Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
The way I respond to the man and how he’s capable of annoying me in the worst and best way just by existing are rather annoying.
I’ve been turned down before. Hell, I flirt with so many people just to pass the time that being told they’re married, straight, or not even interested happens regularly. Boomer’s rejections shouldn’t affect me any more than the next person, but somehow it hits me differently.
I’d pounce on him if he agreed. I’d never deny that. But shit, I’d probably strip naked in record time if Aro, Ugly or even Slick paid me any attention. Realizing I’m no damn better than the women who flock into the bar to shoot their shot with them makes me fucking cranky.
I pull my eyes from the pitcher in my hand when the door opens again and Slick walks inside. Aro and Ugly aren’t very far behind her.
I feel like an intruder, watching them walk toward the bar, because everyone inside has their eyes locked on Aro and the cane in his hand. Other than the light limp, the man looks no worse for wear. He’s scowling like someone kicked his fucking puppy though.
“What are you guys having tonight?” I ask Ugly as he places both of his hands, palm side down, on the bar top.
“Couple of pitchers of beer,” he says, and I get to work on them.
I fill two pitchers and slide them across the bar before grabbing a bottle of water as well.
“Here you go,” I tell Ugly. “That’s for Boomer. He’s looking a little low.”
Ugly grabs the pitchers, leaving the water for Aro. I nod at the man as he grabs the water, not knowing what to say to him. I wouldn’t consider myself close to any of them. I’ve never been to the clubhouse or hung out with them for any reason outside serving them beer here or getting a little help from them when a customer gets a little too rowdy.
Because I don’t know how glad you’re home would be received, I simply keep my mouth shut.
I step out from behind the bar to clear a table. We aren’t that busy but one of the waitresses decided not to show up, and that leaves the bartenders responsible for cleaning.
“What the fu—” I snap when I’m roughly spun around, but my words fall away when I see an angry Boomer standing right in front of me.
“I look thirsty?” he growls, pressing the bottle of water into my chest.
I don’t reach for the thing, and it falls to our feet and rolls away when he releases it.
“What?” I hiss, my blood boiling from this man thinking he has any right to touch me the way he did.
“You told the guys I looked thirsty and sent over that fucking bottle of water.”
I understand the way he received what he was told immediately, but that really isn’t the point.
I glare down at the hand he still has clamped on my upper arm until he drops it away.
I could stand here and argue. I could cause a scene, but it would get me nowhere.
I choose to walk away, both wanting him to go back to his table and to follow me.
My pulse pounds in my ears, striking the same notes as the song playing on the jukebox, as I head toward the hall leading to the restrooms. His shadow follows right behind me.
“We need to talk,” he snaps the second we’re alone in the hallway.
I turn to face the man, wondering when I’ll ever get over this crush I have on him. Maybe it’s the challenge that’s making me a little obsessive, but I just can’t seem to let it go.
“I didn’t tell Aro you looked thirsty,” I clarify. “I told him you were looking a little low. Most people would think I’m a good bartender for sending them more to drink when they’re about to run out.”
He narrows his eyes at me, his annoyance with me drawing him so close, his shirt brushes mine with every inhale he takes.
“Listen, I’m sorry for how I acted at the domestic violence event. I made assumptions, and I shouldn’t have. But you’ve got to stop doing things to rile me up.”
“Me?” I huff a humorless laugh. “I’m doing shit to rile you up?”
“You know you are,” he growls.
“It seems just the sight of me riles you up,” I mutter, my skin igniting when his eyes drop to my lips. “Are you really sorry for what you said at the event?”
He nods, his throat working on a swallow, but his eyes are still locked on my mouth.
“There’s only one apology I’ll accept,” I say, my voice dropping low.
Taking a chance I know will probably get me punched in the nose, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
He doesn’t exactly kiss me back. He doesn’t tilt his head for better access. He doesn’t part his lips at the brush of my tongue on them.