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  Somewhere, a small voice begged her to let it go. The guy wasn’t her true target. A louder voice gave zero fucks about that, demanding she unleash her anger and be done with it. A good release always refocused her.

  “Do I have something on my face?” Phebe innocently dragged a finger across her forehead. Enjoying the moment more than she should.

  “No.” Hottie McBartender rested his elbows on the bar, leaning into her, studying her puzzle. The undertone of her very loaded question shouldn’t have drawn him further in. But whatever.

  “Really? It doesn’t say, I don’t know, ‘Please Fuck Me’ or something equally chauvinistically offensive?” Her words hit their mark, and she immediately had his full attention. His head shot up, eyes wide like a startled mouse scurrying away from a sprung trap. Phebe remained calm, a cat playing with her prey before the kill.

  “No.” His mouth twisted in an amused half smile. Most men would’ve scrambled for cover. Made up some lame excuse and gotten the hell out of Dodge. He only straightened and tilted his head to the side like he needed to see her from another angle to understand her.

  Phebe exhaled more loudly than necessary, like she really hated having to do this, and part of her actually did.

  “I realize I’m day drinking when most are working. I can see how hard liquor and a crossword puzzle for lunch screams desperation. And I’m sure you’re a stimulating conversationalist. But I’ve had a shit day so far and getting hit on by a bartender—one with a wholly unoriginal pickup line no less—is not helping the situation.”

  Calm as the cucumber undertones in her gin, Phebe’s placidity was a thing of beauty. When the world ran for cover like Chicken Little, she remained an oak in the storm. When others ignored the thousand-pound gorilla in the room, Phebe took it down with a body tackle. It was something she both prided herself on and also got off on. She loved being a ballsy bitch who didn’t take shit from the patriarchy. The adrenaline coursing through her veins was almost orgasmic.

  Almost.

  She wasn’t mad at this poor fool. But he’d sealed his own fate when he tried to flirt with her. For a man who made a living helping people forget whatever they were running from, he sure as shit had misjudged her situation. That was on him. All she’d asked for was a damn gin. The right to drink it in peace should go without saying.

  Finding his honeyed-hazel eyes full of humor instead of fear confused her. She’d just totally unloaded on him, and it hadn’t ruffled a single feather. Instead, he bit an appreciative smile with his pearly whites. Sensing she was in no mood to be mocked, he exited with a small bow. So, maybe he wasn’t totally clueless. He returned to his mixing station, leaving Phebe to wonder what he found so funny. If she were at the office, she’d demand an answer. But she was in a bar, trying to forget the shit show she’d left at the office.

  Working on the word puzzle again, she was busy circling an especially difficult clue when he popped back into her periphery. A white cloth in one hand, highball glass in the other, he wiped the rim, inspecting it in the light and obviously watching Phebe. It was getting weird. She’d leave as soon as she solved the clue.

  Ten across: Rick’s Town.

  It was a gatekeeper clue. One that unlocked the rest of the puzzle. Ten bare squares right in the middle of the black and white blocks. Six unanswered clues feeding off of it. Empty blocks frustrated the hell out of her. She’d tried every way she knew to make Springfield fit. That was a one-hit-wonder Rick and a town. But it just didn’t work. Lost in thought, she startled when a finger landed on the circled clue.

  “Bogie?” The bartender’s tone implied she should know. Slowly her eyes traced the line of his finger over strong, capable-looking hands, up arms swirled with colorful yet tasteful tattoos, across muscled shoulders to a face she found frustratingly unreadable. Realization flooded her brain. Heat raced over her cheeks. She was such an impulsive fool sometimes. Yes, she knew.

  Rick’s Town.

  Bogie.

  Gin joints.

  Casablanca.

  Fuck.

  “I’m such a bitch.” She owned her earlier ill-tempered rant, the regret twisting her face into a wordless apology.

  “No sweat. I respect a woman who knows her mind.” The bartender winked at her, but it wasn’t flirty this time. It was a good-natured welcome back into the fold of civilized society after her self-imposed exile.

