The Bartender's Secret (Masterson, Texas Book 1)

by Caro Carson

  Connor gave her what she wanted. He knew it would taste awful with the soda, but he was willing to bet that Delphinia would not admit it—not as long as the lemon-drop ladies were irritating her.

  As Connor moved down the bar, checking on other customers, he kept one eye on her. She choked on the drink as much as on her pride. It would have been pretty funny, if he could get the idea of that someone out of his mind. Someone might know the people she knew, and he might fit into her life seamlessly, but if the man had humiliated her over something as trivial as bourbon being from Kentucky, Connor didn’t like him.

  But he’d already known that.

  “A Guinness for my friend. Best way to end the week.” The city councilman, Ernie, had returned with another member of the council.

  Connor obliged. A glass of Guinness had to be partially filled, then allowed to sit for a minute or two to let the nitrogen gas in it settle before being topped off.

  “Heard about the accident,” Ernie said, as they waited.

  “It could have been worse. The city won’t always get lucky, if you can call a cyclist getting broken bones ‘lucky.’”

  The cyclist could have been killed. Or Delphinia could have been. If there’d been blood on her skirt instead of tire dirt—Connor couldn’t go there.

  “You know Kurt already,” Ernie said, referring to the man beside him. “That cyclist was the last straw. We came here to let you know that we’re not going to let your proposal get tabled again.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Connor set the glasses in front of the councilmen. He’d believe their promises after they came true, but the bridge might happen sooner rather than later, after all.

  The evening picked up. Buck performed, the crowd sang along, and all would be right with the world, if only he could steal more time with Delphinia.

  The opening to go in and out from behind the bar was at the opposite end from Delphinia, twenty long seats away. He headed that way. As the owner, he always made a few rounds of the tables throughout the evening. He’d do so now, then end by talking to Delphinia while he was on her side of the bar, so he could see all of her as they spoke. She looked sharp in the suit, but he wondered why the switch from skirts.

  Her knees. Of course. She didn’t want to wear a skirt and have everyone ask why her knees were scraped up.

  Connor didn’t make it out from behind the bar.

  “A toast!” The call was picked up along the bar. “A toast!”

  As Buck finished his song and the guests at the tables turned toward the bar, Connor poured himself a splash of beer in a highball glass. This was one part of the job he’d never master like Mr. Murphy, but he was the publican now. He couldn’t refuse.

  He stepped back to stand in front of the antique mirrors. Every eye in the place was on him, every glass raised in anticipation. Connor appreciated the sight of regulars and visitors all united for the evening, here to shed some cares and spend a little time in camaraderie with their fellow man. That was what a good pub could do, and Connor wanted to run a good pub. He’d learned from the best.

  He raised his glass and spoke in a voice meant to carry. “May there always be work for our hands to do.”

  “Here, here!” came a voice from the crowd.

  Connor smiled as he delivered the punch line. “And may there always be coin for a beer when we’re through.”

  This was met with laughter and a few cheers, but the glasses stayed in the air. The regulars knew that was far too short for an Irish toast. Connor hadn’t said anything properly poignant yet.

  “May the roof of the Musketeer never fall in, and may the friends gathered below never fall out. Slainte.”

  He threw back the ounce of beer and thunked the glass down, an action repeated by eighty or so guests on the floor and in the loft. He could forget his plan to walk the floor; now the orders for fresh drinks would pour in.

  But he’d been looking forward to another minute with Delphinia, and he was going to take it, even if he had to stay behind the bar to talk to her. He walked back to her seat quickly, stopping only for a handshake for a well-done toast.

  Delphinia gestured toward the center mirror. “That was a wonderful toast.”

  I’m glad you liked it was his usual reply, but this was Rembrandt, with whom he’d laughed over Othello and talked about books. “It wasn’t Shakespeare.”

  “But the crowd loved it like it was. Shakespeare was a crowd-pleaser. You are, too.” Her smile was real, reaching all the way to those intelligent brown eyes.

