Page 20 of Recklessly Rogue

Which infuriates me.

“Let’s put aside for a moment that you wanting to control when and if I work is a bright cherry red fucking flag,” I say, pretty sure I sound calm-ish. “I need this job. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, I don’t have things like food and electricity.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course, you’ll have food and electricity. I’m not going to not pay you.”

“Even when I don’t work?”

“Yes. How much do you want? I’ll just transfer money to your account now, too.”

And he would. Cian is the prince with…I have no idea how much money, butlotsprobably covers it. But Henry also has plenty. He’s paid well, I’m sure, and he has no expenses. He lives where Cian lives, eats what Cian eats, travels with Cian. I suppose he maybe buys his own clothes—though I don’t know that for sure, and he has very expensive taste—and, I don’t know,toothpaste? But he doesn’t really have to worry about things like rent and heating bills.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell him, moving down the bar to give the ten bar patrons their free final drinks.

I’m grateful for the space and distraction. Henry Dean is too hard to dislike even when he’s being a pompous, controlling, bossy ass.

You really like his controlling, bossy ass sometimes.

That inner voice that insists on reminding me about Past Henry isnothelpful.

Past Henry is the Henry who I met eight months ago, happily flirted with, enthusiastically kissed, greedily fucked, and stupidly fell in love with.

Present Henry is, well, the bane of my existence.

After all the drinks are passed out, I start cleaning up. I guess I’m closing early. It’s not like I mind that. I work at the bar because the hours work well for my home-life balance with Scarlett and Mariah, and I’m a good bartender—I’ve been doing it long enough—and it’s pretty low-key. Dan’s a rough-around-the-edges guy, but he’s easy to work for. And most of the regulars are okay. I grew up here, so I know everyone, or at least knowofthem, and that helps.

Small towns are like that, I guess. Bartending and dancing in New Orleans was different. There were good things about dealing with strangers and new faces every night. People who hadn’t known me since the cradle. But there are definite benefits to having a history in town too.

People here know who I am. They know I’m not a bitch unless I need to be, but I’m also not a pushover. They know my friends, and don’t really want me to tell the loan officer at the bank they might need to talk to one day, the high school football coach who coaches their kids, or the local contractor they might need to hire, what assholes they are. None of my friendswould let that affect how they do their jobs, but it can make relationships tense and people do care about reputations and how people look at them and talk about them in small towns.

Within forty minutes, everyone has finished their drinks and left—which is about thirty minutes longer than Henry seems to think it should have taken them. Henry is picking up their bottles and glasses the second they set them down and wishing them a goodnight while their asses are still in their seats.

No one seems to want to argue with him.

None of them know who he is. Not really. They don’t know he’s a trained bodyguard or that he’s probably got a gun tucked somewhere. He doesn’t need them to know that. He’s just got this don’t-fuck-with-me air about him.

He moves behind the bar with the final empty bottles, dumping them in the bin, then grabbing a rag without a word and heading out into the main room to wipe down tables.

At least he’s helping me clean up.

He actually seems at ease tipping chairs upside down on tables and even grabbing a broom, and I wonder about his life. He’s so obviously comfortable in suits and drinking expensive liquor and looked completely at ease in thepalacein Cara. But here tonight, he’s as comfortable sitting in this bar as any of the small-town guys I know.

I finish balancing the register and pull off my apron, tucking it in the laundry basket with the dirty towels.

When I turn, he’s right there. In my space, close enough I can feel his body heat and smell his cologne. Something that reminds me of a library full of old books and leather chairs. I’m sure it’s expensive. I used to think that I liked the smell of just regular guys. Outdoorsy smells like pine or sandalwood or some shit like that.

But no.

Expensive scents like freaking jasmine or musk or bourbon or whatever the hell Henry Dean smells like makes my pussy clench, and my nipples tighten, and dammit…he hasn’t even touched me.

But I remember every time hehas.

Because Henry Dean’s touch is never accidental or casual. At least not with me.

And it’s very freaking memorable.

“Here’s another,” he says, holding up a towel.

His voice is husky and I feel like my gaze is actually caught on his. I can’t look away.

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