Page 19 of It Happened in Vegas

“Like I said, damn shame a good man isn’t around to intervene,” he chuckled wickedly.

My chest expanded, trying to catch my breath, as the song ended, yet he held me a second more. What would he do with me if we were alone?

I shook my head and snapped out of it, like I breaking out of his spell. I stepped back quickly, smoothing my apron. “Anyway. Back to work.”

“Table eight,” he growled as I passed him, which did nothing to calm the ache that started to manifest between my thighs.

I sauntered back behind the bar, wiping my brow, and Jessa followed. “Didn’t know your boss had hips like Elvis. How was your dance with Declan? Did you reminisce about high school?”

“Oh, he hardly remembers me. I just wanted to give you and Keaton some time together.”

I shook my head. “Jessa, you can’t force two people together.”

“From where I stand, I’d say there’s plenty happening between the two of you naturally.”

“And you and he never…?”

“What?” She snorted. “Hell no. I’m not into broody guys with beards. Nope, I’m holding out for a man who is filthy rich. Someone to take me away from all of this.”

Keaton returned to the bar then and eyed us, staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jessa dismissed, and we got back to work.

Over the last two hours until closing, the bar kept humming with people until the very end. At some point, Declan and his buddies had left, even drunker, and he begged me for my phone number. I finally gave it to him, just to get him out the door.

At closing time, I helped Jessa clean up, following her around. She gasped when we came to the last corner table, a cozy one by the original fireplace from the Victorian home Keaton had converted into the brewery. What a mess of game parts strewn everywhere from multiple games.

“Look at all these tiny pieces people don’t have the decency to clean up. I’ve told Keaton a hundred times that having his stash of classic board games here for people to play is moretrouble than anything. Why, last month this couple got into a fist fight over who won...”

I stopped listening and eyed the pieces. Gingerly, I helped, picking them up and making sure each piece was correctly put back into the respective boxes. I could hear my stepdad’s voice now, nagging us kids about that. The games had become his life, and ultimately the entire reason mom left him, too. It’d been many years since I’d played or even touched a game.

“Are you okay? You’re looking like these pieces have a transferable disease on them or something,” she noticed and chuckled.

“Uh, I hate board games. That’s all. Played too many of them as a kid, I guess.” I shrugged and laughed it off, hiding the truth.

Finally finished, Jessa and I leaned against the bar for a breather as Keaton finished sweeping up.

“Whoa. You get to do this nightly? My feet are killing me. I have no idea how you’re still standing.” I observed her sensible tennis shoes compared to my boots. Granted, the last thing I ever thought I’d be doing tonight was working like this. If I had, I would have selected proper footwear.

She bumped her shoulder into mine. “Come on, time to turn in your apron and split the tips.”

As I untied the strings at my back, she started counting the coins and bills in the huge tip jar. The other employees gathered around.

“Yes. Big haul tonight. Here’s everyone’s share.” When she handed me a pile of money, I hadn’t expected it. I shoved it right back.

“Oh, no. I was only volunteering tonight. Put my share back in and split amongst you,” I demand.

Keaton must have spotted me limping toward the office to get my things. “You good?” he asked as he came up from behind.

“Debatable. I’ve gained a new respect for anyone who survives a shift on their feet.”

He moved ahead of me, opened the office door, and held out a hand to help me inside. The second it closed behind us, the noise faded and I sunk down into my office chair, groaning at every muscle in my body complaining.

He picked up something from his desk, brought his chair over to face mine, and then he patted his knee. “Foot rubs are my specialty.”

Too exhausted to fight it, I lifted my foot up. He carefully took my boot off, then my sock, and repeated on the other. The item from his desk turned out to be some type of foot lotion which must have contained soothing properties. With some in his hands, he began to knead one foot, then the next with an expertise that could rival the best masseuses at some New York City spas.

“Mm. Oh, my God. Where’d you learn to do this?” I moaned, eyes rolling into my head, ready to sacrifice my entire body to his hands.

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