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When I flick my gaze toward Harper, her focus is already narrowed on me. She saunters to my corner of the rail in a lithe prowl. I’d be a fool to miss her hips swinging with extra enthusiasm. Most definitely on purpose. A low rumble builds in my chest as another battle crests on the horizon.
“You’re something else,” she says in greeting.
“Like ready for another?” I tap my lonely coaster.
Harper mumbles under her breath while fetching me a fresh Coors. “Sure we’re not allies?”
“Positive.”
“Then why not let him give me peanuts?”
“I won’t let my daughter’s second-favorite human keel over on my guard.” Sydney would never forgive me if she heard the truth.
She mulls that over on an extended pause. “Second?”
“I was giving you a boost in rank to be nice.”
“Bullshit,” she laughs. “You and nice don’t belong in the same sentence.”
I smirk and lift the bottle to my lips. “For once, we can agree on something.”
Harper’s silence is alarming. There’s a static energy in the air that clogs the lull. Her voice is soft when she says, “I think you care.”
Animosity gets sucked between my clenched teeth. “That line of thinking will get you hurt.”
“Let me worry about that, huh?” She leans on the counter, getting into my space.
Endless optimism and compassion swirl in her green eyes. Her presence is intoxicating. Warmth still clings too close. The spike in temperature is paired with attention from other patrons. If I strain my ears, curious whispers drift across the idle chatter. Fuck it. Let them talk.
I roll my sleeves until the fabric rests below my bent elbows. Harper’s gaze takes a noticeable dip to the skin I’ve exposed. Tattoos decorate both arms, the bottom halves on display for her perusal. She isn’t shy about her appreciation, staring longer than appropriate. Especially if she doesn’t want to get caught.
That doesn’t mean I tuck the temptation from sight. “You working tomorrow?”
She spins a bottle opener around her finger. “Who’s asking?”
“Just wondering if I have to deal with you two days in a row.”
The spell is broken, and her mouth forms a tight line. She straightens from her slouched pose. “Where’s Syd?”
“At Polly’s house.”
“The entire weekend?”
“You sound surprised.” I recite her earlier phrase with a sneer.
It’s not a secret that she’s regularly invited to spend nights at a friend’s house. My daughter’s social butterfly status began the moment she started talking. Her first birthday party had a guest list longer than Knox Creek’s spring festival.
“When is it your turn to host the sleepover?”
“Don’t ask me.” The parents never expect me to reciprocate, even when I offer. I’m thankful for that, in all honesty. One little girl is already above my pay grade.
“What should I ask then?”
A humorless chuckle rolls off my tongue. “Why you’re wasting breath talking to me.”
The bitter comment does the trick. Harper’s glare could slice a muffler in half. “You’re a real jerk, Jacob Evans.”
I lift my beer in a solo celebration. “At your service.”
