I refill his glass, my hand that’s holding the bottle trembling. I fight through it and then set it down on the bar. “I’m, uh—”
“By the end of the night,” he cuts me off, holding his glass up as if he’s toasting me, “you’ll be begging me.”
I check the clock on the wall. It’s midnight. Three hours to go. And then I think about what he just said. “That’s funny. I don’t beg anyone.” I step back, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to appear badass. “I don’t beg anyone, for anything.”
He takes a long swallow of his drink, his expression guarded. “How do you expect to be owned if you’re not going to beg?” He flashes a wicked smirk, and it’s equal parts boyish and rugged. It sends shivers down my spine.
I shrug, trying to appear indifferent. It’s with extreme effort, believe me.
He leans in closer, his elbows on the bar. Slowly, he licks his lips, and then his brows pull together as he regards me. “Don’t tell me that reckless, uninhibited desire inside you isn’t the least bit curious how far I can take it.”
“Take what?”
He motions between us with a careless flick of his wrist. “This.”
My lips pull up into a smile. “I don’t know what this is.”
“You do,” he adds, giving me a wink.
I swallow through the tightness in my throat. “Nope.”
He watches my internal struggle to maintain indifference. He blinks, thick dark lashes lowering, a stark contrast to his green eyes. Unexplained darkness flickers across his face. “We’ll see about that.”
“J, table six needs their drinks sometime today!” Dylan yells, smacking the edge of the bar. I nod and back away from Lincoln. I’m starting to feel dizzy, my head spinning at his words. All of a sudden, I feel hot. His lips part, and he watches me back away from him.
I busy myself with making drinks while Presley stares at me. “J? You okay?”
“What?”
“You look flushed.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m fine.” I’m not sure I am though. What the hell is up with this dude?
For the next three hours, we tease, flirt, and all the while, he never quite gives me much to go on. I try to ask about his personal life, but he’s a closed book and refuses to let me pry the cover open. “Is it just you and Bear?” I ask, wiping down the bar in front of him where I spilled water when he asked me how I like it. I thought he meant sexually, but as it turns out, he’d been asking for my own drink preference.
He examines me carefully. “What do you mean?”
“Do you have any other siblings?”
“Bear and Rhett.” His words come out forced.
Rhett? I’ve never heard of him. “Where’s Rhett?”
“Not around.” He pushes his empty glass forward. At first, he hides his expression well, aside from the muscle pulsing in his clenched jaw. “I’m done with the questions,” he barks, and then twists on the stool, tosses money on the bar and leaves. Just like that. I watch his broad shoulders until he disappears out the door.
What the fuck just happened? Presley notices him leaving, her eyes meeting mine from across the room. She raises an eyebrow as if to ask what happened.
I fight back tears, thinking I pissed him off somehow. Was it the brother question?
Screw him. I’m irritated that I’m letting him get under my skin, but I’m certain of two things. First, I’m going to find him and kick his ass. And second, he’s going to be the one begging, not me.
Trolling - A type of harvesting where lines, hooks, lures, and bait are used to catch the fish.
Presley teeters on the edge of a chair as she reaches around the front of the open sign to switch it off. I watch her, hoping she doesn’t fall off and into the glass. That’s all I need is for her to fall into that, and I’ll have to take her to the ER, and I won’t be able to find Lincoln. So no, she can’t fall. I bite my nails nervously. I also don’t have any left because guess who’d been biting them all morning wondering if Lincoln was actually going to come by the bar today?
This girl.
With shaky balance, Presley steps down from the chair and then yanks her stretchy jeans up. “How’d you piss off the fisherman?”
I count through my tips, pocketing my half and tucking the remainder inside Mal’s