My heart pounds in my chest, thumping wildly against my breastbone. “I don’t even know where that came from.”
“Well, you’re gonna need it tonight when the boys from the Amphitrite come in.”
She’s right, I will.
Backing Down - Maneuvering in reverse when offshore fishing while attempting to land a fish.
“Table four. That’s all I’m going to say.”
My attention wanders toward table four. Presley’s right. That’s all she needs to say.
Damn….
Rugged manliness hugs the corner of the bar.
Clearly not locals, I’ve never seen either one of the men until today, and about an hour into the night, Presley knows they’re brothers from Ilwaco, own a fishing boat (the Amphitrite) and have been tuna fishing for the last week. Lincoln and Bear Hardy. I don’t know which one is which, though. But I wish I knew.
Yep, they’re fishermen. Before you go thinking fishermen are just greasy old men with beards and missing teeth, you’ve clearly never seen the Hardy brothers and their friends. They’re beautiful. That’s the only way to describe them. Okay, not so much their friends, but the brothers, yep. Drool-worthy.
“Think they’re lonely?” she asks, watching both of them.
I stand next to the bar, a tray in my hand filled with two pitchers of beer. Beer I’m supposed to be taking over to their table. “I don’t know. Probably?”
Presley nudges me. “I bet they could be a good distraction from Dev the dick.”
I wouldn’t mind a distraction. With curiosity, my interest moves to the table. Avie walks by, obscuring my vision.
“Do you two not see this place?” He motions around dramatically. “Get to work. And where the fuck is Mal and Dylan?”
“Mal’s running late and Dylan’s off tonight,” I remind him. I literally had this conversation with him twenty minutes ago.
Presley rolls her eyes and slaps her palm on Avie’s chest, the bank envelope he’d been searching for earlier handed to him. He says nothing to her and takes the envelope from her.
Her lips purse in annoyance. “You could say thank you.”
I have a feeling it’s more of “say thank you for last night,” but he doesn’t see it that way.
“I do say thank you,” he mumbles, thumbing through the money inside. “It’s called a fucking paycheck and you get it once a week. If you don’t do your job, you don’t get it.”
Jesus Christ, Avie.
Presley’s face heats and she grabs two menus from the counter with haste. “Got it, boss.”
She steps around him without another word.
I stare at him with disgust. “Nice, asshole.”
Regret warps his features, but he doesn’t say anything.
Avie can be a ruthless dick sometimes. Which is why I didn’t want him involved with Presley. She’s a sweet girl and doesn’t deserve this. Avie disappears to the back room, his shoulder bumping into mine. Yep, asshole.
Adjusting the tray on my hand, I make my way over to the table. The guys are hunched toward one another in a conversation over a map. I smile when I reach their table in an attempt to capture their awareness. “Here’s your pitcher of Guinness. Is there anything else I can get you?” That’s where I stop. I stop because that is the moment when his eyes find mine. Hell, the world might as well have stopped, and it’s embarrassing to say that because how, right? How can the world stop when someone looks at you?
I don’t know, but believe me on this one, it can happen.
Licking my lips, I draw in a breath. Or maybe I bite my lip. I’m not entirely sure of my reaction because my brain just sort of shuts off when I make eye contact with him. Tall, long legs stretched to the side, he’s leaning against the brick wall and drinking in my response to him.
Wait… am I even breathing? Yes, yes, I’m breathing.
Trying to shake myself from my thoughts, I clear my throat. “Anything else?” I repeat, unsure if they said anything while I was distracted.
The man in the corner drags his interest along the curves of my body. With every inch he covers, I burn. The intensity of his stare catches mine. Why is he staring at me like that? Indifference plays across his features as his guarded eyes land on my tray, but never my eyes. And then he looks away just as quickly, toward the window overlooking the pier.
I glance out the window myself, a quick lift of my eyes, then back to the table where someone’s speaking.
“How’s the food here, sweetheart?” the brother asks.
I have many names working at a bar and very seldom the one on my name tag. Sweetheart, babe, honey, toots, sugar, baby, love, and one and only time, bitch. I broke the guy’s nose with a tray for calling me that. I don’t mind the ones that refer to me in a term of endearment, and coming from these beautiful brothers, they can call me whatever the hell they want.
Unable to keep from staring, I drop my eyes to the edge of the table, gripping the edge of the tray tightly. “Everything’s good here.” Do I dare look at him again? Crap. I want to so bad, but I don’t want to be too obvious. “I can recommend the fish and chips and the crab cakes. Both are crazy good.”
Crazy good? Ugh. Why can’t I form actual words?
Conversation around the table flows, voices blending together as they talk about what they want, but my attention isn’t on them. It’s on him, and the way he’s staring at me again, like he knows me but can’t place me from where.
Do I know him? Have I seen him before? No, I would have known. Definitely would have remembered meeting him. But still, he’s familiar for some reason.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, a familiar heavy beat, but for reasons which are new to me. The closer I am to him, even inches, it quickens. I lift my eyes to his hand wrapped around a glass. His left hand. No ring. I glide my stare further to his arms, covered in ink, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. And then further to his chest. It’s rising and falling just as quickly as mine. I focus on his jaw, shaded by a stubbly layer of hair. I want to run my hand over it just to feel if it’s rough or soft. I follow the path to the ridge of his nose, his high cheekbones with the subtle tinge of pink to them and then finally, his eyes. They’re a beautiful shade of ocean blue. It’s like looking at a shard of sea glass. Only this guy’s eyes, they’re angry. As if me looking at him has somehow pissed him off.
“Did you decide?” I ask, waiting for them to decide as they point to items on the menu.
“Ya, you, honey,” one says, chuckling. He lifts his beer and smiles at me.
“She’s available,” Presley says over my shoulder, then kisses my cheek.
Laughter at the table overpowers the music, conversations flowing through clouds of smoke. Presley stands behind me, smiling. I see her mood has turned around.
“I think we need a minute,” someone says, and I realize it’s him talking.
“Okay,” I mumble and turn away from them, my face the color of a tomato.
Fuck. His voice is even better than I anticipated. It fills my brain, its roughness shivering through me. It’s like gravel raking against my skin in the best possible way. I imagine what it must be like to hear him whisper my name. Only I don’t have a sexy name. I wish I did, but instead, it’s boring.