Page 4 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
The thought probably should worry me more than it does.
Instead, as I sit here in my ruined heels with a bandaged head and blood on my silk blouse, all I can think about is how his hands felt in my hair. How his voice went soft when he called me baby. How for just a moment, I wanted to let him take charge of more than just first aid.
The Naughty Girls Book Club is going to have a field day with this.
CHAPTER 2
"AManhattan should be like a good man: strong, smooth, and just sweet enough to make you forget your troubles."
I deliver this wisdom to my afternoon bartender, Susie, while trying not to think about the man who's consumed my thoughts for the past three days. Jason Schaeffer left my bar that morning with Dale, but not before extracting a promise that I'll text him if I feel dizzy. He wrote his number on a napkin with the kind of penmanship that belongs in a different century, definitely not one that's being taught today in schools, I should know. I have two children in the public school system.
I shoved the napkin in my desk drawer like contraband. I'm not sure why I don't throw it out, since I have no intention of ever calling him.
"Earth to Karen." Susie waves a hand in front of my face. "You've been stirring that Manhattan for like five minutes."
"It needs to be perfect." I strain the amber liquid into a chilled coupe glass, garnishing it with a whiskey-soaked cherry. "Practice batch."
"Uh-huh." Susie's knowing smirk says she isn't buying it. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the silver fox who's been at table six for the past hour?"
My hand jerks, nearly dropping the glass. I force myself not to look. "We have a customer?"
"Boss, your radar must be broken. Tall, dark, and daddy material walked in an hour ago. Ordered a glass of the Vouvray. Which, by the way, who orders Vouvray in a sports bar?"
A wine snob, that's who.
"He's a wine consultant Dale brought in." I keep my voice carefully neutral. "Probably checking out the local establishments."
"Checking out something," Susie mutters. "His eyes have been glued to your ass every time you bend over to grab bottles."
"Susie!"
"What? I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. Even Murphy noticed, and Murphy wouldn't notice if a tornado hit the pool table."
I risk a glance toward table six. Jason sits facing the bar, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that have no business looking that good. He catches me looking and raises his glass in a small salute.
Fuck.I'm so busted.
"He wants you to bring him another drink," Susie singsongs. "Specifically asked for you."
"We're not that kind of establishment."
"No, but you're that kind of woman. The kind who deserves a man who looks at her like she hung the moon." Susie hip-checks me toward the dining area. "Go on. I'll hold down the bar."
Sometimes the thing we fight hardest is exactly what we need most.
The thought comes unbidden as I grab the wine bottle and make my way to his table, trying to ignore how my pulse kicks up with each step.
"Jason." I keep my voice professionally pleasant. "Another glass?"
"Only if you'll join me." He gestures to the empty chair across from him. "I hate drinking alone."
"I'm working."
"It's three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. The lunch rush is over, and happy hour doesn't start until five." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "I've been watching. You can spare ten minutes."
"You've been watching?" I don't know if I should feel complimented or scared.
"Hard not to." He leans back in his chair, all casual confidence. "You run this place like a choreographed dance. Everyone knows their part, their timing. It's impressive."
