With her heart in her throat, she grabbed two lowball glasses and a bottle of tequila while Bullet breathed fire beside her.
“This is my territory,” he seethed.
“Hm. Seems you’re a bit possessive about your space.” She pointed to a bottle of Kahlúa. “Can you please hand me that, and the ouzo?”
Teeth clenched, he handed her the bottles, and she began mixing the drinks. This time the chuckles came from the other men. She couldn’t see Dixie, but she heard the heels of her boots clicking along the hardwood toward the kitchen. She reached in front of Bullet to grab two napkins and grazed his stomach, which earned something between a grunt and a dangerously sexy sound she didn’t want to think about.
She set the drinks on the bar and wiped her hands on a towel that was hanging beneath the counter. “Two Boot Knockers just for you two beautiful men.”
Stepping closer to Bullet, she crooked her finger for him to bend down so she could speak quietly. To her surprise, he did, and she said, “I’m really not comfortable with territories. It feels outdated. Like women being seen and not heard.”
Bullet rose to his full height, face pinched tight.
She patted his chest and, in her sweetest voice, said, “You do your job and I’ll do mine. But there will probably be occasions when I need to get behind the bar, or you need to get into the kitchen. Think you can handle that?”
One of the men at the bar lifted his glass and said, “This is the best drink I’ve had in a long time. I can handle this pretty lady making my drinks.”
Finlay batted her eyelashes just for dramatics, enjoying the irritated look on Bullet’s face. “Thank you. I’m pretty good behind the bar. Oh, and in the kitchen,” she added with a smile.
She felt something thundering against her palm and realized her hand was still over Bullet’s heart. She lowered her hand, and he growled something indiscernible.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Dixie.”
Chapter Two
WEDNESDAY EVENING FINLAY was talking to her best friend, Isabel Ryder, on speakerphone when she pulled up in front of Whiskey Bro’s. Isabel bartended and waitressed at the restaurant in Boston where Finlay had worked before opening her small catering company, Finlay’s. They’d become fast friends, and a year after Finlay had opened her company, Isabel had begun working for her part-time, helping at the events. Finlay had been back in town for two months, and even though she’d made lots of new friends and had rekindled some of her old childhood friendships, she missed her bestie.
“You won’t believe what the new chef, Paolo, is doing with the kitchen,” Isabel said. “The guy might be a great chef, but he’s a total a-hole. I wish I could quit right now and come down to Peaceful Harbor and just work for you.”
“Sorry, Iz. Hopefully one day, but I don’t have things ironed out yet. I am catering a baby shower in two weeks for one of Penny’s friends. You know how much I love themed parties, and the mom is having twins, so I get to do boy and girl goodies.”
“They have no idea what they’re in for. Do they realize that when it comes to food, you’re the queen of all things baby-themed, which is second only to your affinity for heart-mending comfort food?”
“That’s why they hired me.”
When Finlay had first started her business, she’d catered a baby shower for a mom who was having quadruplets, and she’d come up with different baby-themed foods for four very distinct babies. She’d quickly become known as the go-to baby shower caterer in her area, and referrals to her website had taken off.
“How’s it going working from home?”
“Limiting. I can only take on small parties, but I think I was really lucky to find a rental with two wall ovens. I did see two more retail spaces today, and they were okay, but something was missing.”
“Yeah, me.”
Finlay smiled, picturing Isabel’s short dark hair and big, almond-shaped eyes looking at her like she was a fool for not realizing she’d left her behind. “Oh, please. It’s not like you can just pick up and leave. And now that I’m helping the Whiskeys, it’s going to be another month before I can dig my feet in, anyway, so I’m not in a rush to find space right now.”
“And?” Isabel asked curiously.
“And what?” She cut the engine and took Isabel off speakerphone.
“The train guy? Did you see him today?”
Finlay shoved her keys in her purse and stepped from the car. “He goes by Bullet, and no. Not yet. I don’t have to work at the bar very much yet. Just when I’m trying new menu items, or setting up the kitchen, or interviewing. It’s a process. But I’m on my way there now. I want to measure the counter space and check out the appliances. I was so busy talking with his family yesterday that I forgot to see if it was all up to snuff.”
“Bullet,” Isabel said softly. Then louder, “Bullet train. What do you think he believes about himself? That he’s really powerful, or that he fucks fast and hard?”
“Izzy!” Finlay felt her cheeks flush. She wasn’t a prude by any means, but she wasn’t as crass as Isabel. She looked around the parking lot, which was full of motorcycles and trucks, and wondered which one was Bullet’s. She spotted a shiny black Harley, and just as she decided it was his, she shifted her gaze to the scuffed-up one parked beside it. Yeah, that’s yours, I bet. “All I know is that he isn’t the type of guy to do anything slowly. I told you he’s part of a motorcycle gang or something, right? His whole family is, and the bar…” She glanced at the run-down building and sighed. “It could be cute if the windows weren’t blacked out and they spiffed it up a bit. But as it stands, it looks like it’s on its last legs, which is probably part of the allure for these guys. They’re really rough, totally different from—” She stopped herself before Aaron could fall out and said, “The guys who frequented that hole-in-the-wall bar on the corner by the restaurant.”
