How u like me now, Keg Boy?

The text buzzes through on my phone at a little after eleven. I’m just getting in the door from having a drink with Grayson at Ace of Spades, a bar downtown. I’m caught off guard because this number isn’t saved in my contacts. But I sure as hell know who it is. I gave my number to Callie in case of a work emergency. Looks like I’m on the receiving end of late-night drunk texts instead.

I debate texting her back. But I just don’t have any damn self-control when it comes to Callie.

Me: Keg Boy? Sounds like a lame superhero name.

I throw my keys on the counter and make my way to the couch. I spent half my night cursing Callie’s existence over a pint with Grayson. But now that she’s begun texting me, my pulse starts working double. By the time I sit down, another text comes in.

Callie: Your powers would be to make people cry into their plastic Solo cups.

Me: Is that what I do to you?

Callie: You’re killing my buzz. I don’t cry over men. And I’m here to show you just how excellent my beer vocabulary can be. Does that make you hop-py?

Me: Wish u were beer.

Callie: If u were a keg, I’d tap that.

Me: Why r you so brewtiful?

Callie: Aw, your compliments make me ale. See? I’m punny.

Callie: Also, IPA lot when I drink wine.

Me: Are you drinking right now?

Callie: Yes, a nice red that you’ve probably never heard of.

Callie: But sersly, I can’t stop thinking about your lips.

Callie: If u weren’t such a dick, I might kiss u.

Me: If ur lucky, I might start with ur lips.

The voice of reason in my head tells me to put a fucking stop to the nonsense. That I’ve taken it too far and she’d take it to Tom. But then another message notification comes in.

Callie: Start with other things. Cause u in ur pants, mmm...

This makes me sit up and take notice. Callie thinks about how I look in pants? Interesting. The thought causes the corners of my mouth to tip up. A couple of more texts come in.

Callie: This is my favorite wine right now.

Callie: It tastes kinda orgy.

Callie: I mean orngy

Callie: Orangy.

A crooked selfie of her sitting and holding up a wine glass inscribed with “Sips about to go down!” comes in next.

Fuck, she looks so damn cute. I stare at the picture far longer than I need to, noticing the freckle on her cheek. How her mouth curves into a bow.

Callie: You probably like the cup I’m holding better than me.

She sends me another selfie displaying a ridiculous pout. I have to hand it to her, she doesn’t do the duck lips or any of the other generic poses I see most people make on Instagram when they take selfies. She actually looks downright…adorable.

It’s what she writes next that makes my chest pinch in the center.

Callie: Cause u hate me.

“Fuck,” I mutter and get up from the couch, making my way to my bedroom. It’s almost midnight, and I need to be up bright and early for my shift.

Me: Not true.

It’s the same reaction I had last night, too. I feel like an asshole. Because I don’t hate Callie. Sure, I resent the hell out of her being here, in the position I want more than my next breath. But hate her?

It’s pretty damn tough to hate someone who has this crazy pull on me. The woman who, when I’m in close proximity of, makes me forget my goal, my endgame. Instead, I find myself transfixed by…her.

Callie: We should make out. When ur nice.

Me: Not a good idea, princess.

Callie: Always so mean. Why does wine always make me pee so much?

Me: No clue. Heading to bed. Night, Callie.

I toss my phone onto my nightstand right before it vibrates a few more times. I grab and do a double take at the last messages.

Callie: Do u like making out cause I do.

Callie: A lot.

Callie: My last bf didn’t like to go dow

That’s her final text. I assume she passed out after sending it, but damn I’m nowhere near tired by then.

* * *

The next day isn’t much better in terms of distraction.

“Been wiping down the same spot for ’bout five solid minutes now.”

My head snaps up, drawn from my thoughts, and I lock eyes with Bert. His oversized dentures appear to mock me more than usual. Probably because I was up for a solid three hours after Callie’s last text. I tried taking care of business in the shower, but nothing can get the image out of my head. Of how bad I want to show Callie what she was missing out on with her last boyfriend.

“Women troubles, huh?” He arches a thick, bushy white eyebrow at me.

My huff of a laugh sounds strained even to my own ears. I avert my eyes and shift to wipe down the other section of the bar even though it’s already clean.

“No women troubles for me.”

