Either one worked in his favor. If she wanted to make him jealous, that meant she wanted him to want her, which he did. Desperately. And if she wanted him to think she wasn’t available, it indicated she didn’t trust herself to flat-out tell him she wasn’t interested in rekindling anything and stick by that decision.
Oh, she’d knocked his irrational hope down masterfully, he’d give her that, but she’d tipped her hand in the process. Bridget Shanahan might be older, wiser, more self-possessed, and even more stunning than she’d been at twenty-one, but she was still susceptible to him. On some level, she harbored a weakness, and she knew it. And now, he knew it, too. His lips stretched into a smile as he processed the fact.
“You’re grinning awfully big for a fellow who just got brushed back hard,” the bartender said.
The guy was about his height, had maybe a ten-pound weight advantage, and intricate black ink etched over his right forearm, including the crossed arrow insignia of Army Special Forces. His demeanor suggested he knew how to handle himself. But Archer wasn’t worried. His source, and the intel provided, were reliable. There was nothing serious between Bridget and the bartender. Archer shrugged and amped up his smile. “Well, I learned something valuable from getting brushed back.”
“Did you now?” The bartender snagged a pint glass, held it under a tap, filled it so as to create the ideal layer of light, foamy head, and put it on the bar in front of him. “Education served up in my establishment ought to come with a beer. On the house. Care to share your lesson?”
He leaned on the bar and inclined his head, aware their conversation had attracted a small audience. “Next time I’m at bat, I’ll have to be more careful.”
The bartender crossed his arms, raised his brows, and regarded him with a skeptical look. “Sure you want to risk a ‘next time’? I’m thinking you might have missed the main lesson Bridget aimed to teach you.”
A few murmurs of agreement rose from the others, including Mad Dog Maddox, his ride from the airfield to the Inn. Archer had a whole sheet on Maddox, who actually did serve as an occasional fuck buddy for Bridget, according to his source. But not lately.
Archer shook his head. “Not a chance. I speak fluent Bridget, having spent years in immersive study, mastering the language. I understood every nuance of that little communication. Maybe better than she did.”
That earned him a chuckle from the man on the business side of the bar. “You’re confident. I’ll give you that. But you know what they say about a second language. If you don’t use it on a daily basis, your skills get rusty.”
“Rusty?” He feigned a frown. “I don’t think so. If we consider this a pop quiz of my skills, I say she told me—not in so many words, mind you—she’s thrilled to see me, but—”
The bartender’s laugh boomed out at full force on that one.
“But,” he continued, unperturbed, “she’s a little vulnerable because the old feelings still exist, and she’s not ready to own up to them until she knows my intentions. Obviously, she trusts you enough to use you”—he extended his hand, palm up, toward the other man, in a state-your-name-here gesture—
“Ford Langley,” the bartender supplied.
“Thanks. She trusts you, Ford Langley, enough to use you as a shield without worrying you’ll get the wrong idea.”
Ford grinned again. “Not bad. I’ll leave it to Bridget to tell you—not in so many words, mind you—how you did on the pop quiz. But I will point out she doesn’t need to use me, or anyone else, as a shield. She can take care of herself.”
“I’ve always thought so,” he conceded, “but apparently, when it comes to me, she’s not one hundred percent sure.” Mulling that over, he took a drink of the beer, swallowed, then eyed the brew with new respect. “That’s really good. What is it?”
“An experiment,” Ford replied, looking pleased. “I call it the Spruce Goose. Brewed a small batch using some nice, big tips from the local trees.” He drew himself a pint and tapped it to Archer’s. “One of the perks of spring in Captivity.”
“Definitely.”
“There’s another reason Bridget doesn’t need me as a shield,” Ford said after taking a swallow.
“At least one more,” he agreed. “The most pertinent being, I’m not here to hurt her.”
“Yeah, well, that remains to be seen. In my experience, people hurt each other most when they’re not even trying. But if you do happen to fuck up, I’m the least of your worries.” He pointed to a tall, broad, bear-wrestler of a guy wrapped around a petite brunette, both of whom appeared to be on their way out. “Meet her big brother, Trace.”
The man heard his name and looked over. Archer already recognized him, thanks to family pictures Bridget had brought with her to college, as well as his own research conducted in preparation for his recent failed attempt to buy the man out of his interest in the airfield. But now he stepped up and extended a hand. “Archer Ellison. Interesting to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” the bigger man said. Archer detected a hint of I-owe-you-an-ass-kicking beneath the calm surface.
No doubt, he did. Hopefully not tonight, though. He had to fly to Anchorage tomorrow afternoon following his meeting with the realtor, and he needed to not be on life support in order to accomplish the journey. Thankfully, his timing, in this case, had worked in his favor. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thanks.” Trace wrapped his arm around the diminutive, dark-haired beauty by his side. “My bride-to-be, Isabelle.”
Pretty brown eyes glared at him. Another staunch protector of the Bridgethood, ready and willing to kick his ass. Or at least his kneecap. Hard not to admire her for it. “Lovely to finally meet the woman who killed my deal.”
“Sorry,” she said, briefly shaking his offered hand while sounding not at all sorry.
“No worries.” He shrugged, willing to be philosophical about the death of that goal. “The deal has to be right for both sides or it isn’t meant to be. Acquiring Trace’s interest in Captivity Air wasn’t meant to be.”
The business would have fit nicely into Skyline’s current operations, and buying into a partnership with Bridget would have afforded him five years to prove to her they belonged together, but he knew how to adjust a strategy.
“You did manage to make Gordon go nuclear”—he smirked as he mentioned the attorney who had worked his side of the deal—“which was fun to watch.”
Gordon Davis was his father’s idea of an effective negotiator, not Archer’s. Thankfully, enough of the deals he’d targeted over the past four years had gone through. At next week’s meeting of the board of directors of Ellison Enterprises, Archer would receive sole control over his little corner of the family empire. His father would no longer dictate decisions like where Archer established his headquarters, or who he appointed to manage day-to-day operations of the string of small and mid-size airfields he’d assembled into a regional air and freight business. Or which attorney to use.