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“Some days it’s tough,” Jack admitted. “Today gave me a headache. But I hear sex cures headaches. Want to give it a shot?”
She walked over and slammed his beer down on the bar, interrupting before the California Cowgirl could offer a breathy “yes” and drag Jack out the door. She didn’t want Prince Charming driving her crazy from one end of the bar while the sad, miserable sailor at the other end left her wishing she could escape to the back for a long, hard cry—but she hated the thought of him “curing” his headache with the redhead.
“I’ll take your money now if you’re headed out,” Natalie said, trying for a matter-of-fact, I-don’t-care-if-you-bang-the-cowgirl tone. She failed. But damn if something that felt an awful lot like jealousy was nipping at her heels.
Because twenty-four hours ago, U.S. Navy SEAL Jack Barnes had kissed her. He’d bet on her. She refused to let him win. But still—
“We’re not going anywhere just yet,” Jack said. “Miss Casey, would you like a beer?”
Casey the Cowgirl shook her head. “A shot of tequila, please. I think I need to start tonight off with something strong.”
Natalie spun around, not waiting until the redhead’s gaze lingered over Jack’s powerful biceps. She should probably do them both a favor and tell Casey that subtlety wasn’t necessary with Mr. Sex Cures Headaches. They didn’t need to hang out at her bar and get smashed before they left together. And dammit, the last thing Natalie needed on her final shift before heading to Vegas was a bar full of drunks.
She pressed her lips together as she poured the shot, trying to beat back the green-eyed, jealous monster. Slim chance. When had fate ever given her what she needed?
“Thank you,” Jack said to the young woman who looked like she’d taken a detour on the road to Nashville. “For playing along.”
“My pleasure,” Casey said, toying with her cowgirl hat. “But I’m not sure jealousy is the way to go. She looks angry.”
“Yup,” he agreed, raising his glass and taking a sip. He kept his gaze fixed on Natalie, watching her abrupt movements as she poured the tequila. No doubt about it, the bartender was pissed at him. But he’d rather see her spitting mad at him than looking like she was on the verge of tears.
And when he’d sat down tonight, the woman who defined feisty 364 days of the year looked as if her dog had died. Shit, Jack had been tempted to text Cade and ask if Mufasa, the dog his teammate co-owned with Natalie, was all right. He could have pressed Natalie for details, but he suspected she’d pour his drink over his head before having a heart-to-heart with him.
“Trying to win the bet before we hit Vegas?” Ronan’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“No.” Jack set his beer down on the bar. He wasn’t “winning” anything tonight. Natalie had been clear on that, and judging from the rowdy Tuesday night crowd, she was in for a long shift.
She picked up the tequila shot and rushed over. She set it down in front of Casey and glanced at his teammate. “The usual, Ronan?”
“When you get a chance,” his teammate said.
She nodded and turned to the lineup of people calling her name and shouting out drink orders. But instead of pointing to one and saying, You’re first, what are you having, she glanced toward the end of the bar.
“Hold your horses,” she called to the crowd as she headed for the young man balling his eyes out over a shot glass. A bottle of the hard stuff sat in front of him.
“She’s not having a good night,” Jack said. And then he watched as she covered the crying man’s hand with her own. She leaned across the bar until her forehead was practically touching the man bent over his shot glass.
“I think you might have a better chance if you pretend to cry,” Casey said. She raised her tequila to her lips and took a sip. “Might work better than trying to make her angry and jealous.”
Behind his left shoulder, Ronan let out a loud laugh. “Jack doesn’t need to try to make Natalie angry. He’s a natural. But jealous? I wish I’d seen that.”
Casey glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes widened as she caught sight of Jack’s teammate. “I love your accent,” she murmured.
“Ronan, take my stool.” Jack stood, abandoning the beer he’d barely touched. “I’m going to see if Natalie needs a hand.”
Knowing the wandering cowgirl would enjoy his replacement far more—even though the chances of the SEAL officer taking Casey home were slim to none due to his no one-night stands rule—Jack headed for the opposite end of the bar.
Natalie had slipped away to serve her demanding customers, but the man whose hand she’d been holding was silently shaking as tears rolled down his face. His friend sat beside him, equally grim.
“Hey man,” Jack said to the stone-faced friend. “Everything all right?”
The guy glanced at him. “He’s taking the loss hard.”
Jack assumed a parade rest position, hands clasped behind his back as the whole story poured out.
“Jack, leave them alone,” Natalie said, her voice breathless from rushing around the bar and filling orders. She placed her palms flat on the bar.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not harassing the kid. I’m going to take them home.”
