Page 12 of Halo

“I’m not grouchy—”

“And you …” She whirls around, pointing a stern finger at me. “Be. Nice. She’s my fresh meat, and I need her. Don’t scare her off, and for fuck’s sake—” she lowers her voice—“keep it caged up for the night. Got it?” She jokingly pats my cheek before heading back into her office.

As Skye disappears behind a beaded curtain, the new girl saddles up across the bar from me, offering a hand shake. “It’s nice to meet you—uh … what was it again? Cowboy Ken?”

Great. Thanks a lot, Skye. I was hoping to decompress alone. Not fake pleasantries with some airhead coed babysitter. I glance up, and …

Whoa.

My heart scrambles for its next beat and my lungs forget their innate ability to breathe.

Her smile. It’s sweet. Effortless and sincere. It's not even just the curl of her lips; her eyes come alive with a dance of amber and chocolate hues.

It’s absolutely devastating.

I blink away, my brain finally catching up to the fact that she’s holding out her hand for me to take.

But I can’t, not when touching her suddenly feels dangerous.

She crinkles an eyebrow before noticing the smudges of blue ink staining her fingers. “Oh! It’s marker. The package says it’s washable, but—” she wiggles her fingers—“that was a lie.”

I huff, what’s meant to be a laugh comes out as an incoherent grunt, like I’m a fucking caveman. I bring my drink to my lips, hoping to disguise the short-circuiting of my brain.

“Here …” She steps over to a large, industrial sink and turns on the faucet. “Can’t be too careful, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Folding my hands on the polished wood, I scan the bar, determined to look anywhere but at the gorgeous woman behind it. Naturally, that's when she reaches for a stack of paper towels, and my traitorous eyes catch the movement.

And fuck me sideways.

Her ass in those jeans is immaculate.

And that's when I realize it: she's wearing jeans. Like, actual blue jeans.

No offense to the waitresses and bartenders at Low Places, but I'm used to Daisy Dukes so short they're practically an undergarment. But these jeans fit just fine. Even her bar-issued t-shirt isn't hacked to pieces in the hope some extra skin will mean better tips.

As she pivots back around, my attention snags on a tiny silver cross resting in the hollow of her neck.

Ah. Even more reason to stop ogling at her.

So stop already, stupid …

“..., paint and ink stains are an occupational hazard when you work with kids.”

Her words bring me back to reality, my eyes meeting hers. “I’m sorry. What about kids?”

“Oh! I teach kindergarten.”

I grimace. “The itty-bitties.”

She smiles brightly. “Yep, the itty-bitties. It's such a fun age. They're so cute and tiny. I end up spending most of the day bouncing up and down on my hands and knees—”

I cough and sputter into my drink, quickly setting down the glass.

“Oh my gosh, you okay?” She hurries around the counter, patting my back.

“Fine,” I choke out, coughing into a fist.

Her touch is tender and warm. Heat pools low in my stomach as I wonder how her fingers would feel elsewhere on my body.