Page 61 of Knot What I Expected

That might be worse.

Every night I work, Rowan “Havoc” Cross walks through the door sometime after dark looking like some freaking Viking god wandered down from the mountain because Valhalla ran out of beer.

He gives me a nod.

Orders one beer.

One.

Then sits there nursing the damn thing for hours.

Watching.

Not in a creepy way.

Okay. Maybe a little creepy.

But mostly he watches the room.

The customers.

Me.

Definitely me.

Especially me.

I feel those golden eyes every time I bend over to grab something from beneath the bar.

And yes, I am very aware of what my ass looks like in these jeans. Which I absolutely do not think about when he’s sitting there.

Nope. Not even a little.

Liar.

Anyway, when my shift ends?

He leaves.

No propositions.

No asking for my number.

No offering to walk me home.

Nothing.

Just a huge freaking bill sitting beneath his mostly empty glass.

Every.

Damn.

Time.

A beer on tap is six seventy-five.

Six dollars and seventy-five freaking cents.