  “You liked the toast, but you didn’t like your drink. I saw your face.”

  “I should have trusted you. The bourbon was better.”

  “With Coke, yes. Don’t go anywhere, and I’ll teach how you to enjoy Irish whiskey properly once the rush is over. It’s about to get real busy here for about twenty minutes.”

  She turned to look over her shoulder. He wondered if she could see what he could see, every server filling trays with empty glasses throughout the main floor, all the guests who gestured at the half-full glasses on their tables, Another round, please, all the guests who were nodding as they recognized the song Buck began to play, settling themselves in, not even thinking about leaving.

  “You know it’s going to get busy?” Delphinia sounded doubtful.

  “Yes. Can you stay?” He felt like a little boy asking if a friend could come outside to play, or a teenager asking a girl if she could go to the movies. Both absurd analogies, and far more wholesome than his actual childhood had been, but he owned enough books with Norman Rockwell paintings in them to get the general idea for how an innocent first love would have felt.

  His heart sped up as he waited for her answer, at any rate. Can you spend a little time with me?

  “Where would I go? It’s Friday, and I’m in a pub, so I’m already where I should be.”

  She was with him. He couldn’t throw her over his shoulder and hide her in his cave, but he liked seeing her tucked in safely at seat one, and she wasn’t going to leave, not yet. It felt good.

  “Before I take care of the rest of the floor, what would you really like to drink?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe just a plain Coke to get the taste of that awful stuff out of my mouth.” Then her eyes widened at her own words. She reached out with her hand again, setting her palm on the bar. “I didn’t mean that drink was awful. I’m sure it was good whiskey, very good whiskey, truly.”

  He covered that hand with his own, then turned it over. Her hand was completely healed. He ran his thumb lightly over her perfect palm. “Do your knees look this good?”

  “Oh.”

  Oh, that oh, from his lightest touch. He hadn’t meant it that way. He’d been thinking only of undamaged, healthy skin, but at that oh, he lowered his voice. “I don’t mean that they were awful before. I know for a fact they weren’t. They’re good knees, very good knees, truly.”

  Her eyes narrowed just a bit. “You’re being very charming, Connor McClaine, with me and with every other woman at this bar.” She pulled her hand back and sat up just a bit, a touch of that lecturing tone back in her voice.

  Her earlier, prickly demeanor suddenly made sense to him. It wasn’t that she’d been kept waiting too long; it was that she’d seen him talking to other women while she’d waited, and she hadn’t liked it. She was jealous.

  Jubilant, victorious—the idea that she wanted him all to herself made him feel all of it, all at once.

  “‘Charming’ doesn’t mean I’m lying, Rembrandt. I’m glad to see your hands are healed, and I hope your knees are, too.”

  “They’re fine.”

  “I won’t really know until I see them again, will I? To quote a certain English professor, you haven’t shown me anything. You’ve only described them to me as fine, and women always say they’re fine, so...”

  Her laugh was l
ight and bright. “You are too charming. You ought to be a bartender or something. People would love to come and spend time at your place.”

  He was in real danger here. He’d told Mr. Murphy there was no woman, but there was absolutely, definitely a woman. He was looking right at her, but he couldn’t have her, not without making her life more difficult for her.

  The back of his neck prickled with a different sense of danger. He looked beyond Delphinia’s shoulder, to a table he should have noticed sooner. Two men, early twenties—one he recognized as a recent graduate, a football star who’d become an assistant coach when he failed to make it in the NFL. Their voices didn’t have the right tone of male one-upmanship. This was straight-up anger.

  His waitress was trying to interrupt and diffuse the tension, holding the check in her hand, probably asking if they wanted her to split the tab. The former star reached up and put his hand on her hip and gave her a squeeze. His fingertips grazed over her backside as he let go.

