Fried cheese curds.Bloody Marys that could feed a family.Badger games on every screen.And regulars who knew my name and I knew theirs.
I loved this place even when it drove me nuts.
“Hey, Tempi!”called Britta from the back hallway.“We outta lemons again?”
“Check the walk-in.If they’re not in there, we’re screwed until the delivery comes.”I grabbed the bar rag and started wiping down the back counter while eyeing the row of liquor bottles.I’d need to restock vodka before tonight.Maybe whiskey, too.Depends on how many of the Tuesday regulars rolled in looking for drama and cheap shots.
The bell over the front door dinged.
I didn’t look up right away.It was probably Randy from the butcher’s dropping off the jerky sticks for the Bloody Marys or one of the old-timers coming in to warm a stool before noon.Most of my daytime crowd didn’t demand much beyond a cold drink and a dry place to nurse regrets.
But the footsteps that followed?
They didn’t match.
Heavy.Measured.Like someone who knew exactly where he was going and didn’t give a damn if you liked it.
I looked up and immediately wished I hadn’t.
He was tall, broad across the shoulders, and wearing a black leather cut with silver stitching that screameddangerous and proud of it.His presence filled the room like a punch in the chest.Confident.Calm.Calculated.
And a patch I’d never seen before:Saint’s Outlaws MC.
Shit.
This guy looked like trouble.
He took two steps inside and gave the place a slow, assessing look.Like he was taking inventory.Like he owned the place.
I think the fuck not.
Then his eyes landed on me.
“I need to talk to the owner,” he said.His voice was deep, rough around the edges, with a tone that didn’t ask so much as expected.
I arched a brow.“You’re talkin’ to her.”
He paused, head tilted slightly, like he thought he’d misheard me.“The owner?”
“Yep.”I leaned both elbows on the bar and smiled, slow and unimpressed.“Still me.”
He blinked.“Huh.”
“That a problem?”
“No,” he said, and narrowed his eyes.“Just not what I expected.”
I straightened and crossed my arms.“What exactly were you expecting?A guy in cargo shorts with a ‘World’s Best Bar Owner’ apron?”
He smirked.“Maybe.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint, biker man.You get me.”
He stepped closer and planted both hands on the bar.His fingers were rough.Knuckles scarred.Rings gleamed on a few of them.Nothing fancy, just sharp edges and brass.
His eyes looked me up and down.“Is that an offer, sweetheart?”
I rolled my eyes.“Hardly.What can I do for you?”I asked.I had heard all of the pickup lines before.This guy may have one of the most handsome faces I've ever seen, but that wasn’t going to fool me.
