Page 27

I swallow past the lump in my throat, cursing every deity I can think of. First Knox and the hurricane shot. Then Brax at school. Now Jax here? How am I supposed to avoid them if the Williams brothers are everywhere I go?

The universe is having a real good laugh at my expense. What a bitch.

This is fine. I can handle this. I’m made of tougher stuff. I’m Callie Mae Harrison. I will not let them run me off. Not again. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’ve survived revenge porn, art school critiques, an emotionally abusive ex. I can handle Jax.

One deep breath.

Two.

Fuck you, universe.

Jax catches sight of me and gives me a wicked grin. He snatches up a handful of tickets and strides over, his eyes dancing with mischief as he slaps them down in front of me.

“Maura said you’ve done a good job. I guess it’s time to see what you’re made of, city girl.” His tone carries a challenge I haven’t heard in ten years.

My skin prickles with something dangerously close to excitement. It’s not the tense confrontation with Knox or the vulnerable moment with Brax. This is something wholly our own. A dare for a dare.

That’s the way we work.

Scoffing, I spread the tickets out, memorizing the orders. “I guess it’s a good thing Maura hired a real bartender.”

“Oooooh,” he says, backing away like he’s threatened. “Still a trash talker, huh?”

I shoot him a look. “Shut up and get to work.”

Smirking, he gives me a one finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

There are so many tickets and bodies. The line has only grown since I walked behind the bar, and with the music pounding in the speakers, it’s sensory overload. The scent of perfume mingles with whiskey and beer, and I breathe in, letting muscle memory take over, falling into a rhythm.

Jax works beside me, our bodies performing an intricate dance of give and take in the limited space. Every time our shoulders accidentally brush, little electric shocks shoot through me. My body still craves these men.

“Four tequila shots, two cosmos, and a whiskey sour,” he calls out, already reaching for bottles.

I grab the tequila before he can. “I’ve got this batch.”

“Show off.”

“It’s not my fault you suck,” I fire back.

He chuckles and shakes his head. We power through the orders, trading barbs between drinks. It feels eerily familiar, this easy competition, the way we anticipate each other’s movements. For every drink he makes, I make another. For every smile he flashes a customer, I counter with one that’s a little brighter, or a little more sultry, depending on the customer. The tip jar in front of me begins to overflow while Jax’s is looking a little sad.

“You’ve gotten good at this,” he admits, watching me mix a perfect Manhattan.

I smirk. “One of us had to develop actual skills.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Says the girl who could barely pour a beer without it being all foam.”

Huffing, I slide the drink to the customer. “That was one time and I was sixteen,” I tell him before grinning at the tourist. “On the tab?”

“Yes, please,” she says.

Jax picks up the conversation where we left off. “Try seven. I counted.”

“Not everything is a competition. There’s no need to keep score.”

“Only losers say that.”

I bristle. “I’m not a loser.”