Page 53 of Summer Affair
First, because there were no free seats, with the wait to get to the bar five deep. Second, she couldn’t look away from how completely out of his element he was. It reminded her of how she felt being at football camp—a little lost and a lot overwhelmed.
He was dressed in a gray shirt that was on the losing end of a battle with his biceps and a pair of jeans that were faded in all the right places. Jillian wasn’t the only one to notice. When he bent down to grab three glasses the women at the bar leaned over and craned their necks to watch the show.
And what a show it was. Firm and filling out his pants to perfection, Clay Easton was a sight to behold. Even though he was drowning under the sheer number of patrons wanting a drink. Beside two servers, he was holding down the fort solo.
“Isn’t this kind of mean?” she asked Owen, who just grinned.
“A bet’s a bet,” he said. “I can’t help it if someone posted on social media that he was the guest bartender for the night.”
“Were you that someone?”
Owen remained tight-lipped on the subject. “You should ask him about the bet. You might find it interesting.”
Since Owen was the second person to tell her about the bet, interest didn’t even cover how she felt on the matter.
“Are you going to send in reinforcements?”
“Why would I do that?”
She tried to tell Owen that leaving Clay, who’d clearly never been a bartender in a previous life, alone to fend for himself was taking the bet a little far, but Owen was already distracted, talking with a pretty brunette at the end of the bar.
Jillian turned her attention back to Clay and she couldn’t contain her smile. He was trying his damnedest but, without a paddle, he was going under. There were stacks of cash on the counter that he hadn’t collected, empty bottles and dirty glasses, then there was that famous playboy grin that was plastered in place. But what stood out to her was the stress around his eyes and the way he was limping. Ever so slightly, but she could tell he’d been on his feet for a long while.
She’d come to know that he was flashing his “game mode” smile, which he used when bombarded with requests and attention.
With his back to her, he walked down the bar, searching the backlit glass shelving, which sat beneath the blinking antique beer sign and original tin ceiling. The exposed brick walls and copper pipes with silver ducting were a leftover from the turn of the century canning factory. But the sleek copper bar top and massive accordion glass doors that opened to the street and boasted stunning views of the upscale Pearl District neighborhood gave a modern take on the historical landmark.
Having a full-service bar, which offered the largest variety of craft brews in the city, and an original menu, Stout was quickly becoming the most noted gastropub in Portland.
But what kept Jillian’s attention was the bartender, who was helplessly scouring the shelves for, what she’d guess was tequila. Based on the bottles he’d already taken out, someone had ordered a mango margarita and Clay was trying to figure out which tequila to use. With a shrug, he grabbed a bottle off the top shelf, which she knew was high-end and not normally used in a margarita.
“I’d go for the square bottle on the bottom right,” she said and saw him take a beat before turning around. When he spotted her, his smile changed into the playful one that made her head spin.
If he noticed the captive audience, he gave no hint of it. Their gazes clashed and, forgetting the tequila, he walked straight toward her. “And here I thought there was no way to turn my night around.”
She had her elbows on the bar top, resting her chin atop laced fingers. “I hear you might need some help.”
“Depends on what kind of help you’re offering.”
“The kind where I save you since your backlog is winding out the front door.”
“I knew you were after my backlog,” he teased, and Jillian found herself smiling.
“I heard you lost a little bet, and I should ask you the details.”
Unlike at practice, he didn’t hide his interest. He was practically undressing her with his eyes in front of a few hundred strangers.
“Owen just figured out something I hadn’t yet.”
Her heart thundered at the thought that maybe he’d come to the same conclusion as she had earlier. Still working on the what but confident on the who. “What was that?”
He tossed a rag over his shoulder and rested his palms on the edge of the bar. “That you drive me crazy. But you already know that.”
She did, but it was still nice to hear. Wanting her when she was the only woman within touching distance was one thing. Knowing he wanted her when there were so many other options reassured her that she wasn’t the only one on this crazy train.
The crowd erupted, shouting about a bad call and screaming about the ref being blind. Neither of them looked away.
“Since I was a part of you losing a bet, I should probably offer my assistance.” She hopped off the stool and walked behind the bar. “Since my sitter can only stay an extra hour, and your hands are in high demand, our options are limited.”
