Page 3 of Bountiful
“Nah,” he said, laughing. “You just treated me to a congratulatory beer,that’sall.”
Because old habits die hard, I gave him a look of burning irritation, and he pulled out hiswallet.
When I returned to his spot at the bar ten minutes later, I found a ten-dollar bill, an empty bottle, and noBenito.
And, damn it, Imissedthat asshole. I missed the heck out of himalready.
I should have beennicer.
The ginger hottie smiled at me when I went to check on him. “What’s sofunny?”
“Youare.”
“Eavesdropmuch?”
He didn’t even look ashamed. “I have a sister. We fight likecrazy,too.”
“We don’talwaysfight,” I said reflexively.Only about ninety percent of the time. “But I was right,anyway.”
Hesnickered.
“Seriously. Doyouhave a job where people shoot at you?” I asked, clearing away his emptyglass.
“Well…” He looked thoughtful. “Depends whatyoumean.”
“Never mind,” I said curtly. “I don’t want to know. Another Long Trail? Or do you want to samplesomethingelse?”
“Another one.” He rested his chin in his hand, and his gaze turned hot. “Thankyou.”
The way he said it—his words polite, his gaze anything but—sent a lick of heat through my belly. I got him his beer and made a lap around the bar, grabbing empties and takingorders.
The night went downhill fromthere.
Fifteen minutes after my brother left, his barstool was taken over by my least favorite customer—Jimmy Gage. He was an ex-cop in his late forties, and one of the few people I could say I wasafraidof.
He ordered a Bud Light and a burger. I ran the order straight into the kitchen and asked my cook torushit.
“Why?” Titus asked. “Did I miss anorderslip?”
“Nope. Just don’t want to tangle withJimmyGage.”
Titus nodded and threw a patty on thegriddle.
To make matters worse, Rita—my waitress—chose that moment to take her third cigarette break of the night. She didn’t like Jimmy Gage any more than I did. But that left me shorthanded on a Friday. I found myself watching the door too often, wondering where the heckshe’dgone.
And even then, I would have considered the evening salvageable if not for the next customer who walked in. Since I was waiting on Rita to show up again, I’d leveled a searing glare at the door as it finally opened. But, damn it! The open door revealed thelastperson I wanted to see walk into my bar—my former hookup, GriffinShipley.
Unfortunately, Griff got the grumpy stare I’d been aiming at Rita. So not only did I lock eyes with the man who’d most recently battered my ego, but I gave him a death glare, too. And when he caught a look at the fury rolling off me, his face softened at once into something resemblingsympathy.
“Oh, fuck me sideways,” I whispered under my breath. I dropped my gaze to the bar top. But it was kind of like shutting the barn door after the horse was out. Too little, too late. My little emotional fireworks show was already over.Nothing to see here. Movealong.
After that I made myself very busy behind the bar. And it was Griff’s cousin who came up to order a pitcher, which meant that we were officially avoiding each othertonight.
Lovely.
Damn you, Griffin Shipley. I wanted to be over him already, but I just wasn’t. “It’s not you, Zara,” he’d said the night he called it off. Because they always say that. “I’m not in a place in my life where I can make time for arelationship.”
“But we’re notina relationship,” I’d pointed out, hating myself for arguing. Our fling had been more of a friends-with-benefitsarrangement.
