On The Rocks (Love After Midnight Book 3) Read online

  Like a long, slow, and hot tongue dragging over my cl—

  Good fucking grief.

  I blinked, forced myself to rewind the conversation back to what he’d said. Ah. Not there to see Brooke.

  “Yeah, right,” I muttered, turning my back on him and beginning to print out tickets for the open tabs, shoving them into black pleather holders that I then stacked at my side to deliver.

  When I’d finished, I turned back and nearly dropped the lot.

  He was still there.

  My pussy liked that, liked looking at him, liked thinking about what all that lean strength might be like in bed.

  His mouth curved, revealed a dimple at the corner.

  Fuck. He’d be good.

  I could feel that in my bones.

  “Brooke’s busy,” he said, and his voice was pure fucking sex. Which should have been gross, since he was discussing his sister, but instead it came across as private, as tempting, a goddamned siren’s call.

  I flicked a glance to the side, saw Brooke’s laptop had been stowed, that she was sucking down that rum and Diet Coke. “No, she’s done for the night.”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “How don’t you know?” I countered.

  A flash of guilt across his face, and dammit, now I was feeling guilty. But, I didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. I hadn’t left Brooke, hadn’t hurt Brooke—

  You just hurt your own family.

  And wasn’t that a wonderful feeling for two in the morning?

  I turned away again, though this time it was due to remorse and not rabid sexual longing—though I could honestly say I didn’t know which was worse. Either way, I made quick work of delivering the bills, and then made sure to avoid returning to the spot where Hayden was standing.

  Oh, look at that! I desperately needed to restock the wine.

  Oh and the rum and the vodka. Oh and we were low on O.J. and—

  I slipped out from behind the bar, grabbed my tub that I used to carry as many of the heavy bottles as I could manage in one trip—and yes, every time I went grocery shopping, I did battle to make sure it was that single voyage from my car through the backyard to my cottage.

  My biceps were rockin’.

  My legs were still short.

  Snorting to myself, I headed down the hall, used the keypad on the doorknob to input the code and unlock the storeroom, and slipped inside.

  Wine first.

  A surprisingly good variety for a bar, but then again, that wasn’t difficult to do when we were just minutes from any number of great wineries. Since we sold more of it than someone might expect, considering we were a bar, I settled three bottles into the bottom of the bucket. Next came vodka. Mid-label because we still had plenty of the cheap college shit and two full bottles of top-shelf left. After that, I put in a few bottles of rum and one of O.J.

  There was probably more we were low on, but my bucket was nearly full, and I knew my strength would already be tested as it was.

  I lifted with a grunt—and also my legs. It was a heavy load, enough to make my arms strain almost immediately. But I didn’t give in, didn’t put it down. First, because I was a stubborn asshole. Second, because I had to make it back to the bar. With the booze. I had enough nightmares in my life. I didn’t need to add me throwing my back out and ending up prone on the storeroom floor until someone came and rescued me—and the bottles—to my dark dreams.

  With another grunt, I pushed through the door, making sure it latched behind me.

  “Let me get that—”

  This time I did jump when Hayden spoke from behind me.

  I’d been too focused on the burn of my arms to realize that the burn had also drifted south . . . and in between.

  The bottles clinked, and I struggled to not drop everything, especially when Hayden came close, started to try and pull it from my grip.

  “I got it,” I snapped.

  “I can help—” He grunted when I elbowed him hard in the stomach.

  “Back up, asshole.” I shoved by him. Or tried to anyway.

  He didn’t let go of the bucket, and for all my shoving by him, I ended up pressed against him, the tub at my side, my arms pinned between us.

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I growled, yanking hard and not getting anywhere except closer to this man in a narrow hallway. One that was feeling infinitely narrower with him so near. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “What? Is it tough to be gracious?”

  My mouth dropped open, and I nearly lost my grip on the bucket, but then I pulled my head out of my ass, lifted my chin, and used every bit of spare strength to tear it from Hayden’s hands.

  Then nearly dropped it.

  But I had more than a little grit left. I steeled myself, refused to let it fall.

  Because gracious? Seriously?

  “Go fuck yourself, Hayden.” I began walking—okay, began duck-walking my way back into the bar.

  “God save us from stubborn women,” he muttered, all of six inches from my ear.

  And my temper—what little was left of it, anyway—snapped.

  I plunked the bucket onto the floor, turned around to give this pretty, sexy, arrogant, annoying-as-shit man a piece of my mind. I’d dumped drinks on asshole customers for less. I wasn’t going to take any shit from a man who’d faked his own death and devastated his sister and best friend.

  “I—”

  He bent, hefted the hamper of bottles like it weighed all of a pound, and strode down the hall, his long legs eating up the distance. And before I’d processed exactly what he’d done, he slipped back into the bar.

  With my booze.

  “Bastard,” I hissed, stomping after him.

  By the time I made it into the space, most of the customers had finished their drinks and were heading out. For the first time that night, more stools were empty than filled, and I saw that Iris had shown up, was cuddled next to Brent and looking decidedly sleepy.

  I wanted to find out why she was there when her daytime job had her up at the crack of dawn on a regular basis and at last call on only the rare occurrence, but I was too pissed.

