Page 58 of Duty

Haven eyed the blond frat boy at the end. “Don’t drink on the job, sorry.”

“Awe, come on, don’t be like—”

“Yo, Haven!” came a shout from down the bar. “I need another one of these.”

Max—a regular—was already pointing at his empty drink, and looking right at her. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t even in her section of the bar, and the other girl serving drinks was closer to him, he seemed to prefer to have Haven serve him.

“Sorry,” she told the frat boy, “another night, maybe.”

But unlikely.

She left the group of frat boys to their whiskey shots, and slid down the bar, grabbing bottles to make Max’s specialty drink as she went. She chatted with the regular—despite his interest in her, he was harmless for the most part—as she mixed his drink. She barely finished with Max before she was pulled to someone else, and then again for three servers who came up to the bar with their own drink orders for the floor.

Yep, definitely need an extra person or two.

Haven wasn’t complaining. This was a sign that her business was doing well … more than great, even, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t like a breather. She would. Five minutes off her feet to recharge would do her wonders, but she couldn’t even afford to take that little bit of time.

“Yo, Haven!”

Max, again.

Haven just turned away from the patron she was serving to tell Max to chill out for a minute while she finished at the other side of the bar, but a familiar voice calling to her from down the way silenced her instantly. And also made her blood heat up, not to mention the way her pussy clenched at the same goddamn time.

“I got it—no worries, bella.”

That voice.

That Italian.

That man.

She found him already behind her bar, reaching for bottles like he knew exactly what he was doing, and not the least bit uncomfortable by all the people, never mind the fact he was wearing a three-thousand dollar suit and serving drinks in a strip club. Just standing there like he was, doing what he was doing, seemed like a giant contradiction. Then again, everything about him kind of felt like that at one point or another.

His grin deepened.

His green gaze darkened.

She smiled at the sight of him. “Andino—you mix drinks?”

He shrugged. “My father taught me. He owned a bunch of clubs, although he sold most of them about a decade ago when he stopped being so involved in the business, and didn’t want his name attached to any that might fail or whatever. Anyway, that’s what I used to do with him on the weekends when he had to work in the club.”

“Ah.”

“You looked like you could use a hand,” he added.

Haven hesitated on pouring the shot of vodka into the shaker. Just how long had he been in the club, and watching her from afar? She didn’t have time to think on it for very long—the chick waiting for her drink was huffing and side-eyeing Haven like she thought the liquor was never going to come.

“Thanks, Andino,” she said.

He gave her a nod. “Don’t mention it, my girl.”

My girl.

Haven didn’t miss that. She was just too fucking busy to respond. It was another two customers, and the lineup of frat boys back for another round of shots, plus a server with ten drink orders before Haven passed Andino by again, and got a chance to speak to him again.

He’d taken off his suit jacket, and tossed it somewhere else. His blood-red vest and tie was a bright contrast against the black silk shirt he had rolled up to the elbows. She was caught for a minute staring at those arms of his—muscular, strong, and defined. Every large vein bulged with his muscles each time he moved.

He was something else.