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I knew I should have gone to the guys first.
“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Beck, watching me grab the Chambord.
“Pretending I know how to make a Cosmo.”
He grabs the Chambord from my hand. “You can’t be back here. And there’s no Chambord in a Cosmo.”
“Right. That’s why I said I waspretendingI knew how to make one. Melissa’s sick, so you’re stuck with me.”
“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Fine, but just wait on guys. They don’t order complicated shit.”
I grin. “Suits me. Men like me better anyway.”
“The ones who don’t know you, maybe,” he mutters.
For the next few hours, orders come flying at me, cash and credit cards and empty glasses shoved in my face. Men try to flirt over the crowd, crushing the chicks waiting on espresso martinis in the process. But it’sgood—I’malive. I’m challenged. It’s a game to me, like those tests they gave as a kid, the ones that got me into private school. How much can I hold in my head? How much can I do at once?
“You love this, don’t you?” Beck grumbles.
“What’s not to love? Men are throwing money at me and I haven’t even had to get naked yet.”
His jaw pops. “You’re not getting naked at all. And stop flirting with everyone.”
I squeeze lemon into a gin and tonic, which might be the wrong citrus, butI’mnot the one who has to drink it. “Why can’t I flirt?”
Beck grabs a guy’s credit card off the bar. “Because you’re like a rigged contest at the fair that no one ever wins. Every one of these guys is taking their shot and you’re letting them do it when you know they’ll all go home empty-handed.”
I slowly shift my glance to him. “Maybe one of themwon’tgo home empty-handed,” I taunt. “If you can stay out ’til four, I can too.”
His eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw pops again. I could stand here gloating over the way I’ve clearly hit a nerve, but why would I when there are men hereclamoringfor my attention? Men like the annoying guy at my end of the bar who keeps trying to make conversation whenever I’m near. He’s one of those overconfident assholes who thinks every female will still spread her legs because of that one winning pass he threw a decade ago, but I bet he wouldn’t go fuck some random barfly if he could have me instead.
“Why haven’t I seen you here before?” he asks.
“I normally work back in the office.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’d want to keep you to myself if I were him too.”
I cross the bar for the bourbon, and Beck moves beside me. “Is that guy bothering you?” he demands.
“He’s harmless. And he’s tipping hand over fist. If I’d known bartenders madethismuch, I’d have skipped grad school entirely.”
He sighs. “Bartenders don’t make this much.Youmake this much, and it has nothing to do with service. You haven’t made a drinkcorrectlyall night long.”
I laugh. “No one’s complaining though, are they?”
“Yeah, that has nothing to do with your bartending skill either,” he grumbles.
There’s a tickle of pleasure in my chest. I find his misery delightful.
The next time I glance at Overconfident Former Athlete, I wink, and no sooner have I done it than karma comes around to kick me in the ass. Suzanne has pushed her way up, front and center, and she’s leaning over the bar, letting her ample cleavage jut forward while she says something to Beck I can’t hear.
He grins—that lopsided grin I love, high on one side—and fury spins in my stomach.
I decide, without ever deciding, to let Bad Kate out of the cage. The version of me who is game for anything, uninhibited, full of innuendo. It’s not as if I can take it too far with Father Beck here, holding my reins tight. But I can sure as fuck tug on them a little.
I strip down to the black tank under my flannel shirt. Maybe I don’t have Lucie-sized assets, but the men around the bar don’t seem to mind.
Beck steps away from Suzanne and moves toward me, his nostrils flaring. “Put your fucking shirt back on.”