  “Excuse me.” Connor had to walk the length of the antique bar to get out from behind it and head for that table. Twenty seats. Thirty feet. Too long—but he couldn’t vault over the bar without causing absolute chaos. That wasn’t what the Musketeer was all about. But it wasn’t about a couple of men shouting at one another in a public pissing match, either, and it sure as hell wasn’t about his employee getting manhandled.

  As he passed Kristopher, he gave him a nod. The waitress had already been coming to get Connor, as she should, so she met him in the middle of the floor. “I don’t want to serve table eighty-seven.”

  “I saw it.” When Connor reached the table, he stood between the arguing men and Delphinia—a reflex. “Gentlemen, let’s take this outside.”

  The former star sneered at his friend. “Get your ass out of here. I’m staying.”

  Connor smiled congenially and set his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Nah. We’re all going outside.”

  The man tried to jerk his shoulder to shake Connor’s hand off, but his shoulder didn’t move an inch, because Connor didn’t allow it to.

  Kristopher strolled up, all smiles to keep things looking friendly for the rest of the pub. “Gina gave me their check. Fifty-two fifty.”

  Connor took the check and tossed it on the table. “This could be your lucky night. I might make the drinks on the house for a new coach of the mighty Masterson Musketeers. You and your friend can make it out the door before I change my mind and decide you should stay and pay.”

  The coach glared at his friend, but the combination of carrot and stick—free drinks and a bartender who was strong enough to keep him in his seat—had him saying, “Let’s go.”

  Exactly as Connor had intended.

  Connor walked them outside and waited until the door closed behind him. “You are banned from the Tipsy Musketeer for life. Don’t come back.”

  They got loud again on the sidewalk. Indignant. Connor silently crossed his arms over his chest and stood in front of his door. He was well aware that his white shirt and black vest gave him something of a gentleman-boxer look, which was classier than an ex-con and just as effective. He’d also spotted a patrol car parked at the corner. Connor was a magnet for cops. He only had to stand here.

  Sure enough, the deputy walked right up to them. It was the same officer from the bicycle crash, Kent Grayson. Again, he talked to Connor first. “Anything exciting going on?”

  “Just informing these two that if they set foot in my place again, I’ll be calling you to report trespassers.”

  The coach appealed to the deputy. “This is bull. He has no reason to throw us out. We didn’t do a damned thing in there.”

  The deputy crossed his arms, too, over his bulletproof vest. “He doesn’t need one. It’s private property. He owns it.”

  Connor was faintly surprised at the support from a man in uniform. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it caught him off guard to have the law on his side.

  Kristopher came out to update him. “Gina doesn’t want to press charges for them touching her.”

  “Isn’t that fortunate for you?” Connor asked the coach. “Before you go, you owe me fifty-two fifty for your drinks.”

  “You said it was on the house.”

  “I said it might be, if I didn’t change my mind. I changed it. Pay your bill. Cash only.”

  Facing Connor and Kristopher and a uniformed deputy, the two had no choice. They pulled out their wallets. One had a fifty-dollar bill.

  Connor accepted it. “We’ll call it even. If you don’t mind seeing them off my sidewalk, Deputy Grayson?”

  Once inside, he took Gina aside, stopping at the employees-only hallway just past seat one, where Delphinia still sat, watching him like a hawk.

  “They’ll never be back,” he told Gina. “They’re taking a walk with a deputy right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Connor held up the folded fifty-dollar bill. “Might be kind of a shame, actually. Turns out they were very generous tippers. This is yours.”

  Gina squealed like one of the lemon-drop ladies as she hugged him and told him he was the best boss, ever, but when Connor glanced Delphinia’s way, she was beaming at him with an expression on her face that was nothing like her earlier schoolmarm disapproval.

  What a night. The cops were on his side, and now he was the teacher’s pet.