  A wave of heat, followed by one of ice cold, raced the length of Phebe’s body. Tensed muscles relaxed. Rigid lungs drew air deep into her belly. Crystal clarity forced her brain from an angry spiral. Something had finally hit her internal reset button. Was it the crossword or the uncharacteristic embarrassment over how badly she’d misjudged the situation? She hated the answer because she hated to be wrong.

  He didn’t stand there and gloat like most men would’ve. Instead, he busied himself stacking glasses. Phebe peeked from behind the hands she’d employed to hide her flaming cheeks.

  Despite his unadulterated manliness, there was something soft about him. An implied kindness behind his honeyed eyes. A gentleness of spirit she herself had never possessed but admired in others. It was the mark of someone who was at peace in life. Not running to catch up or fighting to get ahead. Phebe knew she was a tough pill for most men to swallow. It was a rarefied moment when she came across one who could. And those few scattered encounters were always ones that made her stop and take notice.

  He was still occupied with the glasses, his back to her—Phebe found herself with time to take him in. The way he moved, the confidence behind his actions. There was a lot he was working with. And to dismiss him as a chiseled chin and tight ass was as unfair as her boss’s dismissal of her hard work.

  She felt like an idiot and found herself searching for a way to make amends for her bad behavior. Because, God bless a truly self-confident man. The world could sure as shit use a million more of those. Dragging her hands down her face, she rubbed her eyes and let out a low growl that pulled his attention away from his work.

  “Welcome back. Want to talk about it?” he asked, setting another drink in front of her. She looked at it questioningly, remembering she’d never ordered the next round after his “flirtation” stopped her. “It’s on the house.” Again, he answered her thought.

  It was out of character for Phebe to share. She was a pro at tucking the thorns of life away. But this entire day was out of character. The genuine candor of the man before her was out of character. At least compared to the guys typically populating her world. And she felt she owed him something. Fuck it.

  With a hand supporting her chin, the other wrapped around her drink, she admired his tattoos and smiled at the absurdity of the day. “You’ve known me five minutes, seen me at my worst, yet still find a way to respect me. I’ve worked for him five years, given the company my best, and he treats me like a pair of tits in a power suit.”

  The bartender leaned against the back of the bar, unfazed by Phebe’s brusque talk. One hand resting on his abdomen while the other thoughtfully stroked his beard. Silence filled the room, and Phebe felt herself unconsciously lean in.

  “I’m assuming you’re damn good at whatever it is you do?” he asked.

  Phebe gave a single shrug, not feeling compelled to elaborate on just how good she was at what she did. This guy seemed to instinctively know. Their eyes met. He nodded with her. Yeah, he got it.

  “Everything in life comes down to size, Love.” There it was again. That damn endearment. But it didn’t piss her off. It made her feel strangely included. In what, she didn’t know.

  Her blank stare encouraged an explanation.

  “My grandfather ran a dairy farm.” He paused, jiggling his raised wrist to reposition a large leather-strapped watch. “When the milk cows calved, he only kept the female offspring. Males serve no purpose on a dairy farm. They were castrated and sold.” He moved fl
uidly toward Phebe, taking a rag to a minuscule speck on his spotless bar. “Every once in a while, there was an exceptional bull calf born on his farm. That one, that special one, he’d keep for breeding stock.” He paused, casually raising a knowing look to Phebe. She casually met his gaze…and then felt it. Everywhere. A single amplified heartbeat echoed through her, threatening to disrupt her entire inner state of being. She held her breath, braced against its chaos. Then slowly exhaled once it ebbed. What the fuck?

  She studied him, desperate to discover what it was about the man before her that she couldn’t nail down. She looked past his tattoos and his dazzling gaze. Past his flirtatious ways. She set all her normal bullshit aside and took his measure again. Just a man, a woman, a shared moment, and the growing feeling that they recognized a familiarity in each other. Something Phebe couldn’t name any easier than she could deny. His gaze was deeply soulful, to be sure, but if Phebe had ever been so affected by a man’s eyes, she certainly couldn’t remember it. And by the way his eyes drank her in, he was obviously feeling it, too.

