Page 6

I’m two hours early for my next shift. The club isn’t even open yet, but that doesn’t stop me from storming in like I own the place. Technically, Nathan owns it, but it’s been my personal fiefdom ever since he realized I could organize his chaos better than he could himself.

I do a circuit. Top to bottom, wall to wall. Every bottle’s in its spot, every stool turned up, every inch of floor shining like a mirror. If I said I wasn’t hoping to spot a certain caramel-haired troublemaker lurking where she doesn’t belong, I’d be lying through my teeth. But the only thing keeping me company is the steady thump of my own goddamn heart. At least I have time to get my head together before the staff rolls in.

Except… yeah, not happening. I’m stuck replaying those goddamn text messages in my head. Over and over, like I’m some high school idiot with his first crush.

I jam my hands into my pockets and pace the edge of the dance floor. I’m supposed to be the calm one. The absolute granite center of the club. Instead, I can’t get Deirdre Quinn out of my head. I want to drag her into my office and pin her to the fucking wall until she tells me what’s going on.

Shit. I want to drag her into my bed and ruin her for any other man, ever, but that’s another problem for another time.

By three p.m., I’m practically vibrating. The only thing that calms me is making lists, so that’s what I do. Inventory, back orders, staff schedules, security gaps for the week, and possible sources of vodka theft. I have two suspects, and one of them is already on my shit list anyway.

But every third item is just Dee. Like my brain can’t let her go, even on paper.

Right on time, Deirdre arrives. She’s got on her trademark black jeans, fitted but not tight, and a T-shirt advertising a metal band that hasn’t toured since two thousand nine. Her hair is down, and she’s added something—a sweep of bold eyeliner, or maybe it’s just the set of her jaw that’s changed. Whatever it is, it fucking wrecks me.

Her hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail, giving me a clear view of her kissable neck, and there’s a line of silver rings glittering along the edge of her ear. She doesn’t see me at first. I get a full, up-close view as she slides behind the bar, reaching for a bottle way above her head. Her T-shirt rides up, flashing an inch of bare skin. My heart nearly punches through my ribs.

My cock is already rock hard, so full and heavy I have to pull my jacket closed to hide it, but she hasn’t even spared me a glance. Jesus. I need to get my shit together. But then she finally turns, and I’m helpless the second those huge brown eyes lock with mine. She shoots me a look that flat-out says “Don’t even think about it,” and it sets every nerve in my body humming. I close my eyes and count to ten as my cock jerks hungrily against my zipper.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Needing time to get my shit together, I wait three minutes before making my approach. There are rules for these encounters. Never corner the subject. Always leave them an out. Present as unthreatening, even if you plan to be the opposite.

“Deirdre.” I don’t bother to soften it; her name punches the air like a bullet.

She shoots me a look, all attitude, like she’s allergic to taking orders. My temper’s already on a hair trigger, but this? My hackles are dancing on the goddamn ceiling. “What’s up?”

No “boss,” not even a half-assed “sir.” The way she says my name, all flat and bored, is another red flag waving straight in my face. Something is definitely off with her tonight.

I lean my elbows on the bar, eyes never leaving her, keeping my voice smooth enough not to tip her off. “Did you have a good weekend?”

She glances at me over her shoulder. “Mostly.”

I smirk, but only because it’s expected. “You ignored my messages.”

“I wasn’t on call.” She fixes me with a look that could halt a charging bull. She wants a fight? I’ll give her a fucking war.

Everything in me wants to lean closer, back her up against the shelves, and force the truth out of her. But I keep my palms flat on the bar. Steady. Controlled. Only my jaw ticks while she reaches for the soda gun like this is just another Monday and not the moment my sanity finally snaps.

“Not on call, huh?” I give her my best don’t-fuck-with-me smirk, but it lands somewhere between hunger and a threat.

She leans against the bar and holds my glare without flinching. “That’s right. NOT. ON. CALL. Now, did you want something, or can I get back to work?”

Hell yes, I want something—her. Every single minute of every day. In my life, in my bed, locked tight in my damn heart. I blink several times, wondering if I’m having a goddamn stroke. I’ve never let these thoughts come to the forefront of my mind before. Now, I can’t fucking stop them.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I swear, my brain's gone haywire. I can almost see the cartoon birds and stars circling over my head. My stomach drops clean to my toes as my thoughts careen off on a dangerous tangent. Before I can humiliate myself by blurting out that nuclear-level truth, I turn on my heel and get the hell out of there.

For the next six hours, I prowl the bar, circling at random, pretending I have any reason to be there at all. Truth is, I’m locked in on Deirdre, tracking her every move like a wolf on patrol. She’s in her element, working the crowd like some seasoned campaigner, pouring drinks, listening, and tossing back the right laugh at the right moment. Flawless. She’s got the whole thing down, from the way she jokes with the regulars to the fake grins she doles out to the most obnoxious drunks.

And me? I spend the whole fucking night trying to solve the puzzle of what’s changed between us. No matter how many times I pace past Deirdre, no matter how many drinks I pretend to need, I’m no closer to figuring this shit out.