She’d met Aaron Rush almost nine years ago, during her first year of college, and it had been almost seven years since he was killed. Long enough to get past the physical pain of missing him and still recent enough to remember what his carefree laugh sounded like. His smile was beginning to fade from her memory, but the way that smile had made her feel? That would never leave her. She’d been just a girl of nineteen when they’d met, with no real-world experience and away from home for the first time ever. But she’d fallen hard for the confident, blond man of twenty-three who had already completed one military tour and had just reenlisted for another.
“They didn’t hire you to redecorate,” Isabel reminded her.
“I know, but…” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed up the front steps.
“‘But every place should bring a smile to the patrons’ lips, whether they get a glimpse of the restaurant, the kitchen, or the bathroom.’”
“Okay, Miss Parrot,” Finlay said with a smile. “Maybe I have a thing for liking my surroundings.” She pulled open the heavy door and was assaulted by the smell of leather, metal, and Whiskey. She whispered into the phone as she stepped inside, “Remind me to bring some air freshener tomorrow.”
The din of the bar quieted, and all eyes turned to her. The combination of leers and confusion on the customers’ faces made her wonder if she’d spilled something on herself, and she looked down at her outfit. But her sea-foam-green dress was clean, the frills at the bottom neat and orderly. Her nude heels weren’t broken or even scuffed. Her stomach pitched south.
“Everyone’s staring at me. I gotta go,” she whispered into the phone, and ended the call. Aware of every set of eyes watching her—especially those of the monstrous man behind the bar, who seemed to be chewing nails—she tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, lifted her chin, and tried to ignore the buzzing of her nerves as she made a beeline for the kitchen.
Someone whistled, and she made the mistake of looking over. The whistler was sitting on a stool by the bar. He winked, and she quickly shifted her gaze to Jed, the friendly guy with dirty-blond hai
r whom she’d met at the wedding last month. He was now busy bartending beside Bullet. Jed was kind and funny and not nearly as intimidating as some of the people she was walking past.
Jed smiled and said, “How’s it going, Finlay?”
She managed a quick wave as she weaved between tables, stepping over so many leather boots she could have been in a shoe store. She heard Bullet growl something at Jed, but she couldn’t make out the words.
A guy wearing a bandanna around his head said, “Hey, baby,” as she passed.
Not on your life.
She quickened her pace, passing a good-looking guy with short-cropped hair and tattoos snaking down his arm and a couple of guys wearing matching leather vests who lifted their drinks as if they were toasting her. What the heck? She felt like she was back in high school, running out onto the field to cheer for a football game, minus the cheerleading outfit and the desire to be appreciated for her looks. Nope. Not happening.
She finally pushed through the kitchen doors and, after scanning the room and making sure she was alone this time, exhaled loudly, silently chiding herself for being so nervous. They were just people.
The doors flew open behind her, and Bullet filled the doorframe. His dark eyes locked on hers, and her heart rate kicked up even faster. He was looking at her like he either wanted to devour her or kick her out of the bar. Right that second, she might not have minded the latter.
His gaze slid down her body, slowing at her breasts before taking a lustful stroll down her legs, all the way to the tips of her closed-toe heels.
Devour. Definitely devour.
She cleared her throat, and his eyes jerked up to hers, dark and desirous. In the blink of an eye, anger, or something similar, pushed all that desire away. He moved as slowly and silently as a humid afternoon, closing the distance between them—and sucking the oxygen from the room. Then he was upon her, standing so close she had to lift her chin to see his face. His brows were drawn into a concerned slant, worry lines so deeply etched across his forehead she wondered if they ever went away. Even with his beard, the tightness of his jaw was evident. His hulking body dwarfed hers in breadth and height, but it wasn’t the don’t-fuck-with-me aura surrounding him that had her trembling in her heels. It was the conflicting messages in his eyes.
“Everything all right?” he asked gruffly.
She nodded, unable to breathe.
“What are you doing here so late?”
His arms arced out from his body from the sheer size of his muscles, and she realized he could literally crush her if he wanted to. His fingers curled up, as if he was stopping himself from touching her. It reminded her of having seen him at the wedding with his friend’s children, Kennedy, a three-year-old little girl, and Lincoln, a toddler who had walked down the aisle holding Bullet’s hand. He’d been putty in their sweet little hands, as gentle and protective as could be, without a hint of aggression. She looked for that man now, and the longer she stared, which was about all she could do at the moment, the clearer it became that he was looking at her like she was an alien he didn’t understand. That’s just what she felt like, because she’d never met a man like him before. Tough as a truck tire and unafraid to speak his mind. The depth of those dark eyes that flashed hot and cold like railroad crossing lights gave her the sense there was a lot more he wanted to say than the gruff and sexy comments he tossed at her. While that made her nervous, the realization that he was probably just as confused by her as she was by him somehow eased the knot in her chest. She had only glimpsed at the women in the bar, but they seemed hard, street savvy in a way she wasn’t. They were obviously used to dealing with guys like Bullet. Facing him down was one thing, but a room full of Bullets? She needed to toughen up if she was going to hold her own and help the Whiskeys with this place.
