prologue
RILEY
“WHAT CAN I GET for you?” I ask the two gentlemen who are looking a little out of place in my bar in their fancy suits. Since our opening two weeks ago, most of our customers have been of the blue-collar variety.
But I’m not complaining. One, because they are both ridiculously good-looking—especially the bearded man—and two, because I’m grateful to anyone who comes in here and gives my new business a chance. I’ve always wanted to run my own bar. I know this sounds like a ridiculous dream for a young girl, but growing up my aunt and uncle owned one, and I was there every day. I practically grew up in their bar with my cousin, Devon. Every day after school we’d help in the back, peeling potatoes for my aunt, or we’d order food and do our homework. Things that aren’t really that common, but no one batted an eyelash about it back then. It was a real family vibe, and I have a lot of good memories there. I guess I wanted to re-create that in my adulthood. I’ve always wanted to be my own boss and not answer to anyone else. And now that I have it, I’ll do anything to make it work.
“Hello there,” the bearded man replies with a way too charming smile. “Knew I wanted to check this place out for a reason.”
He caught my eye the minute he walked in; there’s just something about him. He must have scores of women after him, with that dark scruff and those blue eyes. He’s wearing black slacks and a light blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. It fits him perfectly, like the clothing was made just for his muscular build. He must go to the gym, because I doubt he’d get shoulders like that from whatever professional job he has.
“That reason had better be a beer and a meal,” I instantly reply in a dry tone, my brow arched. “Because that’s all that’s on offer. For you, anyway.”
I internally cringe. Great job, Riley, already insulting new customers. Sometimes though, I just can’t help myself. My default mode is sassy, and the attitude just pours out of me.
The other man laughs at my comeback, and I find my own lip twitching. Maybe they don’t mind my sass. His gray eyes are kind, and I find myself liking him already too. “Could I please order the steak?”
“Sure,” I say, pulling my notepad from my pocket and jotting his order down. I don’t show it, but I’m a little nervous right now. My chef hasn’t made the steak for anyone yet. I know I’m being ridiculous, but every time someone orders something from the menu for the first time, it’s like my anxiety kicks in, nerves and excitement hitting me as my menu comes together. I’m sure he will nail it. “How would you like it?”
“Medium rare, please, and with pepper mushroom sauce.”
I can feel the bearded man’s eyes on me, those blue fucking weapons of his, but I pretend I can’t feel his gaze on my face and instead continue to focus on the gray eyes. Safer eyes.
“Perfect. Fries or mashed potatoes?”
“Fries,” he replies, then glances to his friend. “What do you want?”
Apparently he’s doing my job for me now. Just who are these commanding, sexy, well-dressed men? I reluctantly bring my eyes to the blue ones.
“Just a beer, please, darlin’,” he says to me, tone gentle and soft.
And inviting.
He’s the type of man songs are written about. Books are dedicated to. Movies are made, with fucking Jason Momoa playing him.
He’s a fucking muse.
A heartbreaker.
Our eyes connect and hold, and a feeling I can’t really explain comes over me. With a quick shake of my head, I push it away. “Gotcha.” I all but rush to the back, pushing through the door that leads to the kitchen and staff room. Closing the door, I lean on it, breathing deeply.
“Fuck, she’s hot,” I hear the bearded one say. “She wants me.”
I roll my eyes and push away from the door, not wanting to hear any more. Sure, he’s attractive. I didn’t miss those tats on his forearms, giving him the perfect mix of badass and professional. He’s intriguing. He’s the type of guy women should avoid. The exact type I will avoid. Determined to act like they were any other customers, I hand Cheffy the order. His real name is Trent, although no one ever calls him that. “Time to show off your skills.”
His expression doesn’t change. Then again, it rarely does. “I can cook a steak in my sleep.”
“Good,” I reply, grinning at him. “Let’s impress the fancy men then.”
He mutters something under his breath while I return to the bar to pour their drinks. I don’t know why I was feeling a little nervous; Cheffy has it all under control.
As I open the door, my hand stills on the PUSH sign because I hear the bearded man say, “That motto isn’t compulsory. Come on, it’s a pretty sweet setup. It has a pool table, the menu looks good, and lots of alcoholic beverages to try.” He grins. “And the waitress is a fucking babe.”
