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I’m lost in every curve, tracing the line of the nape of her neck with my eyes, and flexing my fingers with the urge to reach out and drag her back to me. I want more of her—her words, her smiles—and maybe I can get one of those laughs of my very own.
Richard slides over next to me, lids half-lowered, but I’m not sure if it’s because he’s tipsy or if he’s checking me out. “What’re your intentions with our Willow?”
“Our Willow?” I snap. For someone I’ve never seen before, she seems to have crawled under everyone’s skin pretty damn fast—mine, Olivia’s, Richard’s, and Hank’s. My Spidey senses start tingling in warning. Or maybe it’s jealousy.
His lips quirk in amusement and he drawls out, “That’s what I thought. You wanna know what I know?”
I blink slowly, not sure I like where this conversation is going. I mean, yeah, of course I want to know, but there’s a part of me that wants her to tell me. But given how she walked off without a care, maybe a little intel would do me good.
I tell myself that I’m looking out for Hank, because maybe he’s been taken in by her sweet, innocent looks too. Deep down, I know it’s for my own personal satisfaction. Nobody else needs to know that, though, so I shrug casually, feigning indifference.
“All right, I’ll bite. Whatcha got?”
Richard takes a long, leisurely sip of his beer, delighting in the fact that I’m on his hook. Desperately twisting and turning in anticipation on it, in fact. “Willow Parker, Hank’s niece, city girl. Showed up a couple of weeks ago as a surprise. Said she needed, and I quote, ‘a change.’ She’s a photographer of some sort, always snapping away on her phone, though I saw her with one of them big, fancy digital ones once. Thing was nearly as big as she is. And she’s a damn good bartender.” He winks as if he told me all her deep, dark secrets. “Be good to her or Hank’ll have your hide, and I’ll be backing him up.” He moves back to his own barstool several seats away.
Actually, there is some good information in what he shared, answering at least the first of my questions—why the hell Hank had let her behind the bar. If she’s a relative, it makes sense that he’d trust her. Why didn’t she just say so?
Which leaves me to my second question . . . what’s she doing later tonight? Because I’d like to get to know her better.
Maybe I can do something with Richard’s information. I give him a nod of appreciation and sip at my water, watching and waiting impatiently for her to come my way. The tension in my body rises with every customer she talks to, every lift of her lips for someone else, making it difficult to keep my ass on this stool. I want to stride right behind the bar and demand her attention again.
Back and forth she goes, and after a few trips up and down the bar, I realize she’s intentionally avoiding me. She’s not even looking my way, skipping over my barstool as she scans customers.
Fuck that. But I’ve got enough respect for Hank to not pass into the no-man zone of his behind-bar space. If I did, I would definitely get his Slugger to my knees because this bar is the only thing keeping me from backing Willow up against the long stretch of wood and learning everything about her. So I make the safe choice, something I’m not always known for.
Waving her down, I see her throat work as she swallows, but she heads my way.
“Another J.D.?”
She thinks we’re keeping this all business. We’re most definitely not.
“Yes, please.” I’m an asshole, but I’ve got manners, especially when I need them, and something tells me I’m going to need every trick I’ve got with Willow.
While she pours, I try to engage her. “Richard says you’re Hank’s niece? That why he let you into the sacred space known as ‘behind the bar’?”
“Yeah, though my years of experience as a bartender probably didn’t hurt.” Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses as she pricks back at my unflattering assumption. Well, if my sister, Shayanne, said that, it’d be a sarcastic snapback. Willow seems to just be stating facts.
“Must be why he also said you’re a good bartender. Actually, his words were ‘damn good’. Which is high praise from him.”
I swear there’s the slightest hint of pink on her cheeks, but it might be the neon lights. She looks down the bar and scolds with a single word. “Richard.” He grins and shrugs like ‘whatcha gonna do?’ and she rolls her eyes, any tiny bit of ire already evaporating as she laughs along with him like they’re old friends.
I lean in. “Don’t be mad at him. He’s just trying to help me out.”
