“You know what.”
“I’m just working.”
“Yeah, working my last damn nerve,” he said without any venom in his voice.
I lifted my shoulder. “Still working.”
I jolted when he suddenly wrapped an arm around me and rested his palm on my ass. Not partially on it like before. Full-on, spanned tattooed hand, on my ass. As if that wasn’t enough, he lowered his face until it was in mine.
My lips parted, and my tongue darted out to slowly lick my bottom lip. Not because it was dry or anything.
I just wanted the up-close view of oceanic eyes tracking the movement.
Which was exactly what happened right before his hand squeezed. Palming my cheek like a basketball.
“Whatever this game of chicken is, hellcat,” he said roughly, “you’re not gonna win it.”
“But you saw how seriously I take gaming. I’m competitive.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“Same thing.”
“And you’re playing with fire,” he whispered, his warning clear.
It sent a shiver down my spine, but I liked it.
As did Rhys if his tightened hold said anything.
“Of course I’m playing with fire.” I worked to keep my voice neutral. “You’re the one who started calling mehellcat. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
He dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling, likely gathering patience.
“Looking the wrong way, buddy.” That time when I moved, it was without thought or scheme. My hand automatically lifted to weave my fingers into his hair. His soft-as-hell hair that somehow felt even better than it looked. At the intimacy of the touch, I froze for half a second, but I was already in it. I had no choice but to tip his face the other way. “Hell’s down there.”
There was no trace of amusement on his handsome face as he nudged my hand with his head. Leaning into my touch, his gaze seared into mine. “Hell’s right here.”
“Then Hell is self-inflicted,” I shot back before dropping my arm.
The next hour passed in a blur of good vibes that got better when LaQuin clocked in. There was a reason he was Rye’s closing bartender.
Chuck was good. Efficient. A career bartender who seemed to handle rushes with a superhuman amount of chill.
LaQuin was also good. Efficient. A career bartender who smiled and chatted until everyone liked him. He cleaned up with end of the night tips because the stragglers who hung around a bar until last call were either celebrating or sulking, and his infectious mood worked on both.
He paused his sing-along with the music we could barely hear to grab my shoulders and spin me. “You must be a saint. If I asked my wife to work a single shift with me, she would assume I meant for her to come in to drink while I worked.”
“As it should be.”
“Agreed for youandher. You should be perched on a stool with a drink.”
I gestured to our setup. “No blender.”
He put two fingers to his head and closed his eyes like he was using supernatural abilities to form his guess. “Margarita, extra spice?”
“Piña colada, extra umbrellas,” I corrected. In my real life, people would probably assume I was a whiskey drinker or something else stereotypically tough. But I’d never been able to even sip it without making a face that was neither tough nor flattering. “Which raises another issue. This grunge bar is too cool for paper umbrellas. I get that. But why no little dagger thingies? Little dagger thingies are cool.”
“Nothing is cool when you call it a little thingy.”
