“Brynn.” His rich timbre caresses my name in a way where I swear I can feel his tongue wrapping around every letter.
“Maxwell.” I turn and glare, but despite my effort to loathe him, a giddy thrill still shoots through me when my eyes land on his fine self.
If he were fug, this would be so much easier. But instead, the guy is sex on a stick. Flawless deep brown skin that looks like it feels like silk. His eyes are a whiskey brown (what? I’m a bartender! I compare anything I can to booze), and his eyelashes are so thick and dark it makes the color pop even more. His short hair always looks as if he just left the barber, the edges cut almost as sharp as his jaw and cheekbones. His barely there beard is perfectly trimmed to frame his full lips.
He raises his hands in the air, you know, the way you’d approach a rabid dog about to attack. “I’d just like to say that this was not my idea,” he tells me, as if that makes this situation any better.
“So they forced you at gunpoint to come here?” I ask, clutching annoyance and anger so that I don’t accidentally fall onto his mouth. “Don’t you have work or something?”
“We get out early on Fridays, and you know your girls. They all showed up at the facility and wouldn’t let me into my car until I promised to come here instead of my house.”
Fucking Lady Mustangs! They must not understand my superior grudge-holding abilities.
“Well, you showed, you can leave now.” I turn to the still-starstruck bartender and wave him over.
He comes over, but all of his attention is directed at Maxwell. “Holy shit. Maxwell Lewis! I’m a huge fan.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Focus, Mike,” I snap. “I only need tasting for one, Mr. Lewis is on his way out.”
His eyebrows furrow and he looks at me. “Umm . . . my name is Jake.”
“Yeah, sure, Mike. My beers, please?”
Maxwell starts to laugh beside me. I pretend the sound doesn’t warm my insides and make my heart grow like the Grinch’s.
“And I’ll have mine as well, thanks,” Maxwell tells Mike, even though I want him gone . . . like five minutes ago. At least I can switch our beer flights because I’m not positive Mike isn’t going to add something extra to mine.
“No problem, Mr. Lewis.” Mike damn near salutes before scurrying away either to (a) escape the crazy woman who keeps calling him Mike or (b) hurry and fulfill the request of the football god sitting at his bar.
Maybe it’s because Gavin and TK are practically my brothers now, but I just do not understand the whole athlete worship thing.
Even though, before Maxwell went full Hulk on me and I was just going off my football pants rating, I wouldn’t have minded worshipping a certain part of him.
I shake my head, trying to clear the mental picture of a naked Maxwell in my bed . . . or even in my office at HERS. What? I just wanted a night of fun, not to marry the guy. And desk sex always seems like such a fantastic idea.
A loud phone chimes and even though my ringer is always off, I still check my phone. Not surprisingly, there’s nothing there. Maxwell, however, grabs his and swipes open his screen. His eyes narrow a smidge at whatever he sees. Probably Vonnie telling him to stay away after they all forced him to come.
He shakes his head, putting his phone on the counter without replying. “So what’s up with the beer tasting?” Maxwell asks, his foot relentlessly tapping on the barstool.
“I try to switch up the beer HERS has on tap every few months with local breweries,” I explain. My irritation with his presence starts to fade as I slide into one of my favorite topics: work. “HERS has had a pretty solid customer base for a while now and I know how hard it is to be successful in this industry, so I do what I can to help other small businesses. And people love a good beer, so it’s important to me that we offer quality instead of some junk big brand.”
“So you’re kind of like a beer connoisseur?” he asks, a smile in his voice.
My temper flares. I’m so over being laughed at or doubted because I’m a woman. I look to Maxwell, prepared to tell him off. But when we make eye contact, I don’t see humor, I see awe. Like me knowing about beer is somehow the most glorious and magical quality a person could possess.
“I—uhhh—” I stutter a bit, not prepared to say anything other than what a jerk he is. “I wouldn’t say that. I just know what I like and I have an idea of what most of my customers enjoy. I can never identify the different notes or anything like that. I just pick four or five different beers to give a decent selection, dark, light, fruity, that kind of thing.”
“No wonder HERS is thriving.” His gentle tone and kind words shift my insides. “You really didn’t forget any details in creating it.”
“Thanks.” I laugh, trying to downplay his compliment. “You should have been there when I had to pick out the chairs. I never knew there were that many choices. Picking out the chairs was insane.”
“Chairs?” Maxwell asks.
“Chairs,” I confirm, then let the silence take over.
I turn my head like I’m looking for Mike, but I’m really just trying to hide the furious blush that has my face burning. I mean chairs? Really?
I half expect Maxwell to ask another question to fill the silence, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t. I peek out of the corner of my eye to see him lean back in his metal and wood barstool, his hands folded together on the bar top.
It’s the thing that first drew me to Maxwell . . . I mean, after his ass, tatted arms, and smoldering eyes. He’s quiet. And I’m sure that doesn’t sound impressive or like a turn-on at all. But after spending the last however many years surrounded by NFL players, I learned they all have one thing in common: a massive fucking ego.
Then I started noticing Maxwell when I’d go to Ace’s soccer games or to a barbecue at Poppy’s house. And when he wasn’t talking to me, he seemed like he was this quiet and shy and unassuming guy. He was almost passive to a fault, always offering to pick up the bill, smiling for pictures when he very obviously wanted a night of not being bothered, never jabbing back and forth after TK put him in the center of his comedy routine. He never once mentioned the game he just played in, even the time where he had a record-setting six interceptions and three pick-sixes (an interception that’s run back for a touchdown). He actually seems embarrassed when people bring up his career.
It was intriguing and I became a little obsessive about watching him interact with other people and comparing that person to who he was when he got stuck being around just me. I knew there was something I was missing.
Turned out, the surprise was his crazy-ass temper.
“You know, I really am sorry, Brynn.” The words are so quiet that I almost don’t hear him. “That phone call . . . it was bad. It was like I blacked out. I didn’t even realize what had happened until TK dragged me outside.”