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“And I want that to continue. Plus… they’re here in my place of business. I want them to have a good time.”
“They’ll have the best time, I promise.” I bend down, brush my lips against hers. “Now, tell me how much beer you want, and I’ll bring it out. You go be a social butterfly.”
“Two cases of Bud Light, three cases of Bud, and one case of Michelob Ultra.”
“Got it,” I say, stepping away to grab the two cases I took from her previously. But then I turn back to her. “Your dad.”
“What about him?” she asks.
“He, um… well, looks like he’s interested in Rory.”
Stevie crosses her arms over her chest in a clearly defensive posture. “So?”
I can see she’s ready to go full-on protective of her dad as the Best Man Ever, so I immediately pivot.
I’m not stupid.
“You better give him fair warning… she’s a spitfire.”
Stevie laughs and wags her finger at me. She knows my concerns were for Rory and not her dad. “I think they’ll both be fine.”
Maybe.
But I’m keeping an eye on John “Bear” Kisner tonight.
?
“You’re kidding!” Stevie exclaims, whipping her head from Coen to me for confirmation. Of course, that puts us face to face since she’s sitting on my lap with her arm around my shoulder. “He wrecked your Porsche?”
“Was a big jerk about it too,” I affirm, my eyes cutting over to my teammate sitting adjacent to us. Tillie’s next to him, but in a chair.
Stevie would be in a chair too if when she’d walked over, I’d I let her sit in one, but I pulled her onto my lap and it feels too good to let her go. Lucky me, she’s content to remain in place. Weirdly, the public displays of affection feel right with her. I never did them with Tracy, not because I was afraid of what others thought but because I never felt like spontaneously pulling her onto my lap to have her close.
I’ve never done that with any woman, for that matter.
Harlow cocked an eyebrow at me—she’s wondering, like everyone else, how serious we’ve gotten—but the smile that came along with it told me she’s happy for us. I’m sure she’ll pick at Stevie for the details, if she hasn’t already.
“I thought Hendrix was going to kill me,” Coen says, picking up his beer and taking a drink.
“It wasn’t that you wrecked the car, dude.” I pick up my own beer, point it toward him. “It’s that you didn’t give a shit you wrecked my car.”
“I gave a shit,” he says quietly. “But it was buried down deep.”
Tillie’s hand rests on Coen’s shoulder, and she leans her head against him as if to say, “Everyone knew you had demons, babe. I love you despite it all.”
“I’m glad you don’t have a Porsche,” Stevie says with a laugh, and she’s slightly inebriated. “That’s some small dick energy there.”
“Some small dick what?” I ask, somewhat offended. I loved that car.
Stevie waves her hand. “Oh, it’s just something my dad and some of his biker buddies say about sports cars.” She then parrots her dad by lowering her voice. “If you want to be a real man, put a Harley between your legs.”
I laugh so hard, I choke. “Does he really say that?”
She gives me an impish smile. “Maybe in his younger days, but if you ever want to get his goat a little, tell him you want a Porsche tattoo and see how he reacts.”
Twisting us slightly in the chair, I glance back at the end of the bar where Rory sits on a stool and John stands beside her. They’re locked in deep conversation, and I’ve been watching his hand that sits on her backrest. About an hour ago, he dumped a bunch of money in the jukebox and picked every Stevie Nicks song on there, and I got a sneaking suspicion that might be part of a seduction plan. I’ve considered pulling him aside and telling him to stay away, but what little I’ve come to know about John Kisner, he’d plow straight ahead just to spite me.
Stevie’s hands come to my face, and she turns my attention back to her. Putting her nose almost to mine, she says, “Leave them alone. Rory is fine.”
“I know,” I grumble. “She’s an adult. And your dad’s a decent dude.”
“If you need a distraction, I could kiss you,” she suggests.
My arms tighten around her waist. “I definitely need a distraction.”
Her mouth on mine is divine, and the music from the jukebox fades away, my awareness of my teammates standing all around dim, and I don’t give two fucks if my Aunt Rory and John want to sneak off into the storage room for a quickie.
As Stevie pulls back, I hear laughing, and Bain is standing there. “Sorry to interrupt,” Bain says, leaning on a pool stick and grinning at me. “But can Stevie come play pool with us?”
