The heat of his gaze burns into me as I’m wiping the last of the glasses down at the front of the bar.
He knows what he’s doing, and he looks fucking intoxicating doing it.
I’m not the type to back down from a challenge, not when he’s sitting there watching me like he’s two seconds from losing every ounce of control. I stare right back at him, daring him to fucking do something about it.
I grab the dirty rag and start cleaning the table in frontof him, taking my sweet time, moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
The black, low-cut V-neck I’m wearing dips scandalously low when I lean forward, putting my cleavage on full display. My tits practically spill out, a sinful tease framed perfectly for his hungry eyes. I don’t miss the way his gaze drops, his jaw tenses when he realizes he’s been caught looking.
His eyes snap back up to mine.
Got ya.
I toss the dirty rag over my shoulder and slip behind the bar, placing the last of the glasses into the sink with a soft clatter. I should tell him to leave, tell him I don’t need a babysitter. I can handle myself just fine without him hovering like some brooding bodyguard.
I grab a bottle of bourbon, pour myself a shot, and toss it back without flinching. The burn scorches a trail down my throat, but it’s nothing compared to the slow, blistering heat of his gaze pinning me from across the room.
“Take it easy there, killer,” he gawks from across the bar, “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
I scoff, pouring myself another shot with more force than necessary.
“I can handle my liquor, cowboy,” I hiss, the irritation in my voice bleeding out with every word.
I’m tired, horny, and fed the fuck up with whatever game we’re playing here.
His lips twitch—the barest hint of a smirk threatening to break through—but he doesn’t smile.
He leans back in his chair casually, watching me like he’s waiting for something.
“Whatever you say,princess.”
Ugh, that damn nickname. I swear, if I could strangle him with my bare hands right now, I would. I roll my eyes dramatically and knock back the second shot without hesitation.
The bourbon burns hotter this time, loosening something reckless inside me.
“What are you still doing here anyway? I snap, slamming the empty shot glass down. “Don’t you have a bedtime or something, grandpa?”
His jaw flexes, and he taps his boot harder against the wooden floors. “What did I say about you having a smart mouth?”
I laugh, because that’s fucking funny.
He talks all this shit, growls, threatens and acts like he’s two seconds from wrecking me, but he hasn’t done a damn thing about it.
“You didn’t say anything, because I know you wouldn’t do shit,” I say over my shoulder, my voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
I smirk to myself, tossing the shot glass into the sink with a sharp clatter. Grabbing my purse from behind the bar, I start shuffling through it, the sound of heavy footsteps retreating in the background.
Thank god, he finally fucking left. Maybe he finally realized he’s all bark and no bite.
I sling my bag onto my shoulder and back up, only to slam straight into something solid.
Fuck.
