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His chuckle cracks through my pathetic excuse. “How about you do me a favor then.”
“Doesn’t sound like a question,” I drawl.
Ridge skewers me with the fierce determination that made him famous on the ice. “Calm the storm, eh? Your mean mug is gonna scare off my customers.”
My nod is automatic, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t fault him for giving a shit about morale. He owns Roosters along with Garrett and Drake.
“Glad we have an understanding.” He knocks on the counter. “Cheers.”
Once Ridge ambles off to harass another unsuspecting regular, I’m free to let my gaze wander. Harper is dumping cocktail ingredients into a shaker several feet away. Even from this distance, I can hear her singing along with the popular country song blasting through the speakers. Her sharp notes hit me below the belt. I’m hard in an instant listening to that pitchy melody. It’s how she earned the nickname from me. Memories from our months together assault me on a reckless wheel. Those days are long over, but I find myself captivated again as she belts out the lyrics without restraint.
It takes more effort than I’ll willingly admit to stay in my seat. The slipping control makes me feel unhinged. When she begins swiveling her hips, my brain gets fuzzy. Her song and dance combination is even more intoxicating than the booze. I grip the counter for some semblance of balance. She fills my vision with smoke and temptation and lust. My eyes clench shut against the onslaught. At this rate, I’ll be tripping to the door with a pitched tent in my jeans.
A sideways glance proves that I’m not the only sucker caught in her trap. Harper’s performance catches the eye of many admirers. She shakes her ass faster for the grand finale.
On cue, the guy from earlier releases a douchey howl. “Damn, blondie. You’re trying to steal my heart with those moves.”
Harper peers over at him, the picture of coy innocence. “Why would I need to steal what you’re willing to give me?”
He hoots. “And you’re sassy? We’re soulmates.”
I gag on the idiotic sap’s cheesy lines. If Ridge circles back, I’ll order a glass of wine to choke it down.
“Not sure I believe in that sort of thing,” Harper retorts.
“Allow me to sweeten the deal.” He wags his brows and whips out a Snickers bar from who knows where.
“Real smooth, dumbass.” I’d been biting my tongue hard enough to taste blood.
Candy man swivels on his stool to face me. “Are you talking to me?”
“Do you see anyone else acting like a dumbass?”
He blinks in rapid succession, taking several beats to process my words. “What’s your problem?”
Oh, let me count the ways. “First off, who passes out candy bars when it isn’t Halloween? You’re just carrying that in your pocket, waiting for the right moment? Fucking lame. Second, she’s allergic. Two strikes and you’re out, buddy.”
He snorts. “It’s three. Now who’sfucking lame?”
“Still you.”
It’s then that the more important factor registers. His eyes blow wide, directed at the Snickers in his grip. “She has a peanut allergy?”
A look at Harper confirms my declaration. Her cringe is aimed right at him. “I do.”
“Well, shit.” His head hangs low, properly chastised. “I thought that’d be romantic as hell.”
Even with a front-row seat, I can’t believe anyone would think that’s a solid strategy. But good on him for shooting his shot.
“Guess she’s all yours,” he mutters.
Not even remotely.
Harper’s scoff echoes my internal sentiment.
“Try a KitKat next time,” I offer in farewell.
“I’ll remember that.” Leather creaks as he slides off the stool, tucks tail, and makes a wise retreat.
