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“Well, you just seem too pretty to be chasing ambulances or conducting ruthless corporate takeovers.” Roman looks directly at me—and he’s right; I don’t do those things. That’s unless
my dad revokes my position at the firm as a way to punish me for running off this summer. I shake the thoughts off because I know I can find a job easily. It just wouldn’t be greased by my dad’s influence.
“I studied criminal law,” I tell him without elaborating and he nods approvingly. His eyebrows only raise slightly, which means, yeah, he did think I was one of those low-key estate planners, too pretty to get down and fight dirty. He doesn’t say anything else, but encourages me to share more details of my work while he pours drinks for me and other paying customers at the bar. Our conversation is flowing well and we don’t try to kill each other in the minutes that follow, which I find promising.
“Sounds dangerous.” Roman jokes and we toast another drink. If he only knew, I got all the DWI cases and petty misdemeanors up until now. Feeling more at ease under the haze of alcohol I continue.
“I was clerking and doing a lot of grunt work until I was offered a probationary job at my dad’s firm.” It’s disgusting how I make an obscene amount of money which I guess is the perk considering the pressure I’m under. It makes all those debate trophies sitting in my bedroom in my dad’s big house seem ridiculous.
“So you’re getting more serious cases now?” He leans in asking with interest.
I nod. “Yeah, or at least when I go back at the end of summer.” This time he nods leaning back to wipe down the bar.
“Well, I’m sure you can put your sharp tongue to good use then.” He smiles and I regret a lot of things like how I treated Roman from the beginning. It’s kind of funny how can I flay open a witness in a courtroom, but I can’t tell my dad how much I regret going into law. I can’t even tell my boyfriend what I need in our relationship or the bedroom. I suppose he’s teetering closer to an ex-boyfriend at this point. I pause for a moment to think when our interlude is interrupted by another guy behind the bar.
“Hey, Roman, thanks for covering. I got it from here, bro.” The dark haired guy takes the towel from Roman’s hand and directs him out from behind the bar with a shooing motion.
“So you’re not actually a bartender?” I look at them both incredulously. They glance at each other, laughing and clapping the other on the back—as if we ladies would understand what that means in bro-code.
“Nah, but this here is the greatest guy you’ll ever meet. I promise you. Best guy in Gold Beach.” The stranger claps Roman on the back again, and I can tell Roman is clearly embarrassed, but I’m interested in learning more about him for some reason, and tonight our banter hasn’t gone downhill as I usually expect it to.
“What Jake means is I’m the best bartender he ever fired.” Roman fake punches his friend in the gut and the two do some kind of ‘bromance’ hug there are no words for. It’s cute, but not redeeming—and I still hate men, I remind myself. Except maybe I hate Roman a little less.
“Yeah sure, Ro. The job is yours if you ever decide to give up those pretty boats of yours.” Jake winks at me and walks away to fill some new drink orders at the other end of the bar, leaving me with more questions about Roman Winters. So he’s into boats—not surprising if he lives here, I guess.
“Hey, you wanna dance?” Roman walks around the side of the bar to stand at my side as he runs a hand through his messy hair. The music playing has a good beat to it and several other people are out on the floor dancing already. I glance at them, nervously licking my bottom lip, unsure if he means dancing with me or in general.
I am a shitty dancer by my sister Leah’s observation, but she also took two decades’ worth of dance classes—whereas I barely made it through one abysmal season after tripping the entire chorus line and bawling my eyes out on the stage. My dad was mortified after having sat through four hours of tiny ballerinas prancing around. My sister demanded to switch dance schools after that epic screw up of mine. Yet another reason I miss my mother. Her hugs got me through the humiliation
“Hey, Blondie, dance or no dance?” Roman leans in to nudge me, and I think what the heck. I let my lemon drop buzz continue to fuel my poor choices tonight.
