Page 6 of Admiring the Mountain Man
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll stay until close. What’s the difference of a few hours?” She forces a laugh and reassures whoever it is on the other side of the call. “By the time the storm hits, who’s going to be out for a drink, anyway? You guys stay safe.”
There’s more to the call, but I try to put my attention back on my drink.
Sounds like Kelsie is going to pull a double. With the storm that’s coming, what’s keepinghersafe once the flood warnings and the wind start picking up?
After making a habit of staying through her shifts, a habit I don’t plan on breaking today, I figure her words hold some truth. Whatisthe difference of a few hours?
I’ll keep her company and make sure she’s alright. Hell, I’ll even give her a ride home to make sure all is well.
Then, when there isn’t anyone around to disrupt her from finishing a sentence, maybe she can finish where she left off.
* * *
A heavy sigh rolls out beside me, thick with exhaustion and something sharper—frustration, maybe, or the kind of angerthat simmers too long. The man’s grip on his glass is white-knuckled, his phone screen glowing with some message he keeps glaring at like it’s personally wronged him.
Reid.
Funny—I don’t even know his last name. Then again, last names don’t mean much around here. What Idoknow is that while most of us hung up our service with relief and never looked back, Reid never really left the fight. Just traded one battlefield for another.
Instead of protecting borders, he’s babysitting the Mayor’s kid, playing a glorified bodyguard to someone who’ll never know the weight of that kind of duty.
Mondays are supposed to be his day off. But from the grit of his jaw, the way his fingers tap a restless rhythm against the bar as he stares at the screen instead of replying, and the fact that his drink is barely touched—I’m guessing whatever’s on that phone just dragged him right back into the fray.
Even on a day like this, with the storm growing closer and closer by the hour, he’s attempted to find his own little escape.
Normally, he doesn’t try to complain about her, but I can sense he’s bottling up a long list of things bothering him.
“What is it this time?” Taking a drink of my own glass, I’m hit with a taste of cherries. These mocktails get better and better, I swear.
He sends a brief glance in my direction, the tension in his shoulders hardly unwinding.
“She knows this is the only time I can get to myself. And yet, I can’t ignore her. I’m not the only one under his payroll, but I’m the only one suffering.” He steals one mouthful of his glass before moving to pull out his wallet. “Gig is too good to quit, but that woman is driving me up the wall.”
If my body could keep up with the demands of babysitting an energetic twenty-something-year-old, I don’t think I’d mind the paychecks I imagine he gets.
Leaving cash on the bar and sending a short wave toward a group of men I assume are his friends, he gives me a nod before leaving behind the sound of another frustrated sigh.
I do not envy the guy. That’s for sure.
Kelsie is the one to come collect his money, clearing the spot with a swipe of a cloth. Before she drifts away again, she nudges close enough that I can smell a sweet scent rolling off of her top. Something so sweet, it’s no wonder I have a craving for these drinks she’s been throwing together for me each week.
“Can I get you anything else? The kitchen is open. We’re happy to fix something together for you. Plus, I think the two I have back there are dying of boredom.” She leans against the bar like she hopes I’ll agree. Not because the business will earn a few extra dollars, but because she’ll have a reason to return.
Look at me, getting ahead of myself and thinking things I know can’t be true.
At my hesitation, her smile grows, and she slips away for hardly a moment before she’s sliding a sheet toward me. A menu with images good enough to make one’s mouth water.
“You stay later than most, anyway,” she continues. “I can’t have you starving on my watch, Hayes.”
She hums my name—soft, intimate, like a secret just for us—and I choke back the groan rising in my throat.
“I know you don’t usually get food,” she says, leaning in, “but trust me, we won’t let you leave disappointed.” Her smile is all warmth and mischief. “My staff back there? They’re magic. Half of the people who come here come for the food.”
Her finger drifts lazily down the menu, tracing options I don’t care about, her nail tapping lightly against the laminate. I should be reading the damn thing, but I can’t focus on anythingexcept the slow drag of her fingertip—closer, closer—until it’s nearly level with my chest. Five more inches, and she’d be touching me.
I inhale sharply, and the scent of her engulfs my senses. The bar tilts. My grip tightens on nothing, fingers itching to anchor themselves to the counter before I do something stupid.
Such as the need to reach for her.
