughed, a real, genuine sound that felt good after the tension of the night. Over his shoulder, I caught Michael’s eye. He wasn't even pretending to talk to Landon anymore. He stood perfectly still, his jaw tight enough to crack stone, his fingers white where they gripped the edge of the pool table.
He was jealous. Pure, unadulterated green-eyed envy. And God help me, I enjoyed it. It was the first honest emotion I’d seen from him since he walked through the door, a break in the armor he’d been wearing like a shroud.
"Careful, Tucker," I whispered, my eyes still locked on Michael’s. "I think the captain’s about to call a penalty."
"Let him," he said, his grin widening as the song reached its swelling, soulful bridge. "I’ve always liked playing the villain. Makes the victory taste sweeter."
We swayed to the music, the scent of cedar and hops surrounding us. For three minutes, I wasn't a mother with a rebellious son or a bartender with a secret. I was just a womandancing in a dive bar, watching a man realize exactly what he was risking by staying in the shadows.
The final, honeyed notes ofTennessee Whiskeyfaded into the low hum of the cooling compressors and the distant clink of Landon and Mason arguing over a pool shot. Tucker gave my hand a playful squeeze before releasing it, his grin still firmly in place.
"Thanks for the lesson, Kayla. I think my footwork just improved by ten percent," he said, winking.
"Don't let it go to your head," I shot back, smoothing my hair and reaching for my discarded apron.
I felt flushed, a heat creeping up my neck that had very little to do with the physical exertion of a slow dance. As I stepped back behind the mahogany, I immediately dove into the menial safety of closing duties. I wiped the same six-inch patch of wood three times, reorganized the lime wedges, and began counting out the small bills in the register. Anything to keep from looking toward the pool hall.
Then the air shifted, growing heavy and charged, and then a pair of broad shoulders blocked my view of the jukebox. Michael was there, leaning against the bar. He didn't look like a man who’d spent the last hour partying. He looked like he’d been chewing on glass.
"Tab," he said. It was one word, short and sharp as a whistle blow.
"Right. The Captain's Ransom," I said, trying for a light tone as I pulled up the team’s running total. "You sure you want to cover Landon? He started ordering the top-shelf bourbon the second your back was turned."
Michael pulled out his wallet, his movements stiff. "I said I’d cover it, and I’m a man of my word."
He slid a black card across the bar. Our fingers brushed for a second. Just a brief, electric contact, and he pulled back as if he’d been burned. He was still wearing that guarded, haunted look, his eyes darting toward the front door every time a car passed by outside.
"You okay, Michael?" I asked softly, keeping my head down as I ran the card. "You’ve been vibrating like a live wire since you walked in. If it’s about Tucker—"
"It’s not about Tucker," he said, then immediately softened his voice, though the tension remained. "He’s a teammate. He’s a good guy. I don't care if you dance with him."
"Liars go to hell, apparently," I teased, sliding the receipt toward him. "You looked like you were ready to drop the gloves from across the room."
A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. They remained shadowed, restless. "Maybe I just don't like the music. Too slow."
