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“Be right back,” she says.
I turn to my friends, hand Kirill back his shot, and hoist my glass. “Cheers.”
They follow suit, knocking back the whiskey like champs.
I step over to where Stone and Harlow sit, throwing my thumb over my shoulder. “What’s the deal with that waitress, Stevie?”
Harlow laughs. “She owns the bar. We went to high school together.”
Well, that makes her even more interesting. “Put in a good word for me, okay?”
“A good word for what?” Harlow asks.
“I’m trying to score a date with her.”
“Dude,” Stone drawls with an amused shake of his head. “You just broke up with someone.”
“Your point?” I ask, reaching for my draft beer on the table. “Every one of you has been bitching at me for weeks to dump Tracy.”
“Rebound much?” Stone teases.
“It’s not a rebound. To rebound, you have to have a broken heart and I don’t have that.”
“He’s got a point,” Harlow says, wrapping an arm around Stone’s shoulder, but then her green eyes come to mine. “But Stevie is most definitely not your type, so you’re wasting time.”
“How do you know she’s not my type?” The minute the question is out of my mouth, I answer it myself. “Okay, granted… you’re personal friends with her, so you might know something, but I think I’ll make that final determination myself.”
“Hey,” Harlow says, hands out in surrender. “Knock yourself out, buddy.”
“I bet her a game of pool and if I win, she has to give me ten minutes of her time which I will magically use to get her to agree to a date.”
Harlow bends over laughing, and Stone chuckles.
“What?” I demand.
Laughing too hard to answer, Stone says, “Dude… she owns a bar. Not only that, she inherited it from her grandfather. She was raised in this place. There’s no way you’re going to beat her at pool.”
Hmm… that could be problematic, but I’ve been playing pool since I was a kid too. Thanks to Aunt Rory, lover of all things Stevie Nicks, I also hung out in some bars along the way.
CHAPTER 3
Stevie
“What’s with pretty boy?” my dad asks as I walk back behind the bar and deposit the tray beside one of the beer coolers. He looks over his shoulder to where Harlow, Stone, and his teammates sip on draft beers to chase the whiskey shots.
“Trying to get a date,” I say nonchalantly as I reach for my pool cue case. “I declined, and he said if I gave him ten minutes he could talk me into it.”
“So, you’re going to give him ten minutes over a game of pool?” he asks, returning his attention to me.
“No, he bet me a game of pool with the prize being ten minutes of my time.”
My dad chuckles as he lifts his beer mug to his mouth. When he settles it down before him, he says, “Does he know you’re a shark?”
I grin impishly. “Didn’t ask.”
After opening the case, I screw my stick together and glance down the bar. It’s nowhere near as busy as it was when the event started, but there’re still more patrons than we normally have. I’ve got two working the bar and one circulating, but I hesitate. I never take time for something personal on evenings that I work.
“I’ll help cover if necessary,” my dad says, reading the worry on my face. “Besides, you should hang out a little with Harlow. You’ve been working all night and haven’t been able to enjoy the success of the evening.”
My heart lurches in boundless love for my father. He reads me so well and is always the first to make sure I’m taking care of myself, even if it means insisting I take a few minutes to have some fun.
And it will be fun to beat the gorgeous hockey player who thinks he’s far too charming for me to say no to him.
“Holler if it gets too hectic,” I instruct my father as I come around from behind the bar and bump my shoulder against his.
“Got you covered,” he replies in that gravelly voice I’ve heard described on more than one occasion as a dead ringer for Sam Elliott. “Also, tell that boy if he holds on to your hand like he did before, I’ll cut it off.”
I snort and shake my head. Not that my dad wouldn’t do exactly that, but he’d have to beat me to it. If I hadn’t wanted Hendrix to touch me, I’d have made him let go. You can’t be a female bar owner with a rougher clientele and not know a thing or two about putting handsy men in their place.
Carrying my cue toward one of the empty pool tables, I catch Hendrix’s eye and jerk my head, indicating for him to follow me.
To get his ass kicked.
He meets me at the table, followed by Harlow, Stone, and the other players I haven’t had a chance to meet formally yet. We were swamped tonight, so Harlow handled running the toy collection and photographs which allowed me to keep the bar running efficiently. The Titans’ celebrity brought in more customers than I’ve had in the last thirty days combined, and I wasn’t prepared for it.
