Page 3 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
"I don't doubt it." Jason's eyes never leave mine. "But maybe she should sit down. Head injuries are nothing to mess around with."
"I'm fine," I insist, then promptly sway on my feet.
Strong hands catch my elbows, steadying me. "Chair. Now."
"You can't just order me around in my own bar." I push my hands flat against his chest.
"Watch me." He guides me to a barstool with gentle but inexorable pressure. "Dale, why don't you grab the coffee? I'll keep an eye on our patient."
Our patient.Like we're a team. Like he has any right to…
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks once Dale disappears into the back.
"Like what?"
"Like you can't decide whether to throw me out or ask me to stay."
God, am I that transparent?"Maybe both."
"Fair enough." He pulls up another stool, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that makes me want to lean in. "For what it's worth, I vote for staying."
"Why?"
He considers the question, those gray eyes thoughtful. "Because you have a cut that needs watching. Because I hate drinking coffee alone. And because..." He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Because something tells me you're not used to letting people help you. And that's a damn shame."
I want to argue, to tell him he doesn't know me, doesn't know what I'm used to. But the truth is, he's seen right through me in about ten minutes flat. It's unsettling. Thrilling. Terrifying.
"I'm not good at accepting help," I admit.
"I noticed." His smile is crooked, boyish almost. It transforms his stern features into something warmer. "Good thing I'm persistent."
"Is that a warning?"
"Not at all. It’s a promise."
Dale returns with coffee, launching into excited chatter about tannins and soil conditions, but I barely hear him. I'm too aware of Jason beside me, the space between us charged with possibility. Every time I shift, he notices. When I wince at a particularly loud laugh from Dale, Jason's hand briefly touches my knee under the bar, a silent check-in.
This man is dangerous. Not in a physical way, but in how he makes me feel: seen, cared for, small in the best possible way. Like maybe, just maybe, I don't have to carry everything alone.
As Dale drones on about harvest seasons, Jason leans close enough to murmur, "How's your head?"
"Still attached."
"Good. I'd hate to see it roll away. It's too pretty."
Heat floods my cheeks. When was the last time I blushed? "Mr. Schaeffer?—"
"Jason," he interrupts to correct me again. "And before you deflect with sarcasm, just say thank you."
"For what?"
"The compliment. The help. Whatever you need to be grateful for." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "Practice accepting good things, Karen. Starting now."
I swallow hard. "Thank you."
"Better." He straightens, returning his attention to Dale, but under the bar, his pinky finger brushes mine. Just once. Just enough to let me know this conversation isn't over.
I have a feeling nothing with Jason Schaeffer is ever really over. He seems like the type who finishes what he starts, who follows through, who doesn't give up easily.
