by Beth Andrews
“That has nothing to do with it. Kelsey’s not swayed by Jack. Or at least, not much. She’s the most independent person I know. She doesn’t trust you.” Allie met his eyes. “And she doesn’t think I should trust you, either.”
Shit. “What about you? Do you trust me?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I trust you to do your job. So far you’ve been nothing but an asset to my business.”
He almost smiled at her thinking of The Summit’s bottom line. He put the empty beer bottles in the recycling bin. “I’ve only worked for you two days.”
“Three if we include Saturday, which is already one day longer than either of the previous two bartenders I hired.”
“I’m not going to leave you hanging,” he said even though that’s exactly what was going to happen. He already had a replacement bartender lined up for when the job was over.
Someone Allie really could count on.
She crumpled up a few paper napkins. “That’s still to be decided, isn’t it?”
Damn, why couldn’t she accept him for who he said he was?
What the hell was he doing wrong?
At the end of the bar, the same gray-haired man who’d been sitting there last week when Dean first walked into The Summit, raised his empty glass. Dean pulled a beer and took it down to him as Allie threw away napkins behind the bar.
He needed to figure out how to play this. How to work this to his advantage.
“I thought we were friends,” he said when he came back. “Wasn’t that what you wanted? For us to be friends?”
She jerked one shoulder. “I was wrong.”
“So you’ll trust Richie, the drug addict—”
“Recovering drug addict.”
“—but not me?”
It bugged him only because it compromised his cover.
She studied him. He waited for her to smile. To tell him of course she trusted him.
But she just picked up the tray and walked away.
Well, Allie didn’t have to trust him, to like him, for him to get the information he needed.
But it would make his job a lot easier.
One of the braver college kids approached Allie as she cleaned off the table the couple had vacated. He said something to her and she laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Dean’s eyes narrowed.
The kid she’d turned on the charm for looked as hopeful as a tyke on Christmas Eve. Like if Allie stuck a bow on her head, his holiday would be complete.
Poor sap didn’t have a clue. Dean would have to save him.
He tossed the rag down and strode over to them as the kid was saying “—done, we could maybe get together?”
“You’re out of your league,” Dean said before Allie could respond to the bumbling come-on. “Head on back to your friends before you humiliate yourself any further.”
The kid swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I…I just thought—”
“No one blames you for dreaming big,” Dean said as he put his arm around the youth’s shoulders and steered him away from Allie. “How about a round on the house for you and your buddies, to take away the sting?”
He slapped the kid’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble forward. The student took the hint and kept walking back to his buddies at the pool table.
Allie stood, her mouth open, her eyes wide. What do you know? Dean had managed to surprise her. Maybe he hadn’t lost his touch completely.
He winked and went back to the bar.
ALLIE’S HAND SHOOK so hard the glasses on the tray she held clinked together. She set it down before she could give in to the urge to throw it at Dean’s smug head.
She slowly approached the bar. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He filled a pitcher with beer. “Getting a round for loverboy and his friends.”
She held her hair back with both hands. “Do I look like someone who can’t take care of herself?”
He appraised her. She let go of her hair and crossed her arms. “From what I’ve seen,” he said, flipping the dispenser off, “you take care of yourself just fine.”
Warmth suffused her, but she wasn’t about to be swayed by what had sounded like a sincere compliment. “Exactly. So why would you take it upon yourself to scare the crap out of some poor guy just for talking to me?”
He held up the pitcher. A moment later, one of the college kids came over and took the beer without making eye contact with either one of them.
“Listen,” Dean said, wiping up a few drops of beer, “it would’ve been cruel of me to stand back and let the kid get his hopes up.”
She slapped her hands on the bar and leaned forward. “I have plenty of practice deflecting unwanted advances. I didn’t need your help. And didn’t you promise me not ten minutes ago that you were going to mind your own business?”
The door opened and six more college kids walked in. While she appreciated the business the spring breakers brought in, she wished the bar was empty tonight so she could close up and go home.
Instead of having to deal with Dean. Or the possibility that he might be right about Richie.
“I wasn’t butting into your business and I didn’t set out to help you,” Dean said, nodding at the newcomers. “I was helping the kid.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Someone had to get him out of there before he decided he had a chance with you. Although you lay it on thick, we both know the only way you’d give a kid like him the time of day is if he needed to be saved.” Dean grinned. “Or maybe adopted.”
She didn’t return his smile. Couldn’t. Not when anger made her see red.
“So, not only am I stupid for not seeing supposed drug use by one of my employees, but I’m also what? A tease? Oh, I know. Maybe I’m a man-eater. Well, thank God you stopped me before I got my claws into that unsuspecting boy.”
