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“Apparently that’s their cousin, Liam,” I said, shaking the silver mixer in my hand with vigor, the ice crashing loudly against the sides.
“He’s cute. Just visiting, right? Did he mention if he’s single?” she asked, gnawing her bottom lip as she stared down the bar.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m assuming he’s visiting—people don’t usually move to Peachtree Grove—and no, his dating status didn’t come up in the five seconds I took his order.”
“Hmph. You’re not a very good wing woman.” She thrust her ample chest out, a pout on her heart-shaped face.
“Sorry, I’m a little busy,” I said, straining the chilled martini into a glass, topping it off with an olive-lined toothpick.
“Chatting people up is part of the job description, Mace. How do you even get tips?”
“Probably on service. Because, you know, I actually take customer orders. Something you might want to consider,” I shouted over my shoulder as I crossed behind her, moving to the opposite end of the bar. Steph stood rooted in the same damn spot, ogling Liam. If she didn’t get her shit together real soon, she might need to start looking for another gig. I couldn’t man this entire bar myself, and she was the only other bartender here tonight.
I sighed, my feet already aching. I still had another three hours ahead of me, at least. These double shifts were killing me. I’d been at the 5-to-9’er for the breakfast shift, then had a little downtime in the afternoon, barely long enough to shower and head to the Rowdy. And my next day off was still one whole day away. I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that perpetually lived between my blades.
“Hey, mind if I take them over?” Steph appeared at my elbow, notepad in hand. “I’m going to try and get his number.”
A hot flash of irritation ripped through me, catching me off-guard, but I shrugged. “Fine, whatever.”
She beamed at me. “Thanks, Mace. Love ya.” She blew me an air kiss and sashayed in their direction, leaving me annoyed at the cash register.
I closed out a few tabs, cutting my eyes in Steph’s direction every so often. She was giggling and leaning way in, flashing the McCauliffe boys as much cleavage as humanly possible, seeing as how she was five foot nothing and could barely clear the bar with her breasts. I shoved down my aggravation, taking my aggression out on the roll of quarters I was trying to crack open.
“Hey.”
I glanced up, making eye contact with the owner of the deep voice.
Liam.
“Hey. You need something?” I pointedly ignored the swooping of my stomach as he stared at me with those deep blue eyes, framed perfectly by long, dark lashes. So unfair. Why did men always get the best eyelashes?
“Uh, yeah. I’ll take another round, thanks,” he stammered, his cheeks tinging the slightest bit pink. Cute.
“Steph’s actually your bartender now.” I tipped my head in her direction, noting she was now batting her eyes at Ryder. Apparently, she wasn’t overly selective; any McCauliffe would do.
“Yeah, she told us.” He shoved a hand in his jeans pocket, and I took in his tall frame, the five-o-clock shadow thing he had going on. If I weren’t so busy—and he wasn’t just passing through—Imighthave been interested.
“I can get it for you though. Don’t worry about it.” I pivoted to get the drink, relieved to break the intense connection for a moment. Even with my back turned, I felt his eyes on me; I wiggled my ass a little for effect.
“Here you go,” I said, handing him the fresh mug of beer. Our fingertips touched, just the lightest brush, sending an electric pulse coursing through my body.
Not good.I didn’t have time to get involved with anyone, I was too busy working. And I especially couldn’t get involved with someone as freaking good-looking as Liam.
“Thanks,” he said, his gaze never leaving my face.
I had to give him credit, most guys spent about point-two seconds looking at my face; Liam seemed like he was staring into my soul.
“I’ll add it to your tab,” I managed to say, despite the hammering in my chest and the wooziness rushing over me.
“Great, thanks.”
“Macy!” A customer waved at me over by the jukebox.
“I gotta run. Enjoy your beer.” I slid some quarters into my apron pocket and headed across the bar, breaking the connection with Liam. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I shook my head; no way could I go there.
“Hey, Mr. Davidson, jukebox stuck again?” I asked, patting the shoulder of the older man standing in front of the yellow machine. He was a regular, coming in every Thursday evening for bingo and staying for exactly two gin and tonics.
“Yep, the old hunk-a-junk. But I don’t suppose it’s easy to find a new one these days. Now y’all have these fancy satellite systems, all the stations in the world playing nothing I want to hear.”