“Uh-huh.” Bert’s response is laced with doubt. But I’ve already dismissed him because my mind is stuck replaying all the text messages from Callie last night. They range from funny, in a silly kind of way, to sexy and make me hard as hell in a split second.

And I don’t have the faintest fucking idea what to make of any of it.

I grab the clipboard to check inventory in yet another attempt to get my mind back on track.

And I fail miserably because the only thing I can concentrate on now is the fact that Callie confessed her last boyfriend didn’t like going down on her.

Suddenly, my mind flashes to an image of Callie lying back on the bar top, her skirt bunched up around her waist, and a thin strip of lace barely covering where I plan to put my mouth and feast on her. She’s watching me, eyes darkened with lust, and when I dip my head closer to her core, I’m practically singed by the heat radiating from it. My eyes lock with hers as my fingers slip beneath the lace, and I tug it aside, baring her for my tongue and lips and—

“Hey, Reid.”

I rear up so fast from where I was crouched, staring sightlessly at the line of bottles on the bottom shelf beneath the bar, that I crack my head on the lacquered wood.

“Shit,” I curse beneath my breath. Gingerly, I rub the fast-developing bump on my forehead near the hairline and turn to Tom.

Only to realize I need to hide a massive boner.

Fuck.

Grabbing the clipboard to cover my dick, as I internally scold, “Down, boy! Down, boy!” I fix my attention on my boss.

“Sir?”

“Just want to make sure you have everything lined up for the bachelor party in the back room tonight.”

Between a headache blooming and the sight of my boss, the situation down south has abated. “All set. They requested kegs of our Sunset Bay and Orange Grove.”

“Thanks, Reid.” He starts to turn away but hesitates, his features etched with concern. “You’ll watch out for Callie tonight, right? You know”—he tips his head to the side—“to make sure none of those guys get too rowdy with her.”

My jaw clenches, but I manage to force out, “Of course.”

Why is he worried about her with rowdy customers? He’s never expressed concern about any of the other waitresses before.

Again with the special treatment, dammit. First, she gets my position, and now this?

Tom gently slaps my shoulder and smiles. “Thanks, Reid. Knew I could count on you.”

He walks away, and I’m left standing here wondering why he doesn’t realize he can also count on me to be a manager.

* * *

By the time Callie rolls in for her shift, the bar is slammed. The guys from the bachelor party arrive about ten minutes after her, and right from the get-go, I know it’s going to be a hell of a long night.

One of the guys immediately rubs me the wrong way. He sidles up as I’m rounding the bar just after I’ve finished setting up the back room they reserved.

“Hey, man,” he says.

I find myself face-to-face with a dude whose hair has a shit-ton of gel in it. His practiced smile reminds me of some smarmy used car salesman.

I fix a polite, professional smile on my face. “What can I do for you?”

He glances around quickly. “We’re expecting some ladies to join us, and I wondered if you had any suggestions…” He nods in Callie’s direction. She’s currently chatting with a party of six at one of the larger tables. “On how to get that fine piece of—”

“I have the kegs you guys requested already set up in the room. The food’ll be out soon.” I fist my hands at my sides and war with myself to keep from punching this asshole in the face for referring to Callie as a piece of anything. “She’s on the clock, so aside from serving your food, she’s not permitted to do anything else.”

He looks like he wants to challenge me, but something in my hard stare changes his mind. With a shrug, he shifts, moving in the direction of where the other guys in his party have already gravitated to. “We’ll see.”

We’ll see. What a fucking douche.

I grab a tray full of freshly cleaned beer glasses and quickly restock the bar when Callie slides in behind me to fill an order.

“So”—I glance over at her—“we gonna talk about last night?”

She fumbles with her grip on the glass but catches it in the nick of time. Her brows pinch together in what I assume is confusion. “What are you talking about? I didn’t even see you last night.”

I study her expression, initially wondering if she’s playing coy.

Holy shit. She has no idea what she did last night.

Oh-ho. This’ll be fun.

My lips stretch wide into a grin. “Don’t recall those naughty text messages you sent me last night?” I tsk. “Such a shame, Callie.”

Her face takes on a sudden shallow pallor, and she makes a tiny whimpering sound. “Oh, no.” Scrambling, she withdraws her cell phone from where she stashed it in a small nook beneath the bar. As she thumbs to scroll through her messages, I swear she begins to look queasy.

