Page 9 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Someone who recognizes a good woman trying her best." Jason's hand settles on my lower back, and I have to fight not to lean into him. "Someone who won't stand by while she's disrespected in her own place of business."
Josh's face goes red, then white. "Mom?"
I should defend my son. Should tell Jason to back off, that I can handle this. Should tell him that he has no right intervening with my son. The manchild standing before me who is having big emotions about the situation. While I appreciate him defending me, he doesn’t have to step in with Josh. There are emotions after emotions piling up inside of me. A lot of words I know I should say. I sigh deeply and instead, I hear myself say, "Go home, Josh. We'll talk tomorrow when you've cooled down."
"You're choosing him over me?"
"I'm choosing not to have this conversation while you're being destructive and disrespectful." I'm amazed at how steady my voice sounds. "Go home. Now."
Josh stares at me like I've grown a second head. Then he storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar.
The silence that follows is deafening.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely at the broken glass. "I need to clean this up. I'm sorry. You should go. I'm clearly not?—"
"Karen." Just my name, but it stops my spiral. "Get the broom. I'll help."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." He shrugs out of his jacket, another expensive one that has no business being near broken glass. "Unless you'd rather handle it alone?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. This isn't about broken glass. This is about whether I'll let him in, even a little.
"Broom's in the back closet," I say softly.
We work in companionable silence, him holding the dustpan while I sweep. When the glass is disposed of, he asks, "How often does that happen?"
"Josh losing his temper? Rarely. He's a good kid, just..."
"Protective. Hurt. Probably scared of losing you too." Jason washes his hands at the bar sink. "It's natural. Doesn't make it okay, but it's natural."
"I've ruined our dinner plans."
"Have you?" He dries his hands, then crosses to where I stand. "The reservation isn't until seven-thirty. We have time."
"Jason, I'm a mess. My son just?—"
"Your son just acted like a teenager who's struggling with change." His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks. "You handled it well."
"I let you fight my battle."
"No." His voice is firm. "You let me stand beside you. There's a difference. Partners don't fight each other's battles, instead, they stand together when battles come."
Partners.The word makes something flutter in my chest.
"We barely know each other."
"Then let's change that." He smiles, and it transforms his serious features. "Come to dinner with me, Karen. Let me feed you, pour you wine, and learn what makes you laugh. No pressure. No expectations. Just two adults enjoying each other's company."
"I need to fix my hair."
"Your hair is perfect." He tucks a fallen strand behind my ear. "You're perfect. Battle-worn and beautiful."
"I'm not perfect. I'm a mess. My kid hates me, my life is complicated, and I haven't dated in twenty years."
"Good thing I like complicated women. The simple ones bore me."
