Dixon (Dark Falcons #1) - Em Petrova Page 0,10

shifted things around on her shelf to make room. The past three hours of running her bar had been pleasant—normal. Why? Because for the first time in months, the Mayhem hadn’t come in.

Throwing a look at the back corner table where big men sat elbow to elbow sipping beer and talking, she could only guess that one in particular was responsible for the change.

Name: Mr. Tall, Dark and Chiseled. Drink preference: Johnnie Walker. Number of orgasms he could give a woman: Yet to be determined.

She twisted her gaze away from his laughing face and stuffed down the rising feelings of desire heating her belly. She wasn’t a woman who made herself available to men. With four older brothers, any time she even considered dating, she mentally ran through the dialogue she’d have with any of her family members. Most of the time, she determined the interrogation wasn’t worth it and she’d drop the attraction.

Now she wondered what her brothers would ask about Dixon. After eavesdropping—didn’t all bartenders do that?—she learned he ran his family mechanic shop out the old Hope Road. He was only a few months out of the Marines, having sustained a leg injury.

Looking at him, she could barely detect a hint of that injury. And he sure as hell didn’t act restricted during a fight.

She’d relived that bar fight over and over in her mind, wondering what she could have done to prevent it while experiencing far too much breathlessness when it came to Dixon cleaning the riff-raff off her barstools.

He’d also waited in the parking lot for her that night. Seeing him leaning on his Harley had done things to her insides—melted, flipped, knotted it up. All those sensations returned over and over whenever she thought of him sticking around to see her safe.

Slowing the swipes she made across the bar top with her cleaning rag, she cast another look toward the table. He sat at the head with the big guy they called Tank on his right. Each member took up the same seats each time they came in, as if they were holding court and each had their positions and roles.

Most times Dixon’s expression settled into one of serious thought. She could see why the guys looked up to him. But when he smiled, like he did now at a spoken comment…

He looked up and caught her staring.

Their gazes locked. Her stomach pitched, giving a tight yank on her core.

With as much willpower as she could muster, and that was a lot, she pulled her attention away from Dixon. From underneath her lashes, she tried to see if he continued to watch her.

He was.

She really needed to close the lid on this attraction she had for the sexy Marine with the smoldering eyes and more than enough calluses on his hands from working with engines to make a girl sit up and beg.

Maybe she needed Lake or Noah or one of her other brothers to remind her of those past bad experiences that led her to quit dating those gearhead types.

Turning to scrub the beer taps, she ticked off their names in her head. Jordan, Jeremy and Joey. Okay, maybe she didn’t only have a thing for gearheads—she had a thing for names that started with J too.

Thankfully, her bar filled with a large group following a baseball game, and she got swamped with orders for fried foods and enough beer to keep her hopping for hours.

When she looked up to see Dixon standing there with two empty beer pitchers, she nodded to him. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”

“Hey, Fiona, when are you getting me my beer? I’m parched down here,” a guy called from the seat at the end of the bar.

“That’s a bottle, not a draft, right?” she called.

“That’s right.”

Suddenly, she felt a big body closing in on her, pressing her up against the bar. She sucked in a sharp breath at the wave of musk and masculine shampoo filling her head, edging out the hops and rye.

“Dixon, what are you doing?”

He grinned and settled the pitcher beneath the tap. “Givin’ you a hand.” While the pitcher filled, he grabbed two beer bottles, hooked between his long, capable fingers, and strolled to the end of the bar to give them to the customer.

“Fiona, the bottles are three each, right?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. Stunned, she could only look on and then reach over and flip off the tap before his pitcher overflowed.

He wandered back with the six bucks plus extra for a