  Because of him.

  Who was currently casually unloading bottles at my station, stacking them in a careful line as though we hadn’t just been playing tug of war out in the hallway.

  I stormed over, used my shoulder to shove him out of the way.

  Yes, I was fully aware that the man who’d been able to lift the bottles with such ease was probably letting me move him to the side.

  I didn’t care.

  He was in my space, my spot, and frankly, his gall was pissing me off.

  “Which is your favorite?” he asked, tone light and again revealing nothing of our hallway antics.

  I ignored him.

  A soft chuckle that slid down my spine, that lifted goose bumps on my nape, that had my thighs clenching together.

  “I’ll figure it out,” he said. “I’m really good at guessing people’s drinks.”

  I snorted, continued pulling out bottles.

  “Not beer,” he said, and I glanced out of the corner of my eye to see he was staring off at the shelves behind the bar, pointer finger tapping against his lips. “No, you don’t mind beer, will drink it with friends. But that’s not your favorite.”

  Blue eyes cut to the side, to mine, drawing my gaze to his, and I felt the air in my lungs freeze before I quickly returned my focus to the counter in front of me.

  “Hmm,” he said, still leaning next to me, arms and ankles crossed, the bulge of his biceps emphasized by the way his black T-shirt bisected the muscles. I had the distinct urge to place my mouth there, to trace the veins and hard lines with my tongue.

  My gaze slid in, over flat abs and a narrow waist, down to powerful thighs encased in another pair of cargo pants.

  A cough. “My eyes are up here.”

  I rolled mine, picked up the orange juice and bent to shov
e it into the fridge installed beneath the counter.

  “So, not beer,” he said. “Wine is a possibility.” He was fishing, but even knowing that, I still couldn’t hold back my snort. “Not wine then. Rum?”

  Since I currently had bottles of rum and wine in my hands, I said, “Is you being really good at guessing people’s drinks actually just you naming every type of alcohol that exists until you stumble onto the right answer?”

  A shrug. “If I have to.”

  I tsked. “Where’s the skill in that? It’s like watching a bad psychic try to fool someone by picking up on insignificant details. Next time, you’ll tell me that someone who has the letter D in their name is speaking to me from the other side.”

  Silence. Long enough that I glanced up and saw he was smirking. “Ah, but now you’ve told me you do have a favorite drink. That’s progress.”

  Silk. The smug words should have pissed me off.

  Instead, they drifted down my skin like the soft fabric, and I barely held back my shiver.

  Ugh.

  Turning my back on him, I stashed the rum and wine onto the lower shelves behind me. Unfortunately, the mirrors behind the bottles showed me that Hayden had moved, was holding out two more bottles of wine for me to stow away. I met his gaze in the mirror and knew I was staring. I should have been glaring, but the blue of his eyes was striking—the ocean on a warm Northern Californian day. Deep turquoise and navy swirled together. And then add in his crisp jawline, kissable lips, and hair that was thick enough to make my fingers itch to touch . . .

  Irresistible.

  “Here,” he whispered, coming closer, near enough that I could feel the heat of his body through the layers of my clothing.

  The bottle drifted forward, its label coming right in front of my face.

  I blinked, snatched it from him.

  “So, not beer, not wine, not rum. Hmm.” The hot breath of that exhalation hit my skin and this time, I couldn’t hold back my shiver. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s a Cosmopolitan.”

  I laughed outright.

  A girl drink.

  Me?

  The man had lost his bloody mind. I mean, Cosmos were tasty, and kudos to those peeps who wanted to drink them, but I wasn’t girly. I wasn’t soft and froufrou.

  I was a whiskey on the rocks.

  That burn in the back of the throat, the heated trail dipping down into my stomach. I flamed hot and brief, and then when I was gone, consumed to the last drop, I went back to my regularly scheduled program of ice.

  “Fuck, you have a sexy laugh.” Low, hot words whispered right into my ear, his lips brushing my skin, sending trails of heat to my pussy as effectively as that whiskey.

  My mouth dropped open, words failing me.

  But that was just as well because Hayden had plenty of words.

  “I haven’t felt one goddamned thing in ten years aside from guilt and a need to make what I’d done worth it,” he said and for all that it was quiet, his words were no less intense. “It wasn’t.”

  “I—”

  He kept talking, which was still just as well, because I might have gotten the one syllable out, but I certainly wasn’t able to form full sentences at that point. “Then I saw you on that porch, looking like some contortionist out of Cirque de Soleil. And I stood there watching, knowing I should help you, but unable to for the longest time.”

  His head dropped, and he inhaled.

  “You’re insane,” I blurted.

  He laughed and my eyes flew up to meet his in the mirror. “Maybe.” A beat. “But you’re still the sexiest woman I’ve seen in my life.”

  That more than anything knocked me back into the present.

  This might seem like an intimate moment between two people, especially given the way his big body blocked out everything around me. But we were still in a public place, still where I worked, still all of thirty feet away from his sister for God’s sake.

  All of that.

  But his words were what kicked my brain back into gear.

  Because they were laughable. I was not anyone’s fantasy, let alone the sexiest woman he’d ever seen.