  The night was still young. He had a promise to keep. He was going to teach the teacher how to enjoy Irish whiskey.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The crowd got smaller. Those who remained were paying attention to the music more and hollering jokes at one another less. It was all part of the ebb and flow, the pulse of a Friday evening at the Tipsy Musketeer.

  Connor picked up two whiskey glasses in one hand, poured two fingers of his favorite in each one, then headed toward the open end of the bar. He clapped Kristopher on the shoulder as he passed him. “Bring an ice ball to seat one, would you?”

  Delphinia spotted him as he walked toward her, winding his way through the tables. She stood, shook her suit jacket off her shoulders and hung it over the back of her barstool.

  Connor’s thoughts took a hard turn from whiskey to the bedroom. She was wearing a silky sort of tank top, a rich burgundy that looked almost as smooth as her skin. He didn’t even glance at the rest of his guests. She stayed standing as he walked straight toward her.

  Keep a cool head, lad.

  Burgundy was one of the Masterson University colors. This was probably an outfit she wore to official university functions. She wasn’t trying to seduce him—but she was still succeeding.

  “Are you ready?” He handed her one of the glasses.

  She gave him a little I don’t know shrug with those newly uncovered shoulders. “How does one get ready for something like this?”

  For a woman like you to walk into my bar and turn my world upside down?

  Rather than answer, he stood so they were shoulder to shoulder, and raised his glass toward the chandelier. “First, you admire its color.”

  She moved closer to hold her glass at the same angle he held his. Her bare shoulder brushed his shirtsleeve.

  “Like a wine tasting? I know the drill. What colors am I supposed to be seeing?”

  He was the one who shrugged this time, another brush of shoulders. “What do you see?”

  She squinted thoughtfully at her raised glass. “Amber? A touch of black, like walnut. Some ochre. Sienna, definitely, and russet. Rich sepia tones.”

  He turned his head just enough to look at her instead of the whiskey. It didn’t take much, as close as they were.

  “And umber.” She nodded decisively, never taking her eyes off the glass. “Umber and amber, both.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “About what?” She frowned as she tilted the glass this way and that, but her lips tw
itched. “Smoky topaz.”

  “That’s some vocabulary, Professor.”

  She looked at him and batted her eyelashes.

  He burst into laughter—not for the first time around her. The moment left them looking at one another, inches apart, smiling, breathing.

  “Smoky topaz would better describe your eyes than the whiskey,” she said, bold and apologetic at once, like she was sorry she had to tell him the truth, but the truth was, she thought his eyes were special.

  The rest of the world disappeared. Rembrandt was everything.

  “I see one hundred shades of brown.” He was looking into her eyes, because he was talking about her eyes, and devil take the whiskey. His voice was husky, but that didn’t matter, because her gaze had dropped to his mouth. She was going to kiss him. There wasn’t a single reason why he shouldn’t let her. There were only two of them in their world.

  The entire bar erupted as Buck hit the chorus of “Sweet Caroline,” everyone shouting the famous three notes: “Bah, bah, bah!”

  The spell was broken. He was in his bar, out on the floor.

  He didn’t kiss women in public. The flirty ones and the regulars might kiss him on the cheek as they hugged him in greeting, but he’d never kissed a girlfriend on the job, and Rembrandt wasn’t his girlfriend in any way, shape or form. She was seeing someone, some idiot who was a snob about bourbon and didn’t take her out on a Friday night.

  The crowd chanted: “So good. So good. So good!”

  Rembrandt sat on her barstool and looked up at him. “Now what?”

  He felt off-kilter. He glanced around the floor, at the amount of empty and full glasses, at the waitstaff and guests. This was the real world, and there were rules to the game. Connor didn’t go after other men’s girlfriends, even if he knew he could win. Even if the other bastard deserved to lose. Connor wouldn’t be a great replacement prize for Delphinia, anyway.

  He shielded himself with some bartender charm. “The nose would be next, but don’t bury your nose in the glass like they do with wine. It’s too strong.”