He was starting to get it. He looked nervous, far less confident. Shifting on his feet. “Uh.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you know many people around here. There aren’t many people to know, I guess. So, if you want to join us?” He gestured to table in the middle of the room, full of men that looked like different versions of him, trying not to make it obvious they were watching the exchange, and one furious-looking woman not trying to hide anything. She was used to being the only girl in the group. Plain, pretty in a boring sort of way. This was a kind of place she thrived in and I was threatening her. In her eyes, at least.
“What an offer, Troy,” I said, focusing on him. “But I’m not interested in knowing many people around here. So, I’d just prefer to sit here, drinking, alone.”
He blinked rapidly. I was sure he didn’t have much experience being turned down. And if he were turned down, it was likely gently, politely, and with a lot of apologies. Women tended to do that. Apologize for things they weren’t sorry for, because they felt uncomfortable being assertive.
I wasn’t one of those women.
Troy coughed nervously. “Ah, okay. Well, if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” I said firmly.
He nodded.
I waited. For the muttering of bitch under his breath. Or blatant hostility that came from rejected men. It was something I had come to expect, since I made a habit out of rejecting men without any pretenses or ego stroking. All jokes aside, it was a dangerous business. Men who felt like their pride or masculinity was stolen from a woman would do just about anything to get it back. By force. Case in point, a certain serial killer who was inspiring another Magnolia Grace best seller.
This man looked to be no different, and with an audience of his “bros,” I waited for it. For words. For that patented male force.
I got neither. Just a polite smile and him sheepishly walking back to his table, where a few of his friends clapped him on the back, no doubt ribbing him.
His mother had obviously done something right.
It was amusing.
Right up until something ticked at the back of my neck again. A coldness. That same feeling I’d had in my office. Of eyes on me. More than just the curious bar goers.
I glanced around, trying to find someone out of place. Alone. Creepy. Though, I would’ve had my pick of men fitting that description any other day.
A low thunk of glass on wood moved my attention to the bar, the glass of whisky on top of it, and the man serving it.
He wasn’t smiling but he had a light to his eyes that told me he’d watched the whole exchange and had enjoyed it.
“You couldn’t have come about three minutes sooner?” I snapped, snatching the glass and glaring.
The corner of his mouth turned up. Not a smile. There was still hostility in his gaze, but shallow, temporary. He was holding on to it to torture me more than anything else.
And usually, while I wouldn’t care whether someone was mad at me or not, I found a twinge of something. I kind of gave a shit about what this dreamy, maybe dangerous, bartender thought of me. Was that because I kind of thought he might be a brutal murderer?
“I think you deserved that, don’t you?” he asked, mixing up another drink that looked far too sugary and girly to be served here.
I sipped. “For what I’m wearing, because I’m an attractive woman, or because I’m a bitch?”
He smiled properly now. “Don’t agree with women deserving anything ’cause of the first two. As for the last, you said it, not me.”
He placed the drinks on a tray, then handed it to a waitress with a wink. She smiled at him with doe eyes, then me with friendly interest. Either she wasn’t threatened by me or she’d managed to shake the notion we should hate other attractive women by default.
Whatever it was, I almost smiled back.
“You didn’t put arsenic in this, did you?” I asked, holding the glass up.
He chuckled. “Nah, too obvious. Plus, the pain of living is what you deserve.”
Touché.
“I’m not going to apologize,” I said.
He polished glasses. “Didn’t expect you to. You’re not the kind of person who apologizes for being herself.”
I was a little surprised at how well he’d read me. Not that I should’ve been.
“I’m not,” I replied.
He nodded. “Gonna be honest, Magnolia. You interest me. A fuck of a lot. We’ve made it clear I’m attracted to you, but I’m not here to be your toy. Not here for you to tease out everything bad inside me so you can play with it.” He laid his forearms on the bar. “And I’m pretty sure it’s not even me you really want to play with. Not gonna turn into an asshole about that, ’cause it’s not me. And as I said, I like you. Which, for you, I think is hard. Finding people who like you for who you are. Despite what you are. So, I’ll pour your drinks. Fix your sinks, shoot the shit. I will not play your games.” He stood. “We clear?”
I nodded slowly. He was right. I liked playing with Saint more. A lot more. But that speech was really fucking attractive. In another life, in another body…I might’ve. Emily really was blind.
“Clear,” I said. I would stay true to my word on that one, because I respected him. A lot. I wouldn’t play with him. No more manipulation. But he’d still be in my story. No one was safe from that.
My phone buzzed. It was face up on the bar. Not because I was waiting for Saint to call; I wasn’t that pathetic or detached from reality. First of all, he didn’t have my number. Not that that would stop him if he wanted to call me, of course. But he wouldn’t want to call me. Because that wasn’t us. Wasn’t him. I didn’t think there even was an us. But if there were, and if he did want to get in contact with me, he would likely just melt out of the woods and that would be that.
So, it wasn’t Saint.
It was Gianna, my agent. Whose calls I’d been screening for the past two weeks, since my book was due two weeks ago. I hadn’t opened emails or texts. Living in uncomfortable denial was not at all my preferred state. I had never been late on a deadline in my writing career, so this was a horrible first. I walked around with a vague feeling of nausea and an overall sense of impending doom.
But I had a whisky in my hand and not much other choices, so I picked up the phone.
“Gianna. If you’re calling to swear at me, save it,” I greeted.
Dead air for a beat. “Oh, I called to swear at you two weeks ago,” she said. Sounding calm. Much too calm. “I called to scream at you the day after that. Then abuse you, threaten your shoe collection. Threats got more inventive as the days went on. But now I’ve run out of threats and patience.” She paused. “I’ve managed to hold off your publishers by promising that this is your best book ever. That this will be worth the wait, the lost money, the missed appointments. Are you going to make me into a liar?”
I finished my drink. Considered the question. Considered the current state of my manuscript. It was a mess, to say the least.
“No, I don’t think I am,” I said finally.
Deacon refilled my drink and I nodded in thank you. His gaze was no longer hostile. It seemed he wasn’t a man to hold a grudge. Good thing too, because the last thing you wanted was the only bartender in town being mad at you.