I forced a jerking headshake. “Nah, you’re good. See you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be the one in the regency dress.”
“No.”
She paused with her grip on the handle and looked over her shoulder. I could almost see her trying to decide whether to explain the joke or tell me I was an idiot for not understanding it in the first place.
Before she could decide, I said, “We can’t both be wearing the same thing. It’ll look ridiculous.”
I hadn’t gotten the smiles she handed out freely to the Mayhem brothers, but I got something even better.
She laughed as she walked out the door—and fuck, it was just as pretty as the rest of her. Soft. Almost musical.
It took point-five seconds for me to learn from that mistake. I wouldn’t be making her laugh again.
Even if that meant not speaking to her.
CHAPTER TEN
MRS. BUTTERWORTH, SOMEHOW STILL A SYRUP SLUT
RHYS
“Can you make a Rusty Nail?”
Lo moved her gaze from the shelves stocked with liquor bottles to where I sat on the other side of the bar. “Do people order Rusty Nails?”
“Not once in the whole time I’ve owned Rye.”
“And how long is that?”
It was stupid as shit considering she was a fake employee, there was nothing romantic happening, and the gray in my hair paired with the lines on my face made it obvious I wasn’t anywhere near her age. But tension still bunched between my shoulders at the thought of telling her.
I did it anyway. “Feels like a century, but it’s been more like a decade and a half.”
“Wow, that’s a long time.” She softened that blow by tacking on, “Did you buy it when you were in high school?”
“Let’s go with that.”
Lo gestured to the bottles. “So if no one orders Rusty Nails, why does it matter if I can make one?”
“No one’s ordered ityet.”
“Then that’s what Google is for.”
“Fair enough.”
The curveball question was my attempt to throw her since she’d easily nailed the rest of my bartender pop quiz. Truth be told, she would mostly be pouring drafts and opening bottles, with the occasional common mixed drink thrown in. Unless, of course, Harlow told her about the ones she liked to concoct when she was bored.
Those always ended up being bigger sellers than I would’ve ever thought.
Putting her elbows to the bar, she leaned closer—a move that pushed her ass out, making me suddenly wish I had mirrors behind the shelves. Or some strategically placed cameras. The view from my angle would’ve been better if she was wearing a low-cut top. Hell, I would take one of her uptight blouses right then since it would’ve given at least a glimpse down it.
But she’d listened to me and wore jeans and an oversized hoodie that gave me no view of her tits.
It was for the best, but I was having trouble remembering why with her in my space.
When the silence stretched, she prompted, “What else you got for me?”