  I was shaped like a cardboard box. Wide shoulders, wide hips, barely any curves in between. Men wanted women like the Kardashians or Giselle. They didn’t want an average-shaped female with an average face and above-average hair.

  Whatever I might think of my looks, my body, I at least knew my hair was on point. A rich ebony that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, my thick locks gave no indication they were anything but healthy. Then when the sun or overhead lights hit them just right, they shone like a gleaming river rock on a bright summer day. I wore it long, knew it was part of the reason I got better tips because when I pulled it back and customers weren’t distracted by my mane, when my “sparkling” personality was the only thing shining, I went home with far fewer Washingtons and Lincolns in my apron pocket.

  My hair had been up at Iris’s.

  So, I hadn’t even had that going for me.

  “You’re clearly delusional,” I said, spinning around and stepping to the side so I could create some space between us. “Or spitting nonsense.” I picked up the bottle of vodka and shoved it into his chest. “Find another girl if you need to get laid. I’m not interested.”

  Lies.

  But lies in self-preservation.

  “Anabelle—”

  Heat running over me in scorching waves, burning me from the inside out. And that was just from the husky way he said my name.

  Unbidden, I turned.

  However, I didn’t allow myself to be ensnared by that deep blue gaze. Instead, I forced the cold to the forefront and said, “Vodka goes on the top shelf.”

  And then I walked away.

  And then because I was a fucking coward with a pussy that was very much in disagreement with my walking away from a man who’d said I was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen, not to mention that it had emerged from the lips of a man who looked like Hayden, I hightailed it straight over to Brooke and Kace.

  They, luckily for me, were way too in love and thus, way too wrapped up in each other, to recognize the posturing happening behind the bar.

  I used them as a barrier.

  No shame. No deception in my brain.

  No deception in Hayden’s eyes either.

  He watched me walk toward them—a fact I knew because not only could I feel his gaze on me, but every time I glanced to the side, I could see him watching me in the mirror.

  Six feet away those blue eyes caught mine.

  And he smiled. Hot and slow and with purpose.

  My insides perked up excitedly, all with the exception of my gut. That twisted itself into knots at the same pace as the alarm bells blaring in my mind.

  That smile belonged to a predator.

  And I had the distinct thought that I had somehow just become the prey.

  Six

  Hayden

  “It’s a Bloody Mary,” I told her.

  The bar was empty save me, Kace, Brooke, and Anabelle.

  But I had a reason to be hanging around. Kace and Brooke were my ride.

  Also, lucky for me, it gave me some additional time to get under the skin of a beautiful woman named Anabelle.

  Her shoulders rose and fell on an exhale then she glanced up from the glass she was drying with a towel to meet my eyes. “What nonsense are you spouting now, McAlister?”

  Ha. She might be trying to put me off me, but she would fail.

  I’d always been good at pestering my sister into submission (in this case, into talking to me again) if she tried to give me the silent treatment, and now I was going to continue using that superpower . . . well, I wanted to say continue using it for good, but in reality, I was using it for mischief.

  Or maybe it was for another reason.

  One I didn’t want to look at too closely.

  One that made the space between my shoulder blades itch with the need to get off the stool, to retreat, to l
eave the bar and never come back.

  But then I would lose my chance to make things up to Brooke.

  Then I would also lose this chance at exploring why the fierce, tough Anabelle had a chip on her shoulder the size of an elephant, why she stared at me in distrust, why she felt the need to be so strong, so . . . separate from the rest of the world.

  “Your favorite drink,” I said when she just stared at me, her brows lifted. “It’s a Bloody Mary.”

  She snorted.

  “Sex on the Beach?”

  Pretty brown eyes rolled.

  “Rum and Coke?”

  Anabelle set the glass down into the rack, moved on to the next, not even bothering to acknowledge that guess.

  “I’ve got it!” I said, loving that her focus arrowed back to mine.

  “Okay, Sherlock,” she said. “What is it?”

  “A virgin daiquiri.”

  My only response was a slow shake of her head, but I could have sworn as she turned away to stash the glasses that her lips had tipped up just the slightest bit at the edges.

  Progress.

  Still didn’t completely understand why I was so desperate for that progress, but considering my attraction to her was the first emotion aside from guilt that I’d felt in far too many years, I was going with it.

  “Does anyone ever call you Belle?”

  Shoulders gone stiff, a slow swivel back, a dark glare. “No.”

  Said so absolutely that it would have taken an idiot to not see that I was treading in dangerous territory.

  “Not a fan?”

  “Considering I’m not a Disney princess,” she said archly, “no.”

  “But you like reading, right?” Brooke asked. “Like the real Belle?”

  I’d felt my sister approaching, had seen her trademark red hair in the mirror, so I didn’t startle.

  Anabelle did, however, and I’d be lying if I said seeing her so focused on our conversation didn’t call to something primitive inside me.

  Mine.

  Even though I had absolutely no right.

  “Not sure there is a real Belle,” Anabelle muttered. “But, yes, I like reading just fine.”

  “Just fine?” A gasp, Brooke clasping her hands to her chest. “You wound me.”