Page 9 of The Love You Fight For
She looks me over once more, gives me a thin smile, then turns to leave, but I stop her.
“Don’t bring up Sable, okay?” I say quickly, averting my eyes and grabbing my ballcap from beneath the bar. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”
Lennon cocks her head to the side and watches as I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back before putting the cap on my head backward. Lennon releases a slow, exasperated sigh.
“Real mature, Casper,” she scolds, and I wink at her.
“I said I’d play nice. But you can’t expect me not to defend myself, Lennon.”
Lennon shakes her head, then switches both drinks to one hand so she can pick up the stack of extra bar napkins with the other. I grab her another garnish pick of olives.
“I won’t bring up Sable,” she says, and I drop the pick in her drink as a thank you. “I’ll make sure Macon doesn’t either.”
I nod and she smiles once more—a genuine, not irritated smile—before heading to the back of the bar.
I try not to check the door every sixty seconds. I also don’t second-guess the few glances I toss into the mirror behind the bar. My lips twitch with the need to smirk when I see the camo ballcap in my reflection, and then I go back to serving drinks.
Fifteen minutes later, Ifeelher.
I might be imagining it, but it seems like everyone else in the bar does too. People tend to take notice when town royalty graces us plebians with her presence. It’s like the crowd parts for her, letting her pass freely. I don’t have to look up from the drink I’m making to know that everyone is looking at her—whether through their periphery or blatantly staring—and she’s not acknowledging anyone.
A bar stool opens to the right of me and a poised blond figure immediately fills the empty space. I ignore her for five minutes, chatting up some customers and making a few drinks, until I see her manicured nails drumming on the bar top.
I grab a pint glass as I step in front of her. It’s been months since the last time I saw her, but she looks the same. Same straight, shiny, blond hair. Same dark, elegantly arched eyebrows. Same bright red lips. I don’t know what I expected, but it still makes me want to sway a little on my feet.
“Sam,” I greet.
I set the pint glass under the draft taps. Sam focuses her cold blue eyes on my backward camouflage ballcap and doesn’t remove them until she speaks.
“You work here still.” She drags her eyes from my ballcap to my face, her expression full of thinly veiled irritation. “Are you still at the garage?”
“I do work at the garage. I also work here. Not all of us have a trust fund, Samantha. Most of us actually have to work to make money.”
She hums, then drops her gaze to my hand where it’s propped on the bar top.
“At least there’s no grease under your fingernails.”
I slap both hands down in front of her for inspection. Her lips twitch at the corners, but she doesn’t smile. Instead, she makes eye contact with me and raises one of those perfect eyebrows. I can practically hear her thoughts.
You want an award for bathing, Christopher?
“What can I get you?” I ask, moving the pint glass under the tap of a local IPA and pulling the handle.
Sam puts a fancy-looking clutch purse on the counter and opens it to retrieve her credit card. Every move is smooth and confident. Every inch of her is perfectly pressed and flawless, not a wrinkle to be seen, not a hair out of place.
It’s like the girl I knew in high school doesn’t exist anymore. Granted, that was eight years ago, but the way she acts now? It’s like she’s forgotten that I’ve seen her high off her ass and sneaking off to fuck Macon in the back seat of his car. The classy woman before mewould never.
“I’ll take a Boulevardier. Blanton’s Single Barrell if you have it, but if not, Angel’s Envy will do.” She looks up from her wallet with a thick black credit card held delicately between her index and middle fingers like a cigarette. “Bourbon, of course, not rye. Two ice cubes and an extra orange twist.”
I let the pint fill until the foamy head is running over into the drip tray and the ale is just below the lip of the glass. Then I drop a bar napkin down in front of Sam and set the pint on top of it. I don’t bother wiping the glass off like I do for everyone else. Wouldn’t kill the princess to get her hands a little dirty.
“On the house.” I smirk at the way her nostrils flare.
She forces a sweet smile, flutters her eyelashes in a way that gives me unwelcomed flashbacks, then picks up the pint and drinks a quarter of it without breaking eye contact. I don’t bother fighting the way my smirk grows into a full-fledged grin as she sets the glass back onto the napkin. Some beer dribbles from the side of hermouth and down her chin, drawing attention to her blood-red lips. Unfazed, she uses her perfectly manicured thumb to delicately wipe it away.
Samantha Harper is the only person I know who can make messy look regal. Her plump lips, her delicate fingers, her sharp attitude. It all screams opulent and unattainable. It only makes me want to dirty her up more. To see just how close to filthy I can take her until her ethereal shine is made human and she’s back on level with the rest of us mere mortals.
“Thank you, Casper,” she says, the picture of poise and grace. “I assume Lennon and Macon are in the back.”