“Oh, yes.” My smile widens. “I especially liked when you asked me if I liked making out.”

Her chin drops to her chest, eyes closing on a wince. “Can we please forget any of that happened?”

“Now why would we want to do that?” I pause for a beat. “Especially since you were studying Craft Beer for Dummies. I’m sure Tom would love to know about that.”

Her head snaps up, her expression pleading. Vulnerable. “Reid, please don’t—”

“Callie! Order’s ready!” The call from our kitchen crew, alerting her that she needs to serve the party in the back, interrupts her plea.

“Reid, will you help out with the back room? The guys—”

“You said you could handle it. All that knowledge from your book won’t do you jack shit if you don’t get firsthand experience. So go.”

Appearing torn, she begs silently for mercy with her eyes before she replaces her phone beneath the bar and hurries off to grab the food.

Callie’s at my mercy. I mentally pump my fist in triumph.

She’s exactly where I want her.

* * *

“Where the hell is Callie, again?” I complain between gritted teeth for what feels like the twentieth time tonight.

“Probably getting felt up by those dudes in the back room again.”

My head whips around, my eyes locking with Bert’s. “What?” My blood begins to boil. So Callie’s taking her fine old time back there, getting chummy with some of the biggest douches I’ve seen yet?

Oh, hell no. Not while I’m busting my ass out here. Not happening.

Bert holds up a hand as if to stave off my anger. “Whoa, now. That’s not what I meant, Reid.”

My eyes narrow on him. “What did you mean then?”

He tips his head, gesturing to the back room. “I’ve seen a few of those guys corner her when she was trying to leave after dropping off more food. One of ’em in particular keeps getting a little handsy with her.”

I falter because, hell. I’d immediately jumped to conclusions and thought the worst of her.

But if Bert’s being honest—and I don’t know him to be anything but honest—that means she’s been serving these guys for the past two hours and putting up with them touching her.

And she hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone. No complaints. No whining. Nothing.

Goddammit.

“Order up, Callie!” Another final round of food for the bachelor party slides into the kitchen window.

“Coming!” Her voice carries over the din of conversations in the bar, and she rushes over to place the platters on her large tray. I inspect her while she’s distracted. Immediately, I notice her blouse is untucked in the back where it meets the waist of her black pencil skirt. Tendrils of hair from how she’d twisted it to settle on top of her head with a simple clip have come loose.

She looks flustered. Nervous. And I fucking hate the idea that another guy—or guys—have had their hands on her.

Especially since they’re not my hands.

I jerk at the wayward thought, instantly shoving it back to the recesses of my mind.

Callie spins around, grasping the tray’s weight with ease. When she starts in the direction of the men, I decide to accompany her.

I trail a few steps behind her, so she doesn’t notice me. Taking advantage of this, I allow my eyes to catalogue the way her hips move and how the fabric of her skirt fits snug across her ass.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite girl!”

At that greeting, Callie pauses infinitesimally at the entrance of the room before collecting herself and striding in with purpose.

“Here you go. Last of the night before you head to the rest of your festivities,” she comments lightly.

I watch her, noting the slight crease of worry between her brows as she slides the food onto the table for the men.

“Gorgeous, why don’t you make up a plate for us, and you can sit on my lap so we can enjoy it together?”

Her spine visibly stiffens, and she holds the now empty tray to her front as if to serve as a shield. “I’m still on the clock. Sorry.” She flashes what might seem like a sympathetic smile, but I can see through it.

She turns to leave, but the douche from earlier won’t let it go. He reaches out and grabs her wrist, drawing her to a halt. “I think you deserve a break.”

Callie edges away from him, her arm now extended straight, and it’s obvious she’s attempting to tug free.

He’s not letting go, though. His fingers appear to be tightening, and I see a wince cross her face. He tugs abruptly, bringing her to stand between his legs as he sits in the chair.

“Like I said, why don’t you sit on my lap for a bit?”

“No, thank you.” I can’t see Callie’s face from this angle—only her back—but her words sound forced, her voice hollow. “Please, let go.”

He pats his jeans-clad thigh invitingly. “Sit first.”

“I’d rather not.”

He leans toward her, her wrist still manacled by his fingers, and reaches his other hand around her waist to tug her closer.

Except he doesn’t stop there. His hand grazes down from her hip to suddenly cup her ass.

