attention, so can I really blame people for staring? It's just that this particular stare feels sensual, heating me in ways more conducive to being in the bedroom, not behind a bar.
I carry on serving drinks, thankfully at a far slower pace than earlier in the evening, when out of the corner of my eye, I see someone sit on the stool in the center of the bar.
I’m still grabbing change for the twenty-one-year-old birthday girl and her posse, so I leave Daisy to serve the newcomer. I hand over the girl's change with a smile, knowing that after this drink I’ll be cutting her off, when I hear a voice that makes my skin erupt with goosebumps.
A voice I usually only hear in my dreams.
“I’m sorry, sir, you’re going to have to speak up,” Daisy calls over the din of the bar. “What can I get you?” she repeats as I turn my head and lock eyes on a man I hoped I’d never see again.
“I said, I’m looking for my wife.”
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
I walk over to Daisy with fake confidence I have perfected over the last year and nudge her with my hip.
“Go take your break. I’ve got this,” I tell her calmly.
She looks up and down the bar before turning back to me. “You sure?”
I nod. “Absolutely, now go.”
She smiles with gratitude, likely happy to be off those heels for a little while, and disappears out back.
I turn to face the asshole in front of me, guarding myself against the barrage of images that bombard my brain from the time we spent together.
Asher fucking Sloan.
He might have forgotten me, but I didn't forget him, not for a single second, no matter how much I wished I could have.
“If you hand me the papers, I’ll sign them. I won't contest anything. I want nothing from you.” I mean every word.
“Papers?” he asks, his voice as deep and sexy as I remember.
“Divorce papers. I assume that's why you’re here, right?” Why else would he be here? He doesn't strike me as the themed bar kind of guy.
“I didn’t come here to get a divorce,” he informs me, shaking his head, making me frown in confusion.
“Well, what the heck did you come here for then?”
“I came here to get my wife.”
Nine
Asher
She stares at me in shock, but it barely registers as my eyes rove over this woman who, in the eyes of the law, is mine. How the fuck could I have forgotten the goddess in front of me?
I arrived an hour ago, watching her from afar, along with every other guy here and even some of the women. She is just that captivating—and in that outfit, the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. This includes my high school history teacher, Mrs. Matthews, who provided me with enough spank bank material to get me through my first few years, and then the Dixon twins had taken over my sexual fantasies in my senior year. But standing here, staring at my wife, I can’t remember ever feeling as turned on as I am right now.
My wife.
“Collect your wife? Have you lost your fucking mind?” she whisper-yells at me. I’m pretty sure if I look hard enough, I’ll see steam pouring from her ears.
“On the contrary, I’m perfectly sane. What time do you finish?” I ask her calmly.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Fuck you,” she spits out before turning away from me.
I lean over the bar and grab her arm. Not hard, just enough to stop her from running off.
She glares at me in disgust. “Take your hand off me, or I’ll call security.”
I let go and raise my hands in surrender. “I can either wait for you to finish and we can talk, or I can come back. And when I say come back, I mean every single night that you work, I’ll be here sitting on this very stool until you speak to me.”
And I would. One way or another, I will get her to listen.
“Fuck. Fine. I get off at 2:00 am. If you want to wait around, that's up to you,” she tells me before walking to the end of the bar to serve an older man and a woman who looks young enough to be his daughter. They remind me of my father and his latest bride.
She doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the night, not that I expect her to. I nurse the drink the other bartender served me and