Page 124 of Living on the Edge

“We are not doing this here,” I snap, slapping my hand down on the bar and staring into his eyes. “If you’re here to get me fired, then do what you’ve got to do. If not, just leave. Please. I’ve moved on—so should you.”

“Babe. I’m not here to get you fired.” His voice is soft, almost hurt, but I don’t have time to worry about his feelings. The bar is busier than ever, and I’m the only one back here.

“Then go find somewhere else to have a drink. I don’t have time for this.” I turn and head to the two women who just sat down. They order two glasses of Chablis and start a tab, and now I have orders from the wait staff coming up on the computer.

Two pina coladas and a Sex on the Beach.

Luckily, those are all easy.

I’m lost in work for about ten minutes and almost forget about Angus, except when I turn around, he’s still sitting at the bar, chatting away with a couple of my regulars.

“Angus, for real—what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to get off work.”

“That probably won’t be until after midnight, and regardless, I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“This guy bothering you, Ry?” One of the waiters, a guy named Dane, calls out to me.

“No, he’s fine.” I wave Dane off but glare at Angus. “Seriously—I need this job. Can you please not do this?”

“I’m not doing anything. I was going to order some food, though. What do you recommend?”

I give him a death stare but he seems oblivious, and it’s starting to piss me off.

When things slow down a little around eleven, I escape to the ladies’ room, trying to get my nerves under control. I do my business, wash my hands, and dab on a little lipstick. I look tired and pale, despite my best efforts since I wasn’t planning to be behind the bar tonight, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

I step into the hallway and—there he is.

All six feet three yummy inches of him.

Lounging against the wall like the tall, tattooed drink of water he is.

“I’m here to say I’m sorry,” he says before I can react. “And I have a lot to tell you if you’ll give me a chance.”

“Like you gave me a chance?” I snap, hands on my hips. “I asked you to let me find out what was going on, but you dismissed me like I was nothing to you.”

“You’re right. I fucked up. And I’m so, so sorry.” His eyes are soft, filled with regret.

How many times did I dream about a moment like this?

More than I can count.

But that ship has sailed.

“Too little, too late,” I say quietly, trying to brush past him.

“Please give me a chance,” he whispers, gently taking my arm.

“Let go.”

“Baby, I’ll do anything you want—just give me ten minutes to talk to you.”

“I don’t have ten minutes.” I pull my arm out of his grasp and walk back out to the bar.

* * *

It’sclose to one in the morning before I lock up the restaurant, set the alarm, and walk out to my car. Dane and one of the cooks, Toby, are with me and they both step in front of me when they spot Angus waiting by my car.

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