Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
It shouldn’t get to me. But it does. My heart does a slow somersault.
He glances up and finds me watching. The wink he gives me causes my lady bits to tingle.
Every pass through the bar, I catch him in profile, that jaw flexed in concentration and his forearms braced while he works away.
We fall into a rhythm that feels like muscle memory, even though this is the first time. Him sliding fresh beers down the bar. Me weaving trays of drinks across the worn wood floor. Every so often, our hands brush or our eyes lock.
The bar empties in waves. Monday night die-hards hang on until the last call bell. Harrison handles them, not even breaking a sweat now, voice pitched low and steady. Guys actually listen when he tells them to settle their tabs. Like he’s some kind of beer whisperer.
I stab my way through the last tables, clearing glasses and shooting evil looks at anyone who looks like they might want “just one more.” The floor finally clears.
There’s this moment, right at the tail end. The air is thick with sweat and old fries, and I take a second to just stand there, leaning heavily against a tray stand, watching Harrison.
He’s behind the bar, stacking glasses into neat pyramids, forearms roped with effort.
His eyes find me. There’s heat, sure, but also something a little more. At that moment, my chest does a funny, stupid thing that I can’t ignore. Oh, man. I realize Harrison Stafford managed to steal my heart without me even knowing it was happening.
I walk up to the bar, the pulse of old energy still crackling between us, and drop the last tray with a thunk and tell him, “Nice work.”
“Anything for you.” He pulls me against his muscular body and leans over to cover my lips with his. It’s not a quick kiss. It’s greedy. Full-body contact, his lips sealing over mine, tongue all-in like he’s been starving for this. I don’t even pretend to resist. My arms go around his shoulders, and I fuse myself to every hard, perfect inch of him.
I make a noise in my throat, low and hungry, and Harrison just growls in reply, right up against my mouth. There’s just the press of his chest and the absolute certainty that if he let go, I’d collapse.
A throat clears behind us.
Jerome.
I jerk back, or try to, but Harrison isn’t exactly rushing to let me go. I’m flushed, breathless, and mortified. Jerome’s arms are folded over his chest, that bartender stare pinned right to the two of us.
“You two might want to take that private stuff upstairs,” Jerome says. His tone is warm, almost teasing, but it’s enough to make me want to crawl into a beer keg and die.
My ears flame with embarrassment, but Harrison just laughs, low and wicked, like he loves being caught. His hand drops to the small of my back, steady and possessive. I get a full-body shiver.
“Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, lips to my ear. “But we’re going to have to take it back to my place. I can’t handle a whole night in your tiny ass bed.”
“You want to have a sleepover?”
His smile widens, slow and hungry, but he doesn’t move. “I want forever with you, but I’ll start with a sleepover.”
It’s such a Harrison answer I nearly laugh out loud. I don’t, though. I let the silence do the heavy lifting.
“We can talk about forever when I’m not so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.”
My voice doesn’t waver. If anything, it’s surer than I feel.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He winks at me. And just like that, we’re both in motion. The last round of closing tasks whips by, habit and muscle memory. I wipe down the bar, elbow grease on full display, the subtle drag of cloth over wood anchoring me to the moment.
We work in tandem, never crowding or bumping, just orbiting each other. Every time I glance up, he’s looking back at me. No hiding it. The air is thick, charged, expectant.
Harrison wipes the last of the glasses and sets them upside down in a neat line, mouth twisted in mock pride. “Look at that. Didn’t break a single one.”
I load the tip jars and file them under the register. “Miracles do happen.”
He chuckles low. The sound skims straight down my spine, pooling hot and electric behind my ribs.
The deadbolt on the front door clicks, echoing through the quiet. We kill the neon signs, one switch at a time, until the only light left is the ugly fluorescents in back and the cool wash from the alley’s sodium bulb bleeding through the window.
There’s a charge between us. It’s familiar now, but no less wild for having a name.
I don’t look away as he asks, “You want to ride with me?”