“To your brother,” I say. The corner of his lips curl upward ever so slightly, and he lifts his glass, tapping it against mine.
“Thank you.” He brings the glass to his lips, and I find myself staring at his mouth, watching as he pulls in the amber liquid. I feel like letting out a loud sigh and saying, “Oh, you’re what fairy tales are made of.” Damn those fairytales. I’m forced to snap myself out of my daydream and refill a couple of orders being shouted at me.
As I busy myself with what must be the fourth round for every guy in here, I begin to lose track of whose arm was reaching out to me first. It’s getting bad tonight. Just as I’m about to throw my hands up in defeat, the heartbroken man walks around the backside of the bar and starts filling up glasses to help me. “I used to bartend,” he shouts over.
It takes less than five minutes to get caught up with the requests and now we’re both just standing here looking at each other. “Thanks for your help.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, smiling, flaunting a perfectly white smile, which, ugh, seriously—it makes him look even tanner. Trust me. I won’t be mentioning this.
All of the Marines stayed until closing, requiring more help behind the bar, which also required me to smell this guy’s delicious cologne every time he walked by me. At one point, he put his hand on my hip while he was leaning over me to hand someone a beer. I felt things I definitely shouldn’t have felt. God, I’m like a caged animal—taunted and teased, needing to be pet and fed. But that can’t happen when I’m with Trent. He owns the only key that could set me free, and he won’t give it up that easily.
As the hour after closing continues to creep by, the bar slowly empties out, each Marine leaving an eerie silence behind as they leave. “Thank you, again,” I say, letting him know it’s okay to go with the others. I still need to clean up and close the place down.
“Give me a rag,” he says.
“You want a job or something?” I smirk.
“Sometimes I wish I’d stayed bartending, but I can’t work here while I’m enlisted. Ya know?” He takes the rag from my hand and wipes the bar down. While I know I should be helping, I’m too busy watching the muscles in his arm flex and relax. Flex and relax. Flex… I really need to stop staring at him.
“So why are you helping me?” What’s in this for him? Trent’s warned me about these guys. They want one thing, and I’m dumb enough to put myself in a situation where they’d expect it. I’m alone in a bar with this guy. “I don’t have anything to give you,” I add.
He stops flexing—I mean, wiping down the bar, and looks up at me. Oh those eyes. The things I want to do—but I’m just going to sit here and suffer silently. “Can’t I just help you?” he asks.
“I don’t even know your name.” And it’s probably best that I don’t, because it might become my new favorite name.
“Kemper. My friends call me Kemp.” That’s a nice name. He wipes his hand off on his jeans and reaches over to me.
He wants to touch me. This is only going to make things worse, but still, I wipe my hand off on my pants and then place it in his. It’s as strong, warm and nice as I thought it would be. It completely engulfs mine, and I catch myself looking at the way his tanned skin looks against my paleness. This has to stop. I pull my hand from his, realizing it’s been there way longer than a normal handshake. What am I doing? I’m being dumb. I just have to finish up here, and it will be like none of this happened.
As quickly as I can, I finish cleaning and cash out the register. I flip all the lights off and with the last light to go I see the front door open. Thank goodness. He’s leaving.
Except the door stays open. I pull my sweater on and grab my purse, warily heading for the open door, clutching my belongings as if they’ll save me. But in reality, do I want to be saved? Well. I do, just not from this man. He’s leaning against the door, waiting for me. Why is he waiting for me?