Heartbreaker (Rascals Book 3)
Page 3
“You need to hire another bartender,” Emerson told him.
“Do we have the budget for it?” Chase asked.
“We’re doing good business.” Emerson pointed to the paperwork. “But we’re going to suffer if we have more nights like last night where we are understaffed. Our good reviews will start to sour if people come here and have to wait an hour for their drinks.”
Chase nodded, looking down at the pile of paper. “If you think we can afford it, I’ll put an ad up today.”
“Or you could just hire me,” I blurted out.
Two sets of eyes turned to stare at me. Apparently, both of them had forgotten that I was still there. Not that I let that deter me. This was the perfect solution to my problems—I needed a job and something to do. Why not work here? OK, sure, I’d never been a waitress or a hostess or a bartender, but I was a fast learner. I had perfected first position faster than any of the students in my beginning ballet class when I was four—surely I would get the hang of bartending quickly enough?
But I could tell that both Chase and Emerson were skeptical.
“Have you ever worked in a bar before?” Emerson asked.
“No,” I said slowly. “But I’m a hard worker.”
That was definitely true. I was a hard worker to a fault. Stubbornly hard. I didn’t like to give up—especially when it was something I knew I could do. And I knew I could do this.
“Just give me a trial run,” I pleaded. “I’ll show you that you need me.”
Emerson and Chase exchanged a look.
“How soon can you start?” Chase finally asked.
3
Juliet
As it turned out, having absolutely nothing to do that afternoon worked in my favor. Because Chase and Emerson put me to work right away.
“Juliet, right?” Chase checked as we walked to the back room.
“You can call me Jules,” I told him.
I had always wanted a nickname, but they were considered childish and unprofessional in my company, so I’d just gone by Juliet. But now, I was out in the real world and there was no reason I couldn’t have a nickname. A new name for a new part of my life.
“This is where we store nonperishable things,” Chase said as he gave me a tour of the back room, which was neatly organized but overflowing with a variety of supplies. He took me around to another supply closet. “Here’s where we store any bar snacks—pretzels, peanuts, popcorn—the stuff we put out for free. We usually try to have several bowls of these ready to go before the evening begins, but just in case you need a refill, you can come here.” He pointed to the wooden bowls stacked on one of the shelves. “We’ll have you help with prep today,” he said before we headed towards the beer storage.
“Grab a case,” he told me, but I hesitated.
“I can’t,” I responded. “I’m not supposed to lift heavy things for at least another month.”
Chase paused and looked back at me, his expression expectant.
“I was injured and had to have major surgery,” I explained. “I’m still healing.”
“You look pretty good for someone who had major surgery.” Chase seemed to be looking for signs of weakness—something I did my best to hide.
“I was a dancer.” I knew there wasn’t much of a point in being coy about the whole thing. “I hurt my knee, but my recovery has gone pretty well—I can pretty much do anything, except lift heavy things and dance.”
Chase crossed his arms. “And what happens when you’re fully healed?” he wanted to know. “Do you go back to dancing in a month?”
I shook my head. “I’m done with dancing,” I told him, the words still tasting a little dry in my mouth. Would I ever get used it? “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
Chase nodded. I could tell he had more questions, but I was glad that he didn’t ask them. Instead, he finished the tour, and at the end of it, he gave me an apron and pointed me back towards the storage closet to start prepping for the afternoon crowd.
“We won’t get too busy tonight,” he told me once I brought the filled bowls up to the bar. “It’s a good night for a trial run.”
That was true for the afternoon rush—there were a few couples and four-tops that came in for lunch—but after six o’clock, the bar started to seriously fill up. I glanced around the crowded room, amazed that they had lasted as long as they had without more help behind the bar.
I spent most of the evening watching and learning. I observed the way that Chase talked to customers, the way he poured beer, the way he dealt with people who were clearly too drunk to keep drinking. The whole thing was its own special kind of dance—the give and take from customers was fun, and I enjoyed being on my feet, delivering drinks and picking up empties. The energy from the patrons buzzed through me, and I found myself laughing and smiling at everyone who arrived.
Until two dudes decided to start a fight in the middle of the bar. Both of them were holding beer bottles, and even though they were just yelling at each other, it seemed possible that one of them might try to break his glass over a chair and threaten the other with it.
Before I could think about what I was doing, I stepped between them. “Excuse me,” I said, smiling up at the guy who looked the angriest.
He paused, clearly surprised that I was standing in front of him. No doubt he hadn’t even seen me coming.
“Can I get you another drink?” I asked with a smile, reaching for his beer.
It wasn’t empty, but he released his grip on it.
Then, I turned to the other guy, who gave his bottle to me freely. Weapons down, that was something. Now to get some distance between them. I took the first guy by the arm and began to lead him to the bar.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” I told him gently—but firmly.
He nodded, slightly dazed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other guy drop some money on the table and leave. Immediately the tension dissipated. I got the first guy to the bar and set him up with a large glass of water and a cup of coffee.
