Bridget’s back.
She’s behind the bar tonight, a bright smile on her face as she waves me over. She’s wearing a low-cut top that shows off her cleavage, and her makeup is done up nicer than usual, like she put in extra effort before her shift.
“Hey stranger,” she says warmly. “Missed you last night.”
“Missed you too.” I lean against the bar, ignoring the way Jhene’s gaze is boring into the back of my skull from across the room. “How’re you feeling? You said you were sick.”
“Much better now that you’re here.” Bridget reaches out and touches my arm, her fingers lingering on my bicep a beat longer than necessary. She gives it an appreciative squeeze. “I can tell you’ve been working out. Your arms look even bigger than usual.”
“Uh… thanks.”
This is the part where I usually fuck it up.
Flirting’s never come naturally to me.
Fighting? Sure. Violence? Absolutely.
But the subtle dance of words and touches that leads to courting a woman the proper way?
That’s always been a mystery I can’t crack. I either come on too strong and scare them off or I’m oblivious enough to let the moment pass without making a move.
Not this time. This time I’m following through despite the shitty day I’ve had.
…because of the shitty day I’ve had.
“Listen,” I grunt with a clear of my throat. “I was thinking. Maybe we could... go somewhere. Together. Get food or something.”
Her brows knit as she blinks a few times. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Yeah… guess I am.”
Smooth, Kill. Real fucking smooth.
But Bridget doesn’t seem to mind my complete lack of game. Her smile widens, and she tilts her head, her thick ginger hair falling over one shoulder.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever ask,” she giggles. “I’d love to go out with you, Killian.”
A wave of relief passes over me. “Good to hear. Pick you up Saturday night. Around seven.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I open my mouth to say something else—I don’t even know what—when someone knocks into my shoulder from behind.
“Oops.”
I turn to find Jhene beside me with a tray of empty pint glasses, her expression innocent even though we both know that bump was no accident.
“Sorry about that,” she says sweetly. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Bullshit you didn’t.”
“Maybe you were in the way.” She shrugs, dropping off the empty glasses and picking up two beer bottles and a bowl of pretzels.
She doesn’t wait for a response before she’s flitting off to serve another table.
I glare after her, my blood pressure spiking.
That little rude thing is?—
