Page 29 of Feels Like the First Time
Chapter 6
Hawk jerked awake. He was hot, sweaty, his head was pounding, and his right arm felt as if he’d gone a round with the sexy blowtorch wielder next door. Which would have hurt less than the fire searing through the right side of his body.
But it was neither his shoulder nor his fiery neighbor that had awoken him. Nope, that honor went to the club music blaring from the front of the bar.
Hawk sat up, his skin squeaking against the sticky leather as he carefully rotated his shoulder, like the doctor had shown him, hoping to stretch out the muscles before his entire upper back cramped—and nearly passing out as a jolt of jaw-biting pain shot from his shoulder all the way down to his lower back.
He adjusted his hold, took a deep breath, and held it there for the count of ten, focusing on his breathing.
Okay, he made it tofourwhen Bruno Mars started in with one of those high notes Hawk hated, and forfive,six, andseven, all he could concentrate on was how he’d pummel whoever had that music playing.
Byeight, he was giving one last roll of the neck.Nine, he was headed down the hallway toward the bar. After spending his nights wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into, and his days wondering just how explosive those fireworks would be, he’d needed a refresher.
Yet he’d achieved exactly forty-three minutes of sleep, a kinked shoulder, and enough pillow marks on his cheek to double as Cosmo Kline’s twin. Even worse, it was the best rest he’d achieved since several days ago when he found out Bridget was having her engagement party at his bar.
Tonight!
By the time he hitten, he entered the bar through the swinging back door and muttered a “What the fuck?” Because what the fuck was going on?
The bar had been transformed into some sort ofsport coat requiredtasting room. The hand-carved redwood tables were now draped with tablecloths. Some cream and others light pink, but all were dressed with a silver vase and votive, and moved to the outer rim of the room, leaving the center empty as if for—dancing. The canister lights, originally made from hanging cider barrels, were wrapped in some kind of silver mesh netting and secured with cream fabric. And his bar…
Jesus, his bar.
It was covered with glasses. Strike that: stemware. Wine, goblets, champagne, martini. Every kind of GNO glass was represented—except the kind meant to go with a tap-only bar. And at least a dozen women were flitting around, hanging twinkle lights over his bar, stacking wine bottles under it, and debating the merits of finding the right color palette.
Luke stood behind the bar, wearing dark slacks and a button-up, uncorking a wine bottle as if this were a fucking tasting room, and he was Robert Mondavi, the famous winemaker. In front of him sat Bridget, wearing a tiny white dress, a sparkly tiara, and a diamond big enough to cut through glass. She was flanked by a group of women: all lean, blond, and each one wearing a cream dress—one shorter than the next.
Her bridal party, he assumed by the matching silver heels they all wore. Well, all of them except the petite brunette on the far end. Two seats away and eating a burger that had clearly not come from his kitchen, Ali was dressed in a lacy cream top, a denim skirt, and black boots. The boots hit above her knee, the skirt mid-thigh, leaving a nice sliver of silky skin exposed.
Unlike the other day, her hair hung loose, in tousled chocolate brown waves that slid over her shoulders and down her back. Her lips were wet with wine, reminding him of how sweet she’d tasted when they’d kissed—or just how sexy she was when she was bold.
She wasn’t bold right then. She was nervous, sitting on the outside of the inner circle, doing her best to fit in. For Bridget. For Marty.
For herself.
“About time you showed up,” Luke said from behind the bar, uncorking another bottle.
Ali turned in Hawk’s direction and hesitated, finally sending him a smile that was a heart-stopping mix of bravado and uncertainty—leaving him wanting things that were definitely not approved decorum for friends. Even friends who were pretending to be dating.
So he gave his double-barreled smile, the one that had graced the cover ofSports Illustrated, and headed her way. “Had someone told me my bar was going to be turned into a sorority house during pledge week, I would have shown up earlier.”
“You’re here now,” Bridget said, bringing his attention to the fact that Ali wasn’t the only Marshal woman who had zeroed in on him. Like a heat-seeking missile, Bridget was off her chair and walking his way before he could change directions.
Her hips swishing for his benefit, her lips pursed in a practiced smile. She was wearing her game face. He’d expected to see her, prepared himself so he could get through the event, but his chest ached all the same.
“Thanks,” she said, rising up to give him a kiss. Had she moved a centimeter to the right, it would have been more lip than cheek. “For agreeing to have my party here. You didn’t have to do that.”
Hawk wanted to laugh. She knew damn well that saying no to a man who’d treated him like a son, even after their divorce, was impossible. Hawk hadn’t had a lot of experience with unconditional love growing up, but Marty had always been there for him. Even before he’d married Bridget—and after their marriage had crumbled. So there wasn’t much Hawk wouldn’t do for the old man.
“Right,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Well, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d said no.”
“It’s one night,” Hawk said.
Which wasn’t exactly the truth—and they both knew it.
This party was the compilation of seven years of history and family, a true test of his vow to always love her. It didn’t matter that she’d walked out on their marriage, Hawk had promised Bridget, and Marty, that he’d make her happy. And that promise didn’t end when Bridget filed for divorce.
It just became more complicated. And that complication, which had colored the past few years, was finally coming to an end.