  She shook her head slowly, stalling, searching desperately for the conversation topic that had flown right out of her head.

  Cows.

  Milk.

  Farm.

  Phebe sipped her ice-cold gin and hoped it would cool her hormones back to an acceptable state. Shouldn’t it be obvious her Ferragamos had never touched farm dirt? But a farmer for a granddad explained the unrefined manliness he was working with. He was probably really good with his hands, too. Phebe drummed her nails against the sweaty glass in her hand, still unaware of how cows and her day from hell were in the same wheelhouse.

  “Go on,” she managed to eke out.

  “The bull with the biggest balls in the pasture gets to keep ’em,” he said with a grin that drew a perfect line between fun and flirtatious. God, it was a thing of beauty. One that somehow slowed time, too. Their eyes level, Phebe found herself momentarily speechless, unable to breathe as she expectantly watched his lips part to finish. “A man with a pair of wrinkled raisins between his legs spends his life running for cover.”

  And there it was. A beautiful nugget of barroom genius spoken with Hemingway simplicity.

  Phebe laughed at the image he painted in her head, slapping a hand over her mouth when her last sip of gin threatened to spray them both. God, it felt good to laugh. To really laugh. It had been so long, her stomach muscles weren’t quite sure what they were supposed to do. Was it him, or was it the gin?

  “What does that say about your balls?” Phebe’s harmless flirtations slipped out in an unguarded moment.

  His answer was a simple, knowing shrug. A dare almost, like maybe she should figure it out herself. It was so suggestive, her gaze strayed immediately to inspect the goods between his legs. Realizing what she’d done, but unable to look away from what was a promising package, she covered her face and embraced the fit of giggles.

  “Listen, I know my tattoos are hot as fuck. I saw you check ’em out. But I’ve had to deal with shit customers today, and I’m really not in the mood to get picked up by a chick in a suit.” He crossed his hands over his crotch to shield it from Phebe’s hunger.

  “Wha…?” Phebe blushed and sat back in her chair. Immediately sobered and at a total loss for words. That never happened. Her fight-or-flight instinct was so confused, she stammered for words that just wouldn’t come. A smile broke over his face, and he jokingly peeked between his fingers at his concealed junk, adjusting his balls for effect.

  “Annd that puts us back even, Love.” The bartender gave her another wink and offered a hand over the bar. “Brody Cantrell. Bartender, resident psychologist, and all-around badass.” Knowing when she’d been had, she gladly took the hand. Who would’ve thought a bartender would make such a worthy opponent? The hand was strong. The palms slightly calloused.

  “Touché.” Phebe flung her blond blowout to the side, a chick move she knew was unfair but employed when she was out for the kill. “Phebe Stark, budding CEO, day drinker, and all-around ballsy bitch.”

  “Budding CEO?” Brody’s low whistle admired the title. “Not sure I’ve had one of those in my bar before.”

  “Wharton.” Phebe pointed to herself, letting her alma mater’s reputation speak for itself. “Burton Holiday’s CEO hand-selected me my senior year. I’m being groomed.” Her eyes widened, mocking the grandiose promise of her future. It still shocked the hell out of her. There were guys in her class who would’ve sucked a dick to get her job. They were brilliant brains, all right. But Phebe’s work ethic wasn’t something one learned in a classroom.

  “Your boss knows that. You’re destined for the C-Suite. He’s bound for a lifetime of stepping and fetching at the regional office. A true alpha male never attacks his female equal.” Brody ran his fingers through the hair Phebe’s fingers wanted to touch. “If he doesn’t appreciate you, fuck him. You could have another job tomorrow.”

  “What do you know about the C-Suite?” Phebe asked. Outsiders didn’t usually throw around insider lingo so casually. What was she missing about this guy? He’d done nothing but shock the hell out of her since she sat down.

  “Bartenders know everything.” Brody Cantrell wore his greatness so very lightly. So very humbly. So damn sexily. Phebe found herself again wondering about him and her sheets. She licked gin from her lips, appreciating the fluidity of his hands. The way they ebbed and flowed to shoot water into a glass from the soda gun. He set the water in front of Phebe. “You going back today?”

