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“Yes.”
“Is the music good?”
“Depends on who is feeding the jukebox.”
“If the bartender can make change, I’ll keep you supplied with quarters all night. It will be interesting to hear your selections.” I tugged at the door. She leaned against it harder.
“Hold on, can I play some Wilson Phillips?” There was laughter in her voice. The minx was teasing me.
“No,” I deadpanned and tugged at the door again; she still wouldn’t budge.
“Last question. Can you promise I won’t need a tetanus shot if I use the bathroom?”
“No shot. Gross.” She visibly shivered with disgust.
“Then I’m in.” I yanked at the door handle with all my strength and dislodged her hand.
I needed the heart-numbing beer ASAP because I couldn’t be feeling... things for my real estate agent. No matter that her laughter was sweeter than cotton candy.
She shot me a faux look of outrage and led me inside. I made a valiant effort not to check out her ass and failed. Damn, that dress was almost as short as the towel she had on the other day. A groan tried to escape at the memory of her naked body, wet and glistening in the sun, but I fought it back.
I followed her inside in search of the much-needed beer, my eyes resolutely fastened to her ass. I was already going to hell. Why change now?
The Pub was, as I expected, a dive bar. Simple and basic, as it should be.
A dark and cozy space with muted TVs in every corner playing sports and a few dozen people sitting around tables drinking, playing pool, or throwing darts. The bar dominated one wall, scarred from use and glowing with countless layers of wax polish. The structure was probably—no, absolutely—older than me.
Behind the bar, a woman with a high ponytail mixed a martini for a guy in a button-down with his tie loosened. The customer was the only man in here besides me not wearing work or cowboy boots.
“Well, shit.” Cameron stuttered to a stop just inside the doorway.
“Problem?” I put a hand on her waist and leaned close to speak into her ear. Her hair smelled like the same hairspray Stephen had used on me.
“That’s my boss.” She pointed at the loafers guy.
“Are we in trouble?”
“No, but something is going on. Jude never leaves the office this early.”
“Maybe he had a bad day, too?” Everyone deserved a drink after a bad day.
“Or he’s waiting for me?” She marched toward the bar, and I followed. Her long, angry strides pulled her denim skirt tight over her ass, and I’d have gladly walked five hundred miles enjoying that view.
In movies, there’s that scene where the outsider walks into a bar, and everything stops. That didn’t happen. But my arrival did shock the hell out of the bartender and Cameron’s boss.
The bartender, mid-pour, stared at me like I was an alien, forgetting about the drink in front of her. Her reaction spurred Jude to swivel and nearly fall out of his stool. His eyes bounced between Cameron and me fifty times, like he couldn’t understand how hell had frozen over when he wasn’t looking.
If I was that interesting, I might as well enjoy my moment of celebrity.
“I know, that’s how I reacted when I saw Cameron in that dress too.” I smirked at the boss, then passed a stack of napkins to the bartender so she could sop up the few ounces of spilled martini.
The boss blinked a few times and recovered his wits first, scooping his jaw off the floor with aplomb.
I thrust out my hand. “Wilson Phillips, nice to meet you.”
“Jude Morgan,” he replied in a cool, professional tone. I had to hide a wince from the ladies when he crushed the hell out of my hand.
“And this is my best friend, Lara Phelps,” Cameron filled in for the tongue-tied bartender.
