“That’s a friggin violation!”
“Not at all. You had a break already. Hop to it, girl.”
With a bit of attitude, I grab a whiskey glass. “I’m assistingyou, Skinny Buddha. Put some respect on my name.”
He drops a hand on my shoulder. “Correction, it isIwho’s helpingyou,beautiful. Consider this a lesson for the bar you wish to one day own.”
I glower a long moment and something unreadable washes over his features. If Michie’s head weren’t so far up his ass, I wouldn’t have days of wasting away, waiting for Ophelia Kelly to call. I’d launch Mia’s Label here. Well, once I’ve tweaked a few things. But Michie is not obligated to support me, nor has he offered.
“Remember the last rich asshole I shot the breeze with? He got the wrong idea.”And Leith tried to murder the guy.
“Chevelle, listen.” Michie extends a hand again. This time, I dip my cold shoulder out of his reach. I snatch an orange peel and light the tip of it on fire.
There’s a flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “I had no idea you were pregnant at the time.”
I lift the tray. “I’ll do it. He seems harmless.”
“Only if you feel comfortable,” he adds. There’s a stark contrast in his tone to his usual retort.
The big money scenario unfolds a tad differently than before, which was encouraging someone to buy a bottle. Now, shots are a bar manager’s cream and sugar.
Standing before the Scot, I pour and smile. My eyes roam over his angular jaw and his thick bevy of dark curls. He looks up and catches me staring. It’s all part of the process.
“Ye have gorgeous eyes, lassie,” he says, and I know his choice of lassie as opposed to lass is meant to be respectful and not a line. “I’d love for ye to tell me about Scotland through yer eyes.”
Hmmm. I stand corrected. I cock a brow.
He runs his thumb across a wedding band, and my eyebrow lifts.
“Isn’t a day that goes by that I dinna miss my bonny Mary.”
“May she rest in peace.” I settle across from Mr. Big Money. He drinks. I talk, and I pour some more, keeping a running tab of his shots.
After a while, he says, “What I wouldn’t do for a frothy pint.”
“Now, you’re speaking my language. Or my husband’s rather.”
“Ye said the two of ya return to his home biannually?” When I nod, he continues. “With running the business, I haven’t a moment to wink whenwabbit. Can’t mindthe last time I visited home. Nae other place brews a pint so good.”
“I know, I . . .”Damn, now I feel like I’m double gaming him.The guy has already bought the equivalent of two blue label bottles.
He cocks a brow.
I glance back at Michie, who never offered to feature my draft. “I brew my own. In the beginning, my husband was very stern. Otherwise, Leith’s not that type of guy, but botch a brew, and he calls mutiny.”
“So?”
“I’m tinkering a bit, enjoying the craft.” I shrug.
The older man claps his hands together. “Ye seem modest, hen. Ye know, during our entire chat, I never got yer name. They call me Edward Dorsey.”
There’s a gold nugget ring on his finger when I shake his firm hand. “Nice to meet you, Edward. I’m Chevelle MacKenzie.”
Edward doesn’t give any inclination that my last name has been a source of fear or contention.
While we chat, I press the away button on my cell phone, sight unseen. When the caller tries again, the edges of my lips furrow upward. “Sorry, I should take this.”
Edward nods.