Page 1 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
CHAPTER 1
The thing about running your own bar is that you're never really off duty. Even at seven in the morning, when the Prairie Harbor sun is barely kissing the horizon and decent folks are just stirring their first cup of coffee, I'm already at The Gathering Place, prepping for another day of pouring drinks and listening to troubles.
I know better than to mop in heels. But, I have an appointment at nine at the bank and am meeting with a potential new investor after.
"Just a quick swipe," I tell myself, spotting the sticky patch near the pool table where Tommy Henderson spilled his beer last night. My sensible flats are in my office, but I'm already dressed for the day. I've decided on a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and the killer red pumps Emily bought me for my birthday. My daughter insists I need to "stop dressing like a mom" now that both kids are practically grown.
The wet floor has other ideas about my fashion choices.
One second I'm upright, cloth in hand. The next, my heel catches the slick spot I've just created, and the world tilts sideways. I go down hard, my temple cracking against the cornerof a barstool on the way. Stars explode across my vision as I hit the floor in a graceless heap.
"Shit, shit, shit." I press my hand to my head and it comes away bloody. Perfect. Just perfect.
The bell above the door chimes.
"We're closed—" I start, still sprawled on the floor like a damn fool, trying to simultaneously stem the bleeding and preserve what's left of my dignity.
"What the hell happened here?"
The voice is deep, commanding, and absolutely not from around here. I look up, a mistake, since the movement makes my head spin, to find a man standing in my doorway like he owns the place. Tall, broad-shouldered, with silver threading through dark hair and a jaw that could cut glass. He wears an expensive-looking charcoal suit that fits him like a second skin, and his storm-gray eyes are already cataloging the scene: me on the floor, blood on my fingers, mop bucket tipped sideways.
"I said we're closed." I try for stern but probably sound pathetic.
He's already moving, those long legs eating up the distance between us in three strides. "You're bleeding."
"I'm aware." I attempt to push myself up, but a firm hand on my shoulder keeps me in place.
"Don't move. You could have a concussion." He shrugs out of his suit jacket and kneels beside me, pressing the expensive fabric against my temple without hesitation. "What were you thinking, mopping in those shoes?"
The scolding tone should piss me off. I've raised two teenagers and run this bar for five years on my own. I don't need some stranger marching in here and…
"I asked you a question."
My mouth falls open. The sheer audacity of this man. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His fingers are gentle as they hold the makeshift compress in place, but his voice brooks no argument. "Mopping in heels is reckless. You could have seriously hurt yourself."
"I did hurt myself."
"Could have been worse." Those gray eyes bore into mine, and something low in my belly clenches. "You're lucky I walked in when I did."
Lucky? I'm bleeding on my own bar floor before eight in the morning, getting lectured by some overdressed city boy who—his thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a drop of blood I'd missed, and my train of thought derails completely.
"Where's your first aid kit?"
"Behind the bar. But I can—" He interrupts me again. He’s got to let me get at least one full sentence out, right?
"You can sit still and let me help you." He stands in one fluid motion. "That's what you can do."
I watch him navigate my bar like he belongs there, finding the first aid kit exactly where I'd said it would be. His movements are efficient, controlled. Everything about him screams competence and authority, from the way he organizes the supplies to how he washes his hands without being asked.
"This is going to sting," he warns, returning with antiseptic and bandages.
"I'm not a child."
One dark eyebrow arches. "Could have fooled me, with decision-making skills like that."
The antiseptic bites into the cut, and I hiss through my teeth. His free hand cups my jaw, steadying me, and his firm but careful touch, sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
