Chapter 1
Cassandra – a woman who can rescue herself thank you very much
“No.”
“But—”
“But nothing. No.”
“You should—”
Come ons are seriously my least favorite thing about bartending at theWhite Stag. Except the name, of course. How cliché can you get?
Don’t get me wrong. I love a good flirtation as much as the next woman. But there’s a difference between flirting and leering. And this guy passed the line to leering when he lunged over the bar and grabbed for my ass. He’s lucky his hand is still attached to his arm.
Plus, I’m working here. My sisters may not take my job as a bartender seriously, but I do. I ignore creepy dude to walk to the other side of the bar.
“What can I get you?” I ask the patron patiently waiting his turn.
Before he can answer, Mr. I Get Whatever I Want Whenever I Want pushes him out of the way.
“I was talking to you.”
“And I told you. We’re done talking.”
“We’re done talking when I say we are.”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. Why do men think whatever they say goes? A woman who’s this demanding is labeled a bitch and promptly ignored. But a man demanding whatever he wants? No problem. Totally fine.
“Excuse me. Is this guy bothering you?”
I open my mouth to tell the man to mind his own damn business, but the words get caught in my throat when I catch sight of him. Yowzah! Mr. Hottie has entered the building.
Lush brown hair, square jaw hidden by a sexy beard my hands want to dig into, smoldering hazel eyes. Yes, yes, yes! Ifheasks me what I’m doing after I get off work, I’ll answer. Especially since he’s tall with broad shoulders. I do love a pair of broad shoulders I can hang onto. And tall is a basic requirement since I’m five-eight.
“Ahem.” He clears his throat. “Do you want me to handle this guy for you?”
Oops. I might have gotten lost in those hazel eyes for a minute.
“I got this,” I tell him before focusing my attention on Mr. Handsy. “You need to step away from the bar before I have you removed from the premises.”
“You can’t have me—”
The rest of his words are cut off when one of his colleagues clutches his shoulder and steers him toward their table. I eye the group. With their suits and ties, they’re obviously businessmen enjoying a drink after a day of work. Except for Handsy, they’redrinking beer and watching the basketball game on the television. They’ve got him.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. Time to get back to work.
“What can I get you?” I ask Mr. Hottie.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I grit out. I don’t like anyone questioning my ability to perform my job even if the questioner is a fine specimen of manhood.
He studies me for a long moment before nodding. “I’ll have a beer. Whatever IPA you have on tap.”
After I hand him his drink, a group of women arrive and push their way to the front of the line demanding daiquiris and margaritas. While I make their drinks, I keep an eye on Mr. Hottie. He’s sitting at a high table in the corner by himself nursing his beer.
I wonder what his story is. I haven’t seen him in here before. With a face and body like his, I wouldn’t forget.