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“I need to have her ready to run bottle service by next weekend. Send her to my office tomorrow when she gets here. I’m going to manage her training.” He looks at me warily but doesn’t argue. Smart move.
I lock the door behind Carter and make my way to my office. I have a few things to finish up before I can call it a night. I sit in my chair looking over the books, but I can’t think straight.
Tonight just keeps playing on a loop in my head. There is just something about her, more than the obvious fact she’s gorgeous.
I feel the need to protect her. The sins of my past demand it.
This isn’t the time to ponder Bailey Jameson. Cal sent over the proposal—as promised—to purchase the property, and I need to concentrate on that rather than on the beauty with demons.
The club is running the smoothest it has in some time, so now is the time to expand.
I have Carter to thank for that. He’s the best general manager I’ve ever had. He keeps the girls and customers in line during my absence, and he’s, by far, the most sought-after bartender in the city.
Maybe I should take his advice and leave well enough alone where Bailey is concerned. As long as she’s not currently using and bringing that shit into my bar, we’re all good. No more info needed.
8
Bailey
I wake the next day to a banging on the door. What the fuck is that? And what the hell time is it?
I peek my head out from under the covers and look over at my clock illuminating the pitch-black room. Blackout shades have been the best investment in this crappy walk-up apartment.
The banging continues. I stifle a groan, knowing only one person in the world would be knocking on my door at nine in the morning on a Saturday. On any morning, to be honest.
Harper.
Throwing the blanket across the bed, I jump up and pad down the hall. My feet angrily hit the wood floors with each step I take toward the door. I peer through the peephole before swinging it open.
Never can be too safe, especially with where I’m living. It isn’t that my apartment is in an unsafe area per se, but the safety precautions are definitely lacking in the building. Case in point, unwanted visitors being able to enter the building without me knowing. I tentatively pull the door back, not ready to meet the bubbly eyes of Harper.
No bubbles to be found, just straight anger. Shit.
Letting out a long sigh, I open the door wider and allow her in.
“What the hell, Bailey? An eviction notice?” she screeches.
“Did you at least bring coffee?” I grumble.
“Don’t deflect. Tell me what’s going on right now.”
“There was an error with my direct deposit. I have to see the landlord to get it all straightened out. It’s not a big deal.”
That’s one truth to all my lies. I do have the money thanks to Silver. I can’t tell her that, but she can at least see that I’m not lying, evidenced by her features softening.
“Come in,” I huff.
“Can you at least put a shirt on?” she replies.
I look down, and sure enough, the girls are out in full force. Shit. Must have forgotten to put a top on again in my exhaustion. Leaving her standing in the foyer, I run back into my bedroom and grab an oversized sweatshirt from the floor. Placing it to my nose, I inhale and decide it’s clean. If Harper knew I just smelled a shirt off the floor, she would force me to dump my apartment in Alphabet City and move in with her and Cal in their posh apartment uptown.
Not going to happen.
This might not be the most desirable location, and most might not love that it’s in a five-floor walk-up, but it’s mine. My place is also a one bedroom, which is practically unheard of at this price in this neighborhood.
I saunter back out to Harper. “Better?” I place my hand on my hip defiantly.
“Much,” she replies, making herself comfortable on the couch she bought me. She wasn’t much of a fan of the Craigslist special I’d found in my price range. The day before I was set to have it delivered, I got a surprise delivery from Jennifer Convertibles. A Harper-approved loveseat and chair. Typical. I canceled my previous order and she was happy. She was always more of a mom to me than a sister. Growing up after Dad died, it was often just the two of us.
“Well, now that you made yourself at home, without bringing me coffee, I might add, what can I do for you?”
“You certainly are cranky in the morning.”
“Jesus, Harper, I had a late night. Sorry, if I’m not bubbling with excitement to see you before I’ve even had my first cup of joe.”