“Nice work,” Emerson observed as I ducked back underneath the bar.
“Told you she was a good hire,” Chase added with a wink.
Emerson rolled his eyes, but visibly brightened as he glanced towards the door. Three women had just entered, one who looked like a smaller version of Emerson. The other two were blondes, one tall, and one petite and curvy. She made a beeline for Chase. The other headed towards Emerson.
Both blondes were lip-locked with their respective guys before I could even blink. The mini-Emerson, however, sat down at the bar in front of me and let out a long-suffering sigh.
“You literally all saw each other this morning,” she grumbled, before turning to me. “Hi,” she said, her mood brightening considerably. “I’m Hayley.” She stuck out her hand.
I shook it. For someone so small, she had a remarkably strong handshake.
“I’m Jules,” I told her. “The new bartender.”
“Oooh.” Hayley’s eyes widened. “A female bartender, good job bro,” she said, but none of the guys were listening as they were still kissing their girlfriends. So Hayley wadded up a napkin and threw it at Emerson. And then another.
He finally broke apart from his girlfriend.
“What?” he groused, rubbing his head where the napkin—which had been wrapped around several pretzels—had hit him.
“I was complimenting you on the gender of your new bartender,” Hayley told him, before introducing me to the two blondes she had entered with. “Jules, this is Alex and Kelsey.”
The girls both gave me kind smiles. If they had any misgivings about their boyfriends working with a female bartender, they didn’t show it. Instead, they seemed happy to meet me.
“Thank God they finally hired someone.” Kelsey sat down next to Hayley at the bar. “It was starting to get a little crazy here on the weekends.”
She had a really cute vintage style that perfectly complemented her beautiful curves and wavy blonde
hair. I was a little jealous of her boobs, which were on display in her green vintage dress with a cinched waist and a full skirt. If I wore something like that, I’d probably look like a little kid trying on my mom’s clothes—but on Kelsey, it looked right.
Alex’s style was a little more like mine—she was also tall and slender—wearing a beautifully tailored suit and matching pumps. Her hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, and the whole thing made me very aware that I was wearing a pair of black leggings and a loose black shirt. Not really anything that could compare with these beautiful women.
But they were all smiling at me and looking at me with genuine interest.
“So, what’s your story?” Hayley asked, propping her chin up on her hands and leaning on the bar. “How did you end up at Rascals?”
“Well . . .” I glanced around, hoping that someone would need me to do something, but we had reached a lull in the evening’s activities. Apparently, everyone who wanted a drink had one, all of the glasses were cleaned, all of the bowls of snacks were full. There wasn’t anything left to do but talk.
“She’s a former dancer,” Chase told the girls, and I could see all of them turn to me with even more interest than had been there previously.
“A dancer?” Hayley leaned forward further, eyes wide. “What kind of dancing?”
“Ballet,” I admitted, knowing that I’d have their full attention now.
In all my twenty-five years, I’d yet to meet another woman who hadn’t—at some point in her life—dreamt about becoming a ballerina. It was something in our DNA—that love of pointe shoes and tutus. Which I could completely understand. After all, I’d devoted my entire life to that dream.
“Wow,” Kelsey breathed. “You were a ballerina?”
I nodded. “But I’m retired now,” I said, the word “retired” feeling a little better than “injured.”
“I love ballet,” Hayley sighed longingly.
“You do?” Emerson asked, clearly surprised.
Hayley threw a handful of pretzels at him. “I like girly things,” she told him before turning to me. “Not that ballet is girly.”
“Oh, it’s totally girly,” I said with a laugh. “Sequins and pink fluffy things? Very girly.”
Hayley sighed. “And I love it.”
Apparently, Hayley didn’t just love ballet, she was borderline obsessed. As Alex and Kelsey floated off to spend some quality time with their boyfriends, Hayley stayed with me at the bar, pumping me for information and gossip about the Chicago City Ballet. It was the first time I’d met a non-ballerina that knew that much about the world of ballet.
“Are they still doing Sleeping Beauty this year?” she wanted to know. “I heard that it had been postponed because of an accident.”
I paused.
I knew all about what had happened with Sleeping Beauty. I knew all about the accident. Because it had been me—I’d had the lead, and I’d been the one to get hurt. The whole thing had caused a bit of a scandal, since my injury had been exacerbated by some of the set that had been loaded in too early. Officially the story was that it had been my fault, but if it hadn’t been for the set pieces being in the way, I might not have been so terribly injured. Might not have lost my career in the process.
It had taken a long time to get over the bitterness I felt over the circumstances around my injury. And it didn’t help that a year after the accident, the Chicago City Ballet was doing Sleeping Beauty as if nothing had happened.
It hurt, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Someone else was going to get that part, and they’d probably dance it beautifully. But I’d never be able to think about that show again without associating it with the end of my career. With the end of everything I knew.