And that’s when I’ve had enough.

“Everyone all set in here?” I step into the center of the doorway. My eyes flit over all the men until I finally rest my gaze on the offensive asshole whose hand is still gripping Callie’s ass.

“Everything’s just fine.” There’s that fucking smirk again. He lifts his gaze to meet Callie’s, and the challenging glint is evident. “Isn’t it?”

“Please let go.” Her request is simple and subdued, as if she’s afraid to upset him.

“I already told you.” His smile turns brittle. “When you sit on my lap, you—”

“Let her go.” I casually cross my arms, knowing my biceps flex and my short-sleeved shirt will pull taut around the hem of the sleeves. He’s no match for me, and he knows it as well as I do. He’s scrawny and looks like he has a spray tan, for Christ’s sake.

Narrowing my gaze dangerously, I repeat myself with steeliness in my tone when he doesn’t move to release her. “Let her go.”

“What if I don’t want to?” he taunts.

“What if you don’t end up walking out of here tonight with working legs?” My tone is low, lethal.

He holds my stare for a long beat before he finally averts his gaze. Shoving Callie away, he tosses her a look dripping with disdain. “Don’t want a loser barmaid anyway.” Then, to his buddies, he says, “Let’s head to our next stop.”

A chorus of grunts sound, affirming his response, before they shove out of the room. Asshole files out last and attempts to shoulder me on his way past, but I slap a hand to the center of his chest. His “oomph” tells me I did a good job of startling him. Dipping my head, I mutter tersely, “Might need to refresh your memory a bit about keeping your hands to yourself. Especially around women who aren’t interested.”

Then I “assist” him out. I place the flat of my palm on his back and shove, ignoring his cursing beneath his breath. I don’t give a shit. All I care about right now is the woman currently cradling her wrist against her chest.

“You okay?”

Her startled gaze meets mine before she looks away. “Yes, thanks.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Without meeting my eyes, she shakes her head and begins to clean up the discarded glasses from the tables.

“Let me see your wrist.”

“It’s fine, Reid.” If it were fine, she would be using both hands to place the dirty glasses on the tray.

In quick strides, I’m over to her and reaching for her arm. “Let me see.”

“Reid, stop!” She huffs out an exasperated breath. “I’m fine.”

“Just let me... What the—” My eyes are transfixed by the sight of her slim wrist.

Because it’s an angry shade of red from being gripped so harshly.

“Dammit, Callie.” My nostrils flare as anger pulsates through me. “You can’t let shit like this slide. You should have said something. You should have told me you—”

“What? What, Reid?” she explodes. “I should have told you, so you could make fun of me and throw it in my face? So you could use it against me because”—she deepens her voice to imitate me—“oh, poor Callie can’t handle herself with customers. Shocker.” With a fierce expression, she knits her brows, her eyes blazing with anger. “Not happening.”

“What the hell?” I stare at her incredulously. “You think I’d throw something like that in your face? You can’t be serious!” I crowd her against the table’s edge. “I wanted to punch that guy for even looking at you the way he did.” I dip my head closer, nearly losing myself in the depths of her mocha-brown eyes. “For being disrespectful.” My head dips lower, and her lips part. A wisp of breath escapes, and it almost sounds like a tiny moan. “For touching you without permission.”

Those gorgeous eyes of hers widen in surprise. “You did?”

I nod slowly, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, reveling in the silky feel. “I did.” My eyes flicker to her lips, and my breath hitches when the tip of her tongue slides out to wet them. “I hate that he had his hands on you.”

Because I want my hands on you. She doesn’t need to know that, though, because that makes me as much of an asshole as the guy I just kicked out.

“You do?”

Shit, shit, shit. I’ve spoken aloud.

Abruptly, I step back from her. And then take another step. I’m warring with myself because one part of me wants to tug her close and press my lips to hers to help her forget that asshole who left her with a bruised wrist.

The other part is screaming at me to get my shit together, to remember who she is, what she is. That she’s the one thing standing in my way of achieving my goal.

Spinning around, I walk toward the door. “Let me know if you need help cleaning up.”

I don’t expect a response, so I’m not surprised when I don’t receive one. But as I make my way down the hallway to return to the bar, there’s no mistaking the fact that I feel bereft.

And it takes every ounce of willpower to ignore that small inner voice telling me to turn around and go back to her.