Page 7 of Smokin' Situation

“Is that what gets you hot? Control?” Baker cackled, not deterred by my glare. “You gonna go back there and tell her what to do?”

“You’re a sick fuck,” I growled, but he just laughed, bumping my shoulder as he moved past me and disappeared into the crowd. But he wasn’t necessarily wrong, I did like control. Just not in the way he was probably expecting.

As I locked eyes with Rhey, her cheeks turning pink as she held my gaze, I wondered what her thoughts were on the matter. But I didn’t have time to find out, because she broke my stare, her eyes frantically scanning the line of people still waiting to sample my brother’s whiskey.

Myself, I wanted to sample something else of my brother’s, since his employee was becoming a very welcome distraction.

Maneuvering through the tight space between booths, I made my way behind the tables I’d greedily watched her set up this morning. Her eyes flitted in my direction as I quickly packed the empty bottles in the crates underneath, replacing them with full bottles.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a low voice between pours, looking at me with concern. “You’re not certified to serve. You need a—”

Moving around her, I collected the empty plastic shot glasses that hadn’t made it into the large barrel trash can at the corner of the booth.

“And I’m not the one serving,” I answered, flipping up the tablecloths until I found one with extra napkins and cups.

“Stop rooting around under that table, I don’t have time to straighten up the mess you’re making under there.”

Flashing her a smile, I neatly stacked the napkins in my hand, fanning them across the table to her side. “Seems like I’m the one cleaning up the mess, not making it.”

“Little busy here, haven’t exactly had time to straighten up,” she clipped, looking irritated briefly before she turned on the charm with the next set of customers. She moved like having a bottle in her hand was an extension of who she was. When she said she worked at the bar over in the Springs, I hadn’t realized that she was clearly the bartender there.

Maybe I’d have to pay regular visits to the River Run Tavern, where she worked, now that I was back in town. I’d only been there a few times over the years; on the rare occasion I could come back home for the holidays. Those visits had been few and far between, the schedule in my previous life dictated by Mother Nature, much to my mother’s dismay.

“Seriously, why are you back here? You’re making me anxious.”

That was the last thing I wanted to do, even if she inspired the same feeling. Although if I were to have to put a more specific name to it, I’d probably use the word anticipation.

“I’m here to help.”

“I don’t—”

Cutting her off, I reached out to take payment from the next guest, placing it in the cashbox that looked just as chaotic as the rest of the table when I’d forced my way back here.

“Thank you, hope you enjoy that one. It’s got a bit of a kick but goes down smooth.”

Reluctantly, and with no small amount of side-eyed glances, Rhey let me help her clear the line, her pouring countless shots and mixed drinks while I handled the cashbox and payment app, replenishing supplies in the very brief lulls between groups.

I could tell by the curious stares that some people recognized me, but thankfully, no one said anything. Thank goodness, because the last thing I wanted to do was encourage the small-towngossip mill. Even though I was in uniform, I hoped people would view my assistance as helping my brother, not trying to put the moves on the local bombshell bartender.

It was bad enough I was the oldest Harding of the second generation and hadn’t brought a wife with me when I’d returned home after so many years. My transient career had kept me so busy I hadn’t had time to move past the superficial parts of a relationship before. And finding someone who could cope with me being gone—and in an unpredictable, dangerous environment—was a lot for the ones who lasted more than a few dates to handle.

Working side by side, the line eventually dwindled as the sun crept behind the trees. It was still sweltering outside, kind of an anomaly at our altitude, but nothing about my life lately had felt typical.

Blowing out a breath as the last person took their cocktail and retreated into the lively crowd, I looked over at Rhey. She was leaning against the support post of the tent, eyes closed, and cheeks flushed.

“You doin’ okay over there?” I asked, watching as she took a deep breath, the logo tightening across her chest. Definitely not something I should be admiring. I’d come over here to help her, not to ogle her. But there was something about her that made it impossible to look away.

“Just tired,” she whispered, her eyes blinking open. She swayed slightly as I watched her, alarm bells going off in my head.

“When was the last time you drank something?”

Her eyes slipped closed again, and she leaned her forehead against the metal pole gripped between her hands. “I’m fine.”

The first responder training kicked in, noticing that while I’d seen her sweating this morning, her neck and chest looked suspiciously dry, the sweat marks on her shirt were long gone and I could see the pulse thrumming in her neck.

Pulling out my phone, I texted Baker.

Tripp: Can you bring me a chair, electrolyte tablets and some water?

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