Hayley was still watching me, her excitement about ballet evident.
“Yeah, it will be part of this season,” I said slowly, watching as she finally put the pieces together.
Her eyes widened, and she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. Are you Juliet Monroe?”
I nodded. It was the first time that someone had recognized me in months. It had been kind of nice—being anonymous. I’d been with the company long enough that I was a bit of a celebrity within the ballet community—especially within the Chicago ballet community—and I was accustomed to new students or new members coming up to me, asking for selfies and autographs. It had even happened on the street a few times after I began to get more visible parts and solos.
But since my accident, I’d become invisible again. And I liked it. There was a lot of pressure to be the perfect ballerina—even among other ballerinas. The female dancers were expected to act a certain way—proper and demure—while the guys could get away with some bad boy activity. I had never acted out, though. I had been devoted to dance and would have done anything to keep rising in the ranks. I didn’t smoke, I rarely drank, and I didn’t go out partying. Never had.
Which is probably why I was starting to get the itch to do all the things I’d never done before. Like ask handsome strangers to come home with me.
I got a little shiver thinking about what had happened last night in the alleyway. Acting out, being bad, had yielded some pretty sexy results. Maybe I needed to take risks more often. My life as a ballerina was over—it was time to embrace the freedom I now had.
Hayley was still looking at me, but the sympathy that had appeared on her face had disappeared, her expression morphing into something else. Something a little more thoughtful, a bit calculated. Like she had plans for me.
I didn’t know if I should be excited or terrified by the prospect.
Thankfully, before I could decide, I saw someone in the corner booth finish their drink. The perfect reason to excuse myself from our conversation about ballet. Leaving Hayley at the bar, I wove through the crowd, moving effortlessly between people, using my agility to get from point A to point B with my finely tuned dancer’s style.
“Can I get you anything else?” I asked, picking up the empty glasses from the table.
They declined, and I was about to head back to the bar when I turned and ran straight into a wall. At least, it felt like a wall at first. I looked up and saw that I had run into a man. And not just any man.
The man in black. From last night.
He wasn’t in all black this time. His suit was still black, but he was wearing a white shirt and a charcoal-gray tie. I wondered if he was as color-averse as I was—and if it was for the same reason. I doubted it. I didn’t wear colors because I was always coming to and from rehearsals and it never really mattered what I wore, as long as I could dance in it. I liked colors, though.
The man in black, on the other hand, didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would wear a brightly colored shirt, tie, or even pocket square. He looked like a black, white, and gray type of guy. I noticed that his hair was properly combed, and once again my fingers itched to mess it up. It had looked good messed up. He looked good messed up.
I hadn’t thought I’d ever see him again, but now that he was standing in front of me, I felt a rush of conflicting emotions. I was glad to see him because he was damn sexy, but I was embarrassed too. I’d never just grabbed a strange guy and kissed him. In the light of day, it seemed pretty crazy. And even though he had responded eagerly to my kiss, I couldn’t help wondering what he thought of me.
And why he was here.
My mind raced. Had he come looking for me? Did I want him to come looking for me? Did I want him to find me? I didn’t know.
I realized I was staring.
“Hey,” he said, smiling at me. It was that long, slow smile. I liked that smile. I liked it a lot.
“Hey,” I responded, giving him a grin of my own.
“Hey!” Chase called from across the room, causing both of us to turn. “Am I paying you to stand there?” he asked.
“Sorry!” I was about to hurry back to the bar, before Chase laughed.
“I’m talking to Liam,” he said. “Not you, Jules.”
“I’m no one,” I told him, about to push past him to head back to the bar.
I had decided that what had happened last night was a one-off thing. That I didn’t want to get to know the man in black better. That I wanted him to be a stranger. Then I remembered what Chase had said about paying him to stand there.
I looked back at Liam, eyebrow raised. “Is he paying you, too?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I own this place.”
The glasses I was holding slipped from my fingertips and dropped to the floor, shattering on impact.
4
Liam
I didn’t like surprises. Never had, never will. Besides, I’d had more than my quota of surprises in the past twenty-four hours, all of which seemed to revolve around the pretty brunette who had just broken a pair of wine glasses right at my feet.
“Oh my God,” she said, instinctively kneeling and reaching for the glass shards.
I bent down and grabbed her hands before she could.
“Careful,” I said, but I should have been talking to myself because the jolt of heat that hit me as our fingers touched nearly knocked me on my ass.
Just as it had done when I had taken her hand the first time last night, and then again when she’d kissed me in front of the building.
Like I said, I didn’t like surprises, and I lived my life in a method which eliminated the abundance of surprises, but this woman—Jules—had thrown me for a loop three times in the past day. I didn’t like it, and beneath that hot, hum of attraction, I felt a familiar twinge of panic. The way I always felt when I lost control. Or thought I might. And with this temptress, I could sense trouble. The kind of the trouble that made me want to run in the opposite direction.