I appreciate the pretty-sweet-setup comment and I pretend I don’t hear the fucking-babe comment, although the way my heart starts to race tells me that my body has decided otherwise. I push the door open fully, revealing myself to them.
“Actually, I’m the owner,” I say, then turn to Gray Eyes. “I’m Riley.”
“Jaxon,” he replies, offering me his hand. I accept it and give it a quick shake. The second I let go, my hand is gently clasped again, and soft lips are pressing onto my knuckles. “I’m Hunter.” He raises his head. “We work down the road, at the Bentley and Channing law firm.”
Hunter?
“Appropriate name.” I roll my eyes and say out loud before I realize I’m insulting a customer. Again. I pull my hand away from his reach. Get it together, Riley. You need this place to succeed. I pour his beer, avoiding his gaze and ignoring the burning sensation his lips and fingers have left on my skin.
“Never seen a lawyer covered in tattoos before.”
I don’t know why I said that. Nothing else came to mind, and I felt like I needed to say something. I shouldn’t have though, because now he knows I’ve been studying him. He doesn’t need to know that. I might never have seen a lawyer with so many tattoos, but I’ve never seen one so fucking good-looking either.
I suppose I should be happy that I didn’t blurt that out instead. It can always be worse.
“I’m one of a kind,” Hunter replies, and I can hear the smirk in his tone. I slide the beer to him, then finally raise my eyes to his.
“Probably a good thing,” I fire back, then disappear into the kitchen to check on Jaxon’s meal. Or maybe to escape, I don’t know. Why can’t I control what I say around that man? I think I just need a little air.
A few moments later, I hear Preston. “Is the owner here? I’m late for work, and she’s a she-devil.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head in amusement. Preston is something else, but he’s been growing on me. He’s a huge pain in my ass, but he’s also been such a help since Riley’s opened. Preston’s worked in many bars across the city, and he’s truly good at what he does as a bartender. He comes up with delicious new, creative cocktails and mixed drinks. I was lucky that the bar he was working at closed and he needed a new job. With his talent comes his attitude though, which is usually amusing but can sometimes be exasperating. I can’t exactly judge him for that—it’s probably why we get along so well.
I walk back out, only to almost bump into him. “Preston, you’re late.”
“I know,” he tells me. “It’s a long story. One I’m sure you don’t have time for, so I won’t bother explaining.”
I sigh deeply, exaggerating my annoyance with my hand on my hip. It’s good to focus on him and not the bearded lawyer who gets under my skin. “How the fuck are you the best bartender in town?”
“I have skills,” Preston says with a smirk on his face. “In the bar and in the bedroom. And I’m a mixologist, not a bartender. Don’t make me sound average.”
“Don’t be late again, Preston. Fancy bar skills or not, I’ll fire you without hesitation,” I tell him, although we both know it’s a lie.
“Noted,” Preston mutters, but I don’t miss his lip twitching. He loves me.
As soon as I head to the back again, I hear him say, “See? She-devil.”
“I can hear you, asshole!” I yell, shaking my head.
I hear the men laughing.
Great, they’re going to think this is the worst bar they’ve ever been to and they aren’t going to come back. The owner mouths off to customers and the bartender is inappropriate.
Hunter’s blue eyes flash in my mind.
Maybe it’s a good thing if they never come back.
I can’t afford to be attracted to some rich, arrogant, model-looking lawyer. A stranger who is now making me feel so weird in my own fucking bar that I’m hiding out so I don’t have to face him again.
When did I become shy around the opposite sex?
Maybe I’m just out of practice.
“If you can hear back there, can you get me another beer?”
I can tell its Hunter calling out to me. This is just great. I already know his voice.
I grit my teeth. Luckily Preston is here now, so he can get him another beer and bring them their food. I don’t need to go back out there again. Instead, I keep myself busy with inventory.
I’m married, I remind myself.
Not happily, but that’s beside the point. My body shouldn’t be reacting to any man like it just did to Hunter.
Shit.
What the hell.
I’ll never see him again anyway.