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“Because he put a spell on you, and fuck that shit!”
I don’t realize I’ve answered the question in my head out loud until Noah finally stops trying to get my attention, quickly dropping his waving hand in his lap right along with his jaw, while Callie can’t stop laughing at me.
Thankfully, Ford disappeared into the kitchen at some point and no longer has a front row seat to my current mental crisis.
“I don’t come to your work and annoyyou,” I mutter to Callie when she finally stops laughing.
“Yes, you do. Every damn day.”
“That’s valid.” I nod with a shrug as Marcus finally comes over and greets his wife with a very public display of affection. Resting one hand on the table and leaning down to wrap his other hand around the back of her neck, he tugs her mouth against his, laying a kiss on her that would curl my toes if I wasn’t busy trying to calculate in my head the last time anyone kissed me like that.
Answer: Never.
“At least go talk to him, and stop being rude!” Callie whispers loudly to my back, breaking the kiss when I start walking away to get back to work.
Knowing she’s right, and I can’t just ignore the poor guy, I quickly make a U-turn and head to Noah’s table to be polite.
“Trust me.”
“Hearing those words out of your mouth does not give me the level of comfort you think they will,” Ford deadpans.
Crossing my arms in front of me to mimic his current pose as we face each other behind the bar, I switch tactics and try to reason with the business side of him. He might be on my last nerve right now, but I love Wicked Pub and Grub. When I come up with a new idea, I’m like a dog with a bone and will not be deterred. Now that all the customers have been served, I have a few minutes while they’re eating to show this idea to him. I’d rather focus on literally anything right now than the shitty day I’m having and how easy it would be to let Ford make it better, like he always does.
“This bar needs a gimmick. Granted, it’s the only bar in town, but there are still entirely too many tourists who visit Harvest Grove every October and never step foot in here.”
“We have good enough decorations.”
His argument is lame, but it still warms everything up inside of me to get a rare compliment on how the place looks right now, no matter how mad I am. It might not seem like a big deal to some, but Ford calling the decorations at his bar “good enough” is basically the equivalent of someone else saying it’s the best damn thing they’ve ever seen. Especially when it comes to Halloween decorations. His response is usually just a grunt of acknowledgement when he first walks through the doors and sees how many hours we worked turning this place into a Halloween extravaganza.
There are cobwebs covering every surface, orange twinkle lights lining the ceiling and walls along with blacklights, and candelabras with black and orange candles on every table. All of our everyday glassware has been switched out with skull-shaped glasses, and all of the liquor lining the glass shelving behind the bar has been transferred into different sizes and shapes of glass bottles with corks to make it look like a wall of potions. And there’s so many other Halloween odds and ends stuck here and there that there isn’t even an inch of space left on the walls or ceiling. Not to mention the new motion-activated spider I put by the front door that warms my freaking soul every time it scares someone.
“Every business in town hasgooddecorations. We need something to get people talking and bring in more foot traffic. This will definitely do it,” I inform him confidently, knowing this is a good idea and willabsolutelyget people talking.
About something other than Ford being back in town and what stupid shit they’re going to bake for him next.
I want Wicked Pub and Grub to do well; it’s like a second home to me. The people who work here are like my family. One that’s normal and well-adjusted enough to function in society. They need this job just as much as I do to pay their bills, and I don’t want to fail them. Part of my job is to come up with drink specials and new ideas to keep people coming back. The candy corn martinis have been our biggest seller since the day I put them on the menu seven years ago. I am damn good at it, and this is a damn good idea. I just need Ford to see that.
“Who’s the guy by the window you were talking to?”
I roll my eyes when he changes the subject instead of letting me talk business.
“Some poor schmuck who moved to town last month who Callie took a shine to,” Marcus butts in, grabbing a few menus from under the bar next to my hip. “My lovely wife tried to play matchmaker with him and Sidney.”
My cheeks immediately get hot when Marcus offers this information, and Ford’s head whips back over to Noah finishing off his lunch. I don’t want to talk about this in front of Ford, and I have no idea why. We’ve never discussed our dating lives, other than the night we met and the fact that we’re both against relationships. We don’t talk about that when he’s here. I don’t ask who he spends his time with when he’s not in Harvest Grove, and he gives me the same courtesy.
“He’s not your fucking type,” Ford suddenly growls, slamming a drawer closed after grabbing a bar towel out of it, making my stomach flop while he continues staring daggers at Noah.
His statement is laughable, really. Noah loves everything about Halloween. He’s currently wearing a short-sleeve button down with pumpkins and bats all over it. He gets just as excited as I do about all the Halloween-related events in town, and he bought a home and started putting down roots in Harvest Grove within a week of being here. Under normal circumstances, if I weren’t so cynical and had an aversion to love, and if I’d never met Ford Prescott, he would beexactlymy type.
“Who the hell has that much to smile about?” Ford mutters, slamming a bottle of beer down in front of a tourist, who quickly tosses some money onto the bar before grabbing the beer and scurrying away.
Oh, he’s definitely jealous.
“Shut up,” I mutter, talking out loud to the stupid voice in my head again.
At least this time Ford just assumes I’m talking to him, instead of acting like a lunatic. Ford isn’t jealous. Ford doesn’t get jealous. He’s probably just annoyed that Noah is new in town, and he doesn’t know anything about him.
He’s definitely not looking back and forth between me and Noah with an expression of repulsion on his face, grumbling something under his breath about “no-strings attached…” but—oh God, he is!His usually guarded eyes are suddenly hiding nothing, and I can almostseethe wheels spinning in his head, like he’s picturing Noah and me together and not liking itat all. He knows, for me, that when Marcus said Callie was trying to play matchmaker, it means one-and-done. A night of sex and then peace out, motherfucker.