“Sure, why not.” I slam another drink down and lick the sugar rim again, letting the taste of tart and sweet assail my tongue. The rush feels good, but not as good as Roman taking my hand in his and pulling me off the stool and onto the dance floor. My legs are wobbly, like a new born deer, but he pulls me close and my body brushes his, and for one brief moment, everything seems so right.
ROMAN
If Abby licks around the rim of the martini glass one more time, I’m going to embarrass myself right here in the local watering hole in front of people who have known me since I was in knickers. I figure I should torture myself some more, and I grab her hand in mine, pulling her to the dance floor. She’s a bit unsteady on her legs and I wonder if I got Hollywood a little drunk. I kind of like the idea of a softer, tipsy Abby. I’d been working the bar all night waiting for Jake, and this is the first conversation Abby and I haven’t tried to slay each other verbally.
Her flashy gold sandaled feet match my fumbling steps. The stereo is playing something popular and the beat is decent for dancing to, if that’s what you’d call what we are doing together. Normally, I don’t dance, but I guess that’s what you do when you want to rub your body all over a pretty woman and not get arrested for it. Abby is about a good of a dancer as I am, which makes us terrible together. I don’t care. Like I said, I just want to rub my body all over her now that she’s pulled her claws in and our banter is much friendlier.
Jake sets us up with drinks and we have a few more—well, I have about three beers and Abby is drinking an ungodly amount of lemon drops, which I lose count of. I try to push the water on her, but she’s not drinking any of it. I’m hoping I didn’t get her drunk. I only wanted to thaw her out, but this Abby is friendly, a little touchy, and I want to get to know her better.
The night passes with dancing and drinking to an overheated excess even though it’s cool outside once the sun has gone down. Both of us are a little sweaty from our dancing. I realize how much I want Abby, not just physically, but because she’s an interesting woman. I feel the chemistry between us, which has me thinking I’d like to see more of her, but I don’t know if this is the real Abby or who she becomes when the alcohol takes over her brain.
Her hand snakes itself around the back of my neck, pulling my head closer to hers, and her short nails rake the skin just under my hairline, activating every nerve ending connected to my dick. The night is over and I don’t think I can convince Abby to continue dancing just so I can rub my body all over hers. The feel of her fingers on my skin makes me swell hard in my shorts and I really want to lean into her to feel the soft press of her body against mine. I really want to.
“I should probably take you home, Abby.”
Her touch is makes me groan and her small smile is doing things to me. Realizing how late it is, I sigh deeply like a teenager on a first date because I don’t want the night to end. It’s the first time since she’s been here that we’re getting along. I untangle her hand from the back of my head and hold her by her waist, trying to put a little distance between us. God, it would be so easy to rub my dick against her soft stomach, so easy since her skin is peeking out between her top and her low-rise jean shorts that lovingly cup her adorable butt, which I’d give my entire boat company up to caress just once.
“Home?” Abby’s giggle makes it clear I could be a real asshole about this and have my way with her. Grabbing my T-shirt, she pulls herself closer to me. It’s my fault she’s drunk. I was being a smartass giving her lemon drops instead of prissy white wine. She probably knew her tolerance with white wine better than a sweet tart mix of vodka. I couldn’t believe she wanted a blow job. No girl in her right mind would drink those. Correction: No nice girl I’ve ever known would drink those.
Abby is a sweet temptation best savored slowly, so I need to get some space to clear my beer-addled brain. With Maddie’s house being between my beach house and the cottage, she’ll make the perfect chaperone. Too bad Bella was at home with the Mayor at this hour likely snoring in her doggie bed. Does Abby realize I live so close?
“Yes, princess. I’m taking you home. We can pick up your car later.” Scanning the parking lot, I walk her toward my truck.
“My car?” Abby looks around the mostly empty parking lot of the bar, confused.
“Where is your flashy car?” I look, but I don’t see the sleek silver convertible anywhere. I’m hoping the kids in town didn’t do anything stupid like hotwire it for a joyride. They’ll bring it back; she wouldn’t be the first out-of-towner they’ve done this too, but I don’t want them doing it to my… er… Abigail Holliday.
