“What?” Her head rears back as if I slapped her. “It’s nothing like that. Hank is my boss. He’s a good guy, and I work because I have to. I have no one to lean on but myself. My aunt and uncle helped me get back on my feet, and I never want to feel that way again. I never want to feel dependent on another person for my basic needs. I work my ass off to ensure I’m never in that situation again. I take care of me,” she adds.
Her chest is rapidly rising and falling with each ragged breath she pulls into her lungs. Her blue eyes are dark as midnight, burning with determination, and if I’m not mistaken, shame. My gut twists. I let my unwarranted jealousy get to me and, in turn, upset her.
“Ramsey, order up!” the cook calls out.
Without a word, she turns and walks away. I want to chase after her, but she’ll be back with my food, and I can apologize. In the meantime, I text my sister back.
Me: Ramsey is off tomorrow night. You pick the time. I’ll throw some burgers on the grill.
No way am I going back on my offer. I want to keep Ramsey there as long as possible. Quickly, I tap on the group message and save Ramsey’s number to my contacts. I tell myself it’s just in case, but I know it’s more than that. I like knowing I can get ahold of her whenever I need to. If and when I would ever need to. Damn, she’s making me sound as if I’ve lost my damn mind.
Palmer: What?? Are you sure??
“Here you go.” Ramsey sets my plate of food in front of me on the bar, reaches underneath the bar, and produces a bottle of ketchup.
“I’m sorry.” She’s not looking at me, and I’m desperate for her to. “I was wrong.” She’s still not looking at me. Her hand is still on the bottle of ketchup. She’s staring at it as if it is the most fascinating thing she’s ever laid eyes on. She’s avoiding me, and it’s all my fault. “Ramsey, will you look at me?” At my request, she gives me those baby blues. “The thought of him or anyone else touching you drives me mad. I was wrong. I let my mind get away from me.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“You’re all I can think about.” It’s a confession I wasn’t planning on making, but at this point, I’ll do whatever I can to get that smile back on her face.
“Deacon-” she starts, but she’s once again called by another customer.
“Go. I’m going to be right here.” She still looks uncertain. “I’m not leaving this bar until you do, Ramsey. Go do your thing. I’m going to eat my dinner and try not to stare at you like a creeper.” That’s what finally does it. One corner of her mouth ticks up just a fraction, but I see it. With a nod, she rushes off to fill her orders.
Me: She’s really off. Hank just told her it would be dead and that she’s not to come back until her shift on Sunday.
Palmer: How do you know this?
Me: I’m having dinner at the Tavern.
Palmer: Interesting.
Palmer: Ramsey, I’m picking you up at four thirty. Deacon, have the burgers ready to go on at five.
Me: So bossy.
Palmer: The perks of being the baby of the family. Love you, big brother.
Me: Love you too, little sister.
Palmer: Ramsey?
Ramsey: I’ll be ready.
I can’t help but smile when I read her reply. Glancing down at the other end of the bar, I see her watching me. I hold my phone up in the air and wink. Even from here, I can see the slight blush on her cheeks. Never in my life has a woman blushing turned me on.
Not until Ramsey.
nine
Ramsey
When Deacon said he wasn’t leaving the Tavern until I was, I didn’t think much of it. Now, here we are several hours later, and he’s still perched on the same stool. There’s a beer that’s barely been touched sitting in front of him. I dropped it off to him about an hour ago when I realized he really wasn’t leaving. He’s taken a couple of sips at best. I’m sure it's warm and nasty as hell by now. I’ve kept his glass of water full, and each time he smiles at me.
It’s not just a “thank-you for the refill” smile. No, this smile is one he only seems to be giving me. It makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. I know it’s more than just the smile responsible for those feelings. It’s the man behind them who gets full credit. He said he can’t stop thinking about me, and I so badly want to tell him that I know exactly how he feels. I’ve done nothing but think of him since the photo shoot, and then after our dinner on Monday night, he's my first and final thought each and every day. The in-between is filled with thoughts of him too. So, yeah, I understand what he’s saying.
“Favorite color?” Deacon asks.
“Blue. You?”
“Blue.”
I nod. “Are you happy being a lawyer?” I know that my father, and even Robert, became lawyers for the money and the power. I don’t see that in Deacon, and I’m honestly curious to know if he enjoys his job.
“I do enjoy it. I like helping people. Being a small town lawyer means I deal with more than just one subject matter.” He pauses and then tells me more. “We weren’t poor growing up, but there were definitely times of struggle. I wanted a career that would allow me to provide for my future family, and hopefully not have to struggle financially. I also always knew that I wanted to come back to Willow River after college. This is my home, and while some run from small-town life, I missed it. I wanted a career that would allow me to do that.”
“One of the good ones,” I mutter softly.
“Why the Willow Tavern?” he asks, taking a sip of his water.
I lean forward on the counter, resting my weight on my elbows. “It’s not anything near as inspiring as your reasoning. When a job came open, Hank assured me tips would be good, especially on the night shifts, and weekends, in addition to my regular salary. Palmer and I were actually here having drinks. We’d both just turned twenty-one.” My face heats at the confession, reminding us both of our age differences. “I saw the sign, asked one of the waitresses, and Hank interviewed me on the spot. I started the next night, requesting the nights he claimed would bring me more tips, and here I am.”
“So you requested this shift?”
“I did. At the time it made sense. I could work my other job during the day and work here at night. I was determined to build a nest egg for myself.”
“And have you done that? Built your nest egg?” he asks.
“I have. I don’t ever want to rely on someone else to take care of me.”
He nods and opens his mouth to speak, but a customer comes to the bar for a refill, and I walk away before he can, feeling raw and exposed.
“What’s going on there?” Tabitha, my coworker, asks. It’s just the two of us left tonight. Hank wasn’t exaggerating when he said this weekend was slow. Hank is still in his office. He never leaves any of us here on our own, and that’s one of the reasons I love working here. He ensures we are all safe.