  Yes, she was going back. Death was preferable to letting that dickless fucker get the best of her. She nodded.

  “We’ve got a kitchen in the back. I was about to make myself a burger if you want one, too.”

  Staring at the bottom of her second glass and remembering the bazillion things still left on her to-do list, she nodded again. Food was essential to get her buzzed brain back on track. Checking out a stranger’s package wasn’t totally out of character for her. Getting caught doing it was just plain sloppy. Phebe Stark was never sloppy. Yes, food was necessary. And a burger sounded divine. CrossFit could kick her ass for the indulgence tomorrow.

  “You got any cheese?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows in a totally flirty way. Wait…what was she doing? “I mean, yeah. A burger sounds great.”

  * * *

  —

  Thirty minutes later she wondered if licking every drop of juice that had dripped from the best burger to ever cross her lips would be inappropriate. How in the world he kept the patty so juicy had to be an act of divine intervention. Or maybe she was that hungry.

  “Why didn’t I know about these? My secretary has every takeout menu on the block on file.”

  “We don’t have a food license. It’s just something I like to cook. Family recipe.”

  “If you sold these, there would be a line wrapped around the building. What’s the secret?”

  Brody’s neck pinked, which was as close to a blush as you got from a man with a beard. “Bacon,” he half whispered. “It’s a quarter ground bacon, a quarter lean chuck, and the rest eighty-twenty ground beef.” He explained as if Phebe should know what he meant. She was doing well to make reservations. Legit cooking discussions totally lost her. Still, she smiled and nodded knowingly, anyway. She liked him. She liked his burgers, too.

  “So, what am I supposed to do when I crave another one? Because I’m pretty sure I will.”

  “Huh, I’ll have to think about the price on that.” He teased her with a wink and walked away to help another customer who had just claimed a stool at the bar’s opposite end. He obviously liked her. And it was fun being with him. A little workday dalliance that seemed appropriate given her circumstances. All she’d seen was red that morning. Never in a million years had she seen a guy like Brody coming her way. And now life was all bacon burgers and cute bartenders. Life, she decided, was good.
So good, she ordered a beer to wash the burger down. She drank it ever so slowly while ogling the muscled curves of an ass she’d like to get inappropriate with.

  When a promotional beer clock on the wall read one-thirty, and the bar’s only other patron was long gone, Phebe knew she couldn’t hide away in the bar’s cool darkness anymore.

  Brody was busy at the end of the bar, sliding liquor bottles, cups, and garnishes into a plastic crate. He checked off a list as he went, sliding a nubby pencil behind his ear after each tick. When he pulled a snow cone machine out from under the bar, she blinked to be sure of what she was seeing. What was a kid’s snow cone machine doing in a bar? She slid off her stool, collected her things, and moved closer.

  “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, but I have to ask.” She motioned toward the machine. “Boozy slushies? Because I would definitely hang around for that.”

  His brow furrowed in thought. He removed the pencil from his ear and made a note on his pad. “That is a fabulous idea.” He finished writing down booze slushies and turned back to her. “But no, I volunteer at the Boys and Girls Clubs once a week. The kids love slushies, and I’m actually really good at making up crazy flavors. Occupational hazard.”

  “They let you work with kids?” The words were out before she thought better of them.

  “Why, because I’m a bartender?” Without missing a beat, he looked at her like she was half crazy. Her cheeks flamed and she felt a hundred percent crazy.

  “No, I didn’t mean you…I…This is a bar. They’re kids.”

  “It’s not alcoholic.” Brody lifted the bottles for Phebe to see. A cartoon character sipping on a straw stared back at her. Below it the words Strawberry Surprise Syrup. She rolled her eyes at her ignorance.

  “Right.” Phebe smacked her head with her palm. “But in all fairness, it has the same spout on it your liquor bottles do.” Phebe pointed an embarrassed finger at the rows behind him. He shrugged his acceptance of her excuse.