else, they’d probably think it’s in bad taste, but he and Devin just have this kind of jokester relationship. They both take it in stride.
“Same place as always. And be careful when you put the dry goods in the pantry. You wouldn’t want the door to close on you.”
“Why’s that?” Daryl asks, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. “It’s not like it’s the freezer.”
“Nope . . . but you’d die before coming out of the closet,” Devin cracks, making Tiff and me laugh. Daryl grumbles something under his breath and starts pushing the food toward the back.
“That was a good one. He didn’t even see it coming!” I remark, and Devin shrugs.
“Probably a little distracted. When he was unloading the beer earlier, I heard him tying into Carl’s ass real good about manning the fuck up,” Devin confides. “So far tonight, Carl’s been acting like he knows he’s in the shit. Dunno how long it’ll last, but I’ll take what I can get, especially since Daryl can get onto Carl in a way none of us can.”
Tiff and I head out to the front of the house, and I can see that Devin’s right. Carl looks like he’s actually working, and when I clock in, he doesn’t have a single bitch or gripe as we swap out. The bar’s even in decent shape. I’m checking the bottles when a familiar, sexy-as-sin voice pierces my concentration.
“A dry Snow Queen martini, dirty with two olives, please.”
I turn around and it’s him. He looks just as handsome as before, although he’s dressed more casually this time. Instead of a ‘straight from work’ business look, he’s wearing a short-sleeved button up. It probably still cost more than my last paycheck, but the checkered pattern feels less stuffy and formal. Even better, the short sleeves let me see his arms. God, those corded forearms. He must see me staring because I realize he’s clenching his fists. Is he flexing for me or trying not to reach out and touch me? I find either idea enticing.
My mind flashes back as heat fills my stomach, remembering what it felt like as he held me close, the way his muscles felt under my fingers as I came, and the size of the bulge I felt pressed against my belly. I turned that down, for no better reason than some psychic bullshit and my own fears.
Well, fuck that.
Even though I’ve already decided where I’d like this evening to go, my first instinct is to run. Maybe see if he’d chase me. Instead, I hold steady, mixing his drink without a word and setting it on the table in front of him.
“It’s on me this time. Seems I owe you an apology of sorts.” He dips his head and takes a small sip of the drink, licking his lips. My eyes zero in on the movement, and I want to jump across the bar, kiss him, and taste the martini from his lips. “What are you doing here?”
“Figured it was time for us to see each other again . . . since you seem to have lost my card,” Scott says with a little smirk. “Thought I’d offer a challenge.”
“A challenge?” I ask, smirking at his cockiness. “You come into my bar, after what . . . after what happened last time, and you want to throw down a challenge?”
“Yep,” Scott says, reaching into his pocket and peeling off two hundred-dollar bills. He lays them down side by side on the bar. “Drink for drink, your choice of liquor, although I’m partial to Cuervo Especial.” He gestures to my left.
I glance over to Stella, who’s sitting at the far end of the bar. She shrugs and gives me a grin. “Win or lose, I’m keeping the two hundred. Your call, honey.”
He’s bold, I’ll give him that for damn sure. “All right, you’re on. Let me set us up.” I grab a bowlful of limes, his preferred Cuervo Especial, and a stack of shot glasses before walking around the bar to a table. I line the glasses up, pouring the first shot as I sit down across from Scott.
It’s a slow night, but the prospect of a drinking challenge, especially one with me, sends a buzz through the group and they crowd around the table. I can hear murmurs of people making bets, some on me and some on Scott. I know who the smart bet is. Me.
Scott smirks, listening to the mouthy crowd. “I have to ask—do you accept drinking