“I’d be doing a whole lot better if you bought me a drink.”
He looks irritated.
Not in a big, obvious way, just a flicker of something restrained, a tightening around his eyes. I don’t know him well, but I know that look. The one that says he doesn’t want to be bothered.
His gaze finally lifts, and I freeze when his eyes meet mine. “Drink for Daisy when you get a chance.”
I give him a polite smile, reach into the cooler, and slide a beer bottle across the bar.
“Can I join you?” Daisy’s already invading his space, claiming the barstool to his left.
“I’m waiting on my boy, but maybe later.”
His forced smile is more of a formality than anything real, and it takes half a second for Daisy to pick up on it, straightening like she’s been dismissed before retreating to the jukebox.
She’s huddled up with her friend, their heads close together, whispering and giggling while sneaking glances over here like a couple of horny teenagers—never mind that they’re both well into their thirties, practically drooling over a man who couldn’t look less interested if he tried.
But then again, who the hell am I to judge? I’m standing here watching him too. At least Daisy had the balls to shoot her shot and put herself out there. However, witnessing that shutdown is more than enough reason for me to never consider putting myself in the same position.
“Brutal.” I shouldn’t laugh, but it escapes me before I can catch it.
Christian raises his eyes to mine. “Nice enough woman, but she’s been trying to crawl into my bed for years.”
“Not your type?” I ask, even though I should probably keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. Especially since I’m sitting here shamelessly eye-fucking a man who’s got at least fifteen years on me and absolutely no business looking this good.
I’m fully aware I’m parked in deluluville with a one-way ticket tonot a chance in hell—but the fantasy’s hot, and my vibrator doesn’t judge.
“Something like that,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging into the ghost of a smile. “What about you? You got a man?”
“Nope. No man.”
“You don’t want one?”
“Can’t find one.” My laugh sounds hollow, even to me, but he doesn’t let me hide behind it.
“I’d bet my ass you’ve got guys tripping over themselves here for a shot at you.”
“Not true, and even if it were, I don’t think drunk guys hitting on the bartender count. This place is mainly dick and testosterone. I’m just all they’ve got.”
“Trust me, I’ve got eyes, and that’s not why men are falling all over you.”
I barely have time to register his words before the bar door suddenly swings open, and a tall, blond, and unfairly pretty guy walks in. He looks young and has money written all over him. But it’s only when he strides up to the bar and grabs the untouched beer beside Christian that I make the connection.
His son.
Jesus Christ, of course the Crawford gene pool doesn’t do anything halfway.
“You wanted to see me?” I hear the bite in Baby Crawford’s voice immediately.
Christian rises from his stool, jerking his chin toward an empty booth in the far corner, and I watch them make their way across the room like two wolves circling each other.
The bar has settled into that late-evening lull that comes when most of the regulars have paid their tabs and headed home to their beds. What’s left behind is the low hum of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair across the scuffed floorboards. Still, no matter how many times I run a towel over the same glass or how determined I am to focus on literally anything else, my attention keeps drifting back to the two men tucked away in the corner booth.
Younger Crawford’s hands are flying, punctuating every sentence with his agitation, and it’s crystal clear he’s pissed about something. Meanwhile, Christian sits there like a stone wall, absorbing every verbal blow without so much as a flinch. He doesn’t fire back or raise his voice, but I catch the subtle tightening of his jaw and the way his fingers clamp around his glass like he’s holding back the weight of an entire storm.
Twenty minutes drag by before Christian finally pushes back from the table and heads my way with his empty glass.
“Goodnight, Piper.”
