Page 5 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
I pour his wine, then surprise myself by sitting down. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"It's not flattery if it's true." He studies me over the rim of his glass. "How's your head?"
"It's good."
"Let me see."
"I'm fine, really."
"Karen." Just my name, but the way he says it makes my arguments dissolve. I find myself leaning forward, letting him examine the butterfly bandage at my temple.
His fingers are gentle as they brush my hair aside. "Healing nicely. Though you should have had stitches."
"It wasn't that bad."
"No?" His thumb traces just below the cut, and I fight not to shiver. "You always minimize your injuries, or is that special treatment for me?" He leans in close. "You can't be strong allthe time, baby. Sometimes you need someone else to carry the weight."
The words are soft, meant only for me, and they hit like a shot of whiskey, burning and warming in equal measure.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you do." He sits back, but his eyes never leave mine. "Dale told me about your husband. I'm sorry for your loss."
My spine stiffens. He's bringing up trauma he has no right to know about. "That was five years ago."
"Doesn't make it less significant. Or less hard to carry alone."
"I'm not alone. I have my kids, my friends, my coworkers and..."
"People you take care of," he finishes. "But who takes care of you?"
The question hangs between us like a challenge. I want to tell him I take care of myself, thank you very much. That I don't need anyone checking my wounds or making sure I sit down when I'm dizzy. But the words won't come.
"Make me a Manhattan," he says suddenly.
"What?"
"You were practicing when I came in. Show me what you've got."
Grateful for the escape, I stand. "Any particular way you like it?"
"I like my Manhattans the way I like my women, perfectly balanced with just enough bite to keep things interesting."
Heat floods my cheeks. "That's—that's not how anyone normal orders a drink."
"Who said I was normal?" He follows me to the bar, taking a seat on the same stool he occupied three days ago. "Besides, something tells me normal bores you."
He isn't wrong. Normal is safe, predictable. Normal is Tom Fletcher, who's been trying to ask me out for two years with hisfriendly smile and hardware store ownership. Normal doesn't make my heart race or my skin tingle.
Normal definitely doesn't watch me work like I'm performing just for him.
I select rye whiskey, high proof, spicy, complex. My hands move on autopilot, but I'm hyperaware of his attention. The way he tracks every movement, cataloging my technique.
"You're staring," I murmur, stirring the cocktail with perhaps more focus than necessary.
"You're worth staring at."
My hand trembles slightly as I strain the drink. "Jason?—"
