Page 2 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
"Sorry, baby. Almost done."
Baby. The endearment should rankle. I'm forty-two years old, for Christ's sake. A widow, a mother, a business owner. Butsomething about the way he says it, casual and caring at the same time, makes warmth pool in places that have been cold for too long.
"There." He applies a butterfly bandage with practiced ease. "You'll want to watch for signs of concussion. Dizziness, nausea, confusion."
"I know the signs." I do. Josh played football in high school; I've been through the concussion protocol more times than I care to remember.
"Good." He sits back on his heels, studying me with those intent eyes. "Now, want to tell me why you're here alone at this hour, doing maintenance in completely inappropriate footwear?"
"Want to tell me why you're walking into closed establishments and bossing around the owner?"
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Jason Schaeffer. I had a seven-thirty appointment with Dale Morrison about consulting for his new winery. He said to meet him here."
Oh. Dale mentioned something about bringing in some hotshot sommelier from Chicago. I'd forgotten he uses The Gathering Place as his unofficial office for morning meetings.
"Karen Mitchell." I accept the hand he offers to help me up, trying to ignore how his grip makes me feel small and protected. I'm not small, I'm at least five-foot-eight in these heels, but next to him... "Dale usually shows up around eight."
"And you usually open the bar at seven to prep?"
"How did you?—"
"Your routine is written all over this place. The chairs aren't down yet, but the register's been counted. I can smell the coffee brewing in the back, but you stopped to mop first." His gaze travels down to my ruined shoes. "In heels."
"They're nice heels," I defend weakly.
"They are," he agrees, and is that heat in his eyes? "Doesn't make them appropriate for manual labor."
"I've been running this bar for five years. I think I know what's appropriate."
"Do you?" He reaches out, thumbing away another drop of blood I'd missed. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like a woman who needs someone to take care of her before she hurts herself worse."
The words should infuriate me. I've spent the last five years proving I don't need anyone, thank you very much. Mark's death forced me to be strong, independent, and capable. I've raised two kids, kept a business afloat, held my whole world together with sheer determination and good bourbon.
But standing here, with this stranger's hand gentle on my face and his jacket ruined with my blood, something inside me wants to melt. To let go. To stop being strong for just one damn minute.
I step back, breaking the spell. "I should get you a new jacket."
"Don't worry about it."
"But the blood?—"
"Karen." The way he says my name, firm and final, makes my protest die on my lips. "It's just a jacket. You're more important than dry cleaning."
When was the last time someone said that to me? That I was more important than the mess, the inconvenience, the thousand little catastrophes that make up daily life?
The bell chimes again, and Dale Morrison's cheerful voice booms across the bar. "Karen! You're here early. Oh good, you've met Jason. What happened to your head?"
"She fell," Jason answers before I can. "Slipped while mopping."
Dale's face creases with concern. "Jesus, Karen. You okay? Should you see a doctor?"
"I'm fine." I touch the bandage self-consciously. "Mr. Schaeffer was... helpful."
"Jason," he corrects. "And I'm glad I was here."
Something passes between us then, a recognition maybe. Like we both know this isn't going to be the last time he'll patch me up, literally or figuratively. The thought should scare me. Instead, it makes my pulse race in a way it hasn't in years.
"Well," Dale claps his hands together, oblivious to the tension. "Should we get some coffee and talk wine? Karen makes the best coffee in Prairie Harbor."
