What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,13

performing Shakespeare in London’s West End.

“Hey, you two.” Discarding the morass of his past, Bull straightened his shoulders and brought out his smile for her and the wiry, white-haired man next to her. “I’m good, yes.”

Lillian gave him a skeptical frown.

Diversion time. “You look great, Lillian.” She’d gone back to London to have knee surgery and recuperate there. Alaska winters and walkers didn’t mix well. “Tell you what—if Dante isn’t treating you right, let me know, and I’ll take his place.”

Lillian’s smile cleared the worry from her face.

“In yer dreams, boy.” Dante, Mako’s old friend, was on the downhill slide toward seventy but as tough as old shoe leather. Absently tugging on his beard, he watched as Paisley drove her car out of the lot, spewing gravel everywhere. “Would that be your ex-wife?”

So much for a diversion. “Yes, that’s her.” Bull ran his hand over his shaved skull. “Gotta admit, I was a fool. Her beauty shut my brain down completely; it took me a while to wise up.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Dante slapped his shoulder. “Eventually, you learn that what you want in a spouse is just like what you want in a teammate—someone to fight at your side. A partner who’ll have your back and can be relied on.”

The old soldier smiled down at Lillian. “A sense of humor doesn’t hurt either.”

“You knotty-pated old fool,” the Brit murmured, but the way she leaned her head against his arm contradicted the insult.

Envy ran through Bull. That easy affection was what he’d hoped to find with Paisley.

And hadn’t.

“Enjoy your evening, you two.” Bull managed a smile and pointed a finger at Dante. “Don’t you kids leave any used condoms in my parking lot.”

He walked through the door to the sound of Dante’s sputtering and Lillian’s laughter.

As he donned the denim vest that served as his roadhouse’s uniform, he glanced around the bar. Very nice. The wagon wheel chandeliers, the antlers, and the distressed wood all made for a friendly atmosphere. The sawdust on the floor to impart a nostalgic ambiance hadn’t lasted past the first few months. Too much of a pain to sweep up.

Since he only hired a band on weekends, the tiny dance floor was often wasted space. However, the raised stage and sound equipment came in handy for the activities he’d tried during the long snowy winter when people needed diversions. Karaoke, poetry and fiction-reading, open mic for music had all proven popular.

Once behind the bar, Bull called to the other bartender, “I’ll take this half, Raymond.”

Canadian Raymond Yang was working to save for grad school next year. He gave Bull a frazzled glare. His shoulder-length black hair, which his Taiwanese mother kept telling him to cut, had come loose from the leather tie. His long-sleeved shirt had wet stains on the cuff. “It’s crazy tonight.”

Good. Just what I need. Bull rubbed his hands together. “Fun times.”

One of the servers, Felix, stepped between the curved rails of the waitstaff station. The blond young man—today in a flamboyant metallic print shirt that was dimmed only slightly by the vest—grinned and slid his pad of orders to Bull. “You’re late, Boss.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Bull used to worry about Felix, who openly played on gay stereotypes, saying he preferred that people knew exactly where he stood. He’d caused more than a few fights, but damned if there weren’t more men than Bull realized who swung that direction. Felix never lacked for partners.

Bull kept an eye on him though. The sarge had taught him that a man watches out for the people on his team.

With the energy in the room fizzing like champagne, tonight would be a good night. As Bull filled drink orders, he exchanged banter with some customers, handed out compliments to others, and paused to simply…check in…with the quieter ones.

Best job in the world. Aside from cooking. And running businesses and—

“Bull, my favorite bartender!” A masseuse from McNally’s Resort gave him a wide smile and a toss of her hair.

His mood soured slightly.

The woman’s friend, also an employee of McNally’s, leaned forward, pressing her ample breasts against the bar. “Now that the ski season’s over, you’ll see us in here more often.”

“Good to hear,” he answered. “It’s nice to have a break between tourist seasons.”

The masseuse reached across the bar to attempt to stroke his arm.

Pretending not to notice, he moved out of range, grateful for the bar between them.

I like people. Really, I do. Admittedly, sometimes he wished that people didn’t include those of the