Page 1 of Long Shot

1

REESE

My boss is definitely a grade A manskank.

I walk toward the table at Conquistadors Tequila Bar, carrying a tray of champagne flutes and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, trying to ignore the woman standing next to the table who is pouting at my boss, Cade Hardy.

Everyone at the table has swiveled their heads to stare at the woman, the happy chatter falling silent.

“Why won’t you answer my calls?” The gorgeous, tall brunette blinks wet, thickly mascaraed eyelashes. “My texts? I don’t understand.”

Cade shifts in his chair, then rises. “I told you, Amelia.” He gently takes the woman’s arm and tries to steer her away from the table.

I do my best to ignore the developing drama as I set glasses at each place, studiously focusing on the table, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. This isn’t the first time one of Cade’s “dates” has shown up at the bar, either pissed off and chucking glasses at him or crying her mascara off. It makes life interesting.

Amelia stands firm in her platform heels. “You didn’t really mean that. What we had was special. You said that yourself!” She isn’t keeping her voice low, and everyone can hear.

I exchange a tight smile with Carrie, the girlfriend of one of my other bosses.

“Amelia, I told you I don’t do relationships.” Cade’s voice is lower as he edges Amelia away from the table. “You said you were fine with that. It was just one date.”

No shit, he doesn’t do relationships. In the few months I’ve been working at Conquistadors, Cade has probably slept with twenty-eight women. Not that I’m counting.

“But you brought me to a wedding! I met your friends! That has to mean something.”

I focus on my task to avoid the awkward encounter, easing the cork out of the bottle of champagne with a small pop, diverting attention away from the unhappy couple. I expertly pour the wine into Carrie’s glass, my thumb in the punt of the bottle, holding the flute in my other hand and tilting it so the wine slides down the side. I wait as bubbles subside to fill the glass, then set the glass on the table and step to the side to pick up Marco’s.

“This is so nice,” Carrie says in a bright tone, reaching for the flute.

Marco inclines his head. “Congratulations again, belleza.”

They’re celebrating the opening of G Gallery, where disadvantaged kids can hang out and make art, in the hopes that it will keep them off the street and out of trouble. Marco’s girlfriend Carrie has been working on setting up the gallery pretty much since I started working at Conquistadors, along with her mother and of course Marco.

Amelia’s sobs grow fainter as Cade leads her out of the bar. I continue to fill glasses until everyone at the table has champagne. Then Marco lifts his in a toast. “To G Gallery. And to Cheryl and Carrie. Congratulations on all your hard work.”

They all clink their glasses together and sip the sparkling wine.

Cade rejoins them and pickes up his glass. “Sorry about that,” he mutters.

I move away from the table with the empty wine bottle, unable this time to stop my eyes from rolling and my lip from curling. What a hound.

Before I can get far, my third boss waves me back to the table. Conquistadors Tequila Bar is owned by three men—Cade Hardy, Marco Solis, and Beck Whitcomb, all of them former Navy SEALs; all of them hot as hell. (Manwhore tendencies notwithstanding.) I just overheard Marco telling Carrie’s mom why they named the bar Conquistadors . . .. “We thought it was fitting. All three of us had some . . . challenges growing up. Then we all decided to become SEALs, which is another huge challenge. We all made it—we were three of the fifteen who made it out of a class of a hundred forty-five when we started. We decided that naming the bar would remind us that we can overcome anything if we put our minds to it.”

For some reason, I truly admire that, even if I privately think they were a little crazy to think they could just open a bar and be successful.

“Hey, Reese,” Beck says. “Can you bring us some nachos, some chips and dip, and, uh, jalapeño poppers? And hey, Sid’s got something new we can try: Tater Tot nachos.”

I wince at the mention of the new menu item. “Um, yeah, about that . . .”

Beck frowns. “What?”

“They’re . . . well, you’re the boss. You should try them, if you haven’t. I’ll get those right out for you.”

I head to the kitchen to put the order in.

Tater Tot nachos. Ugh. It’s not a bad idea, but the execution leaves much to be desired.

I get that the guys are trying to improve their food menu. I know Sid, the cook, is trying. He just isn’t up to the job.

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