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She sips her drink in silence, her thumbs working fiercely across her phone screen, and I can't help but wonder what's got her so down.
Why come to a bar in the middle of the day to take the edge off?
Why not hang out with other people her age? Go shopping? Take a nap?
Time drags by and the lunch rush dies down, everyone leaving their tips and waving goodbye before heading for the door.
Most of them will be back tomorrow. Some, the day after that, too.
The people who come here tend to come back frequently, and I don't blame them. It's a pretty badass place to take a break from work or enjoy your afternoon. Relaxing, classy, everything I imagined it would be when I opened it eight years ago.
Finally, babydoll is the only person remaining at the bar. If she's looked up from her phone at all, I haven’t noticed. It doesn't matter, though, not really, but for some reason I want her eyes on me again.
When I can't pretend to wipe things down or polish glasses any longer, I stride up to the counter and gesture to her nearly empty glass.
"Would you like another one?" I ask.
"Don't bother." She meets my eyes over the top of her phone. "I can barely afford this one. Thank you, though." She looks down again.
Ah, so therearemanners buried somewhere under her brash exterior. That's nice to know.
"That wasn't what I asked," I say, reaching for another glass beneath the bar and filling it with ice. "I asked if you'dlikeone."
She pauses again, her eyes climbing up to meet mine and making my heart stutter.
For fuck's sake, Alessandro.
"I'll never say no to a free drink," she answers, finally setting her phone aside and giving me her full attention. "As long as there aren't strings attached."
I'm embarrassed the first thought that crosses my mind is to ask what she considersstrings, but I scold myself and reach for the half-empty bottle of gin to start pouring her second drink.
"No strings. You just look like you could use it."
"Damn, I look that bad?" She purses her pouty lips, and I can tell by the pale blush warming her cheeks that the alcohol is kicking in. One more and she might not be able to drive home, but I'll make sure she gets there all right. No one leaves my place a bigger threat to society than when they came in.
"You look like life's been kicking your ass and you need a chance to unwind."
"Pretty much," she mumbles, downing the rest of her drink and pushing her empty glass back across the bar.
Don't ask. Don't fucking ask.
Despite my inner voice telling me how bad of an idea it is, my mouth doesn't get the memo, and the words spill out anyway. "How so?"
She leans back in her seat, considering me while I finish mixing her drink. Bartenders are here to listen to those who confide in them. We hear some of the most depressing shit daily, so I guarantee whatever this girl could tell me won't be that bad.
After all, I've probably heard it once before. Maybe twice.
However, this time feels different.
I worry about what will happen if she spills her heart to me right now, with her cocktail playing devil’s advocate. Will I be able to shake it off and comfort her like I do everyone else? Or will my alpha instincts, already vibrating and restless under my skin, have me attempting to fix whatever upset her?
She hesitates, shifting on the barstool before responding. "I broke up with my piece of shit ex and I'm just trying to get back on my feet."
Anger knots in my chest at the mention of her ex, and I don’t know how well I keep it off my face. How dare anyone treat this woman as anything less than the goddess she is?
Fucking imbecile.
My instinct is to protect, to comfort, although I’m not sure when I got so fucking defensive of betas.