He stared at her expectantly, and she realized she hadn’t answered his question. “I…um…I came to measure a few things.”
His eyes moved around the ample, though antiquated, kitchen. “Measure?”
She nodded again, focusing on the tattoo of a snake peeking out of his collar. What other tattoos were hidden beneath that shirt? She had a feeling they held the answers to his closed-off personality. Then again, his whole family was covered in tattoos, even Dixie, except she hadn’t seen any on his brother Bones. She imagined that was because he was an oncologist and it wouldn’t suit his professional image. But she found that curious, too. Bones seemed to be the only one of the Whiskeys who had chosen to follow a more professional path. Was that a reflection on their upbringing, or who each of them were at their core?
“You should work in the daytime.” His deep voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she must have been quiet too long for his liking, because he said, “You shouldn’t be here at night.”
The comment tweaked her nerves, and she found her voice. “I’m fully capable of deciding where and when I should go places.”
He chuckled, which infuriated her, turning her jitters into irritation.
She slipped her purse from her shoulder and slammed it on the counter, hard. “Are you pushing my buttons on purpose, or are you really a jerk?”
She felt him watching her as she rooted around in her purse for her measuring tape and notebook, trying not to let him see how nervous he made her.
“I definitely enjoy pushing your buttons, and I’m pretty much an asshole. So, I’d say both.”
Her hands stilled, and she glared at him. He shrugged with a half-cocked smile, which she found strangely endearing.
“At least you’re honest,” she said, and began measuring the countertops. “Why do you care when I work?”
“Why do you care about the length of our countertops?” He crossed his thick arms, watching her with a stern expression.
“Because you need enough space to prepare food. We need a deep fryer, and if we replace the oven and the refrigerator with slightly larger appliances, we need to make sure you’ll still have enough room to work.”
He motioned toward the table in the back of the room. “We can make sandwiches there.”
“Yes,” she said as she wrote down the dimensions. “But that’s not efficient.”
“Why? Your legs broken?” He lifted his brows, and his eyes went hot again. “Because they’re looking mighty fine and functional to me.”
Her cheeks flamed. Instead of responding, she turned her back to him and began measuring another counter, telling herself to calm the heck down. She felt him move behind her, as stealthily as a ninja. His proximity made her acutely aware of the heat filling the miniscule space between her back and his front. Her pulse raced as she finished measuring and scribbled the dimensions down in the notepad while he watched over her shoulder.
“That’s wrong.” He reached around her and picked up the measuring tape.
He stretched the tape out between his big hands, measuring the countertop while still standing behind her. The farther his arms reached, the more his body pressed against hers. Her girly parts tingled and clenched like they’d been starved for a man’s touch. Okay, maybe they were. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on anything but the hardness of his thick thighs against her ass, the feel of his belt buckle pressing into her back—
“See? You missed an inch.” He showed her the measuring tape.
It was all she could do to blink up at him, over her shoulder.
“Every inch counts,” he said as he set down the measuring tape. “I thought all sweethearts knew that.”
Nervous laughter bubbled out before she could stop it. “Sweethearts? Really?”
“What? Women are sweet.” He ran the back of his knuckles lightly up her arm, then wrapped his long, strong fingers gently around her upper arm and slid them down to her elbow, leaving flames in their wake.
Her entire body shuddered with his strong touch.
“And you’re extra sweet, like a sugar rush.”
She bit her lower lip, caught between being turned on by his touch and amused at his lines. Then he l
eaned in closer. His hot breath slid over her ear, and his beard scratched her cheek, tipping her toward the turned-on side. The man was a walking roller coaster.
“Don’t fight it, Finlay. You know you want to take me for a ride,” he whispered, deep and raspy.
“Take you for a ride?” She giggled and peeled his hand from her arm, turning in the sliver of space between them. He pressed his hips against her, and while she tried not to react to the size of his package, she knew by the look in his eyes she’d failed—epically.
“A long, hard ri—”
She reached up and put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t even say it. I’m not sure what type of girls you’re used to, but all this”—she waved toward his body—“is not working for me.”
He glanced down at her pert nipples, which pressed against the thin material of her dress, and a cocky smile lifted his lips. “Your body says otherwise.”
“Ugh. You are so arrogant!” She pushed out from between him and the counter, and cooler air swept over her, making her nipples pebble even tighter. “It’s the air in here.”
“Uh-huh.” He stepped toward her, pinning her in place with his piercing gaze.
What was it about him that was drawing her in even as warning bells went off in her head? She needed a distraction, enough space to regain control. She snagged the measuring tape from the counter to give her hands something to do and began measuring the refrigerator. Her darn hands were trembling.
He moved behind her again. “Why do you want to replace the appliances? This refrigerator works just fine.”
“There’s not enough space in it, and it’s old as dirt. You want your appliances to function properly so your ingredients don’t go bad.” She moved to the counter again and jotted down the dimensions.
“It’s fine,” he said sharply.
“Are you always like this? Hitting on women one minute and arguing with everything they say the next? Don’t you have to mind the bar?” She measured the stove, then quickly shoved her notebook in her bag, needing an escape.
Driving Whiskey Wild Page 2