looks me up and down. Clearly these boys started the party elsewhere. “When’s your shift over? Let me take you home.”
“How ya gonna do that?” another player chides. “Carry her on your back? You’ve got a driver tonight.”
“Well, she can come too, dumbass. Plenty’a room,” Balko slurs.
I smile at the guy who attempted to rip on Balko. I don’t know his name, but I already like him. Hoping to change the subject, I raise a shot glass in the air. It’s filled to the brim, and Balko’s eyes follow it with interest.
“You get one on the house,” I say. “Courtesy of White Water, of course. If you like it, just ask your waitress for a bottle.”
A few guys crowd my tray and begin to pass shots around until it’s empty. Balko still hasn’t left my side, but he manages to grab a second shot, which he’s currently chasing with a beer. Gross.
The moment he’s distracted, I slip through the crowd, toward the bar, where I’ll refill my tray. A hand grabs my arm, stopping me on my journey, and I know immediately who owns the grip that heats my flesh. I turn, my eyes darting from the hand on my arm to Desmond’s face.
He takes the hint and pulls his hand away. “You know Balko’s bad news, right?”
“What makes you think I’d listen to anything you have to say?”
I can practically feel the frustration rippling from his body at my question.
A moment later, he settles in his stance, and his eyes relax. “You may not listen to me in the kitchen, but I hope you’ll heed my warning now.”
“And you care because?”
Desmond stretches his neck to the side and shrugs. “You’re Coach’s daughter. Just lookin’ out.”
I swallow, trying to maintain my strong frame. Why does he have to bring my father into this? “What are you, my protector now? Did my dad tell you to watch out for me?”
Desmond lifts his hands with a shake of his head. “No, he didn’t. Look, you can take my advice however you want it, okay? At least I can say I tried.”
I nod, tightening my forced smile before pushing past him to the bar. “Okay.” I draw the word out slowly. “I appreciate the advice.”
Desmond can’t know what he does to my insides, how they shake and heat like I’m about to explode. He drives me crazy, and I’m starting to have trouble pinpointing the exact reason why. Between his relationship with my father, his nonchalant arrogance, and the fact that he humiliated me in his cooking class last month, it’s probably a mixture of everything.
After our awkward exchange, I try to put Desmond out of my mind for the rest of the night. My efforts are futile. I swear every time my eyes accidentally meet his, he’s already looking intently in my direction either at me or at whoever I’m handing a shot to. By the end of my shift, I’m more than ready to escape his intense blue-eyed gaze.
I’m cleaning off my tray behind the bar when he takes a seat across from me. “Last call was fifteen minutes ago,” I say to him without looking directly at him. “And I don’t pour ’em anyway.”
He leans forward. “I know that, smart-ass. I’m not drinking tonight.”
I don’t look up as I think about what he just said. Then I realize that not once tonight have I seen him with a drink. My eyes flicker up to his, and it’s like my body can’t help but react instantly. Warmth floods through me. “Why’s that?”
“I drive the guys when they go out on Fridays.” He says it so casually, like it doesn’t bother him one bit to not be partying when the rest of them are.
This time, my eyes stay on him while I speak. “And they pay you or something?”
Desmond chuckles. “They’re my friends. I wouldn’t accept their money. I just do it so they don’t get their asses in trouble.”
“And so you can swoop in on their sloppy seconds,” I say with a wicked grin.
He mirrors my expression. “Every now and then, that might be the case.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” I mutter with disdain on my breath.
“Yeah, well, I think you’d actually be surprised about a lot of things if you opened your mind to them.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and lock eyes with him again. “Let me guess. We’re talking about cooking again, aren’t we?”