His grin slid away and he reached out as if to touch her. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind,” she said, stepping back. “This isn’t the time or place for this, anyway.” Her movements were jerky as she gestured toward the two guys standing at the other end of the bar. “You have work to do and so do I.”
She crossed the room for her abandoned tray and carried it into the kitchen. No sooner had the door swung shut behind her than she went to the table, set the tray down with a clang and sank into a chair.
“You okay?” Richie asked. He stood at the sink, finishing up the dishes from dinner.
She sighed. “I’m fine. Just tired.” She even tossed in an insincere smile.
At least she should get points for effort.
But Richie didn’t seem to notice anything was off with her. He nodded, his eyes…vacant.
She linked her hands together in her lap. Damn Dean for making her question Richie. When he’d returned from the grocery store Monday with no receipt and no change—even though she knew he couldn’t have spent all the money—she’d told herself not to be paranoid. But now she wasn’t so sure. And he kept sniffing and twitching. His hands trembled as he set a cast-iron pan aside.
If Richie had started using again, she needed to find out now. Before he got in too deep.
Before she couldn’t help him.
She stood and cleared her throat. “I know it’s late notice, but do you think you could stick around tonight and mix up meatballs for tomorrow’s menu?”
“Sure.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “But this time we use my grandma’s recipe.”
“What’s wrong with my recipe?”
“Nothing.” He pulled the plug from the sink and dried his hands before folding the towel. “Except for that one batch when you tossed in too much sea salt.”
“Now you can’t hold that against me. It’s not like I served them to paying customers.”
“You’re going to love Grandma’s meatballs.” He unfolded the towel, then folded it again. “Trust me.”
Her breath hitched. She wanted to trust him. About way mor
e than meatballs. “Sounds good. Let me check to make sure Dean has everything under control in the bar and we’ll get started.”
Since she needed her tray—and because she hadn’t meant to bring it into the kitchen in the first place—she picked it up. Pushed through the door.
Was she crazy to think Richie would jeopardize the life he’d built for himself? After all, he was more than happy to work late, and his job meant so much that he became personally invested in meatballs, for God’s sake. They’d even been discussing the possibility of him taking over the cooking twice a week to give Allie a break. And he’d told her that one day, when he’d saved up enough, he’d like to attend culinary school. Maybe open a restaurant.
Her fingers tightened on the tray. Richie wouldn’t risk his future, everything he’d worked so hard to achieve these last few months of staying clean. She’d bet on it.
She went back into the kitchen to tell him to go home, that they’d make the meatballs tomorrow morning, but the room was empty. And his coat was gone.
She frowned. Maybe he’d gone outside for…for what? It was fifteen degrees out. And if he’d had to use the restroom, why take his coat?
Unless there was something in his coat he needed.
Her throat clogged. She was going to have to confront Richie whether she wanted to or not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THOUGH SHE FELT DEAN’S intense gaze on her, Allie managed to ignore him for the rest of the night. Not an easy task, since Noreen only worked until they stopped serving food at ten on weeknights and Allie had the combined jobs of waitress and busboy, forcing her to work in the bar instead of hiding in the kitchen until closing time. Luckily, both she and Dean were kept busy when the crowd grew to a decent size.
Other than Dean trying to catch her eye, and her stomach twisting with nerves about talking to Richie later, the evening went smoothly. There were no fights, no one had to be cut off, and best of all, “Hotel California”—a song she’d heard way too many times since buying the bar—wasn’t played even once on the jukebox.
After last call, the bar slowly emptied. Carla Owens, a pretty nurse who sometimes met a group of friends there after her shift at the hospital ended, was last to leave. Alone.
That was surprising because Carla had spent the past two hours flirting with Dean.
It hadn’t seemed to bother the cowboy. Guess it only bugged him when Allie flirted.
He was such a hypocrite.
While Dean locked up after the last customer, Allie took off for the kitchen.
“You running away from me, Allie?” he asked, stopping her in her tracks. She shivered at the low timbre of his voice. But it was the amusement in it, the challenge, that made her turn.
“No. Richie’s waiting for me.”
“Really?” Dean walked toward her, his strides unhurried, his expression blank. “And why is that?”
She stepped to the side and set a chair on top of a table. Just to give her hands something to do. “I’m going to talk to him about what you…your concerns about him.”
He took the next chair from her and set it on the table. “You believe me?”
She concentrated on brushing a piece of lint off her sleeve. “I want to ask him a few questions. To ease my own mind.”
“And you were going to confront him alone?”
Her shoulders stiffened. Even though Dean sounded calm, she could tell he thought that was a stupid idea. Well, it was his idea, damn it, so he could can it.
“I’m not confronting him. I’m just going to talk to him.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I can handle this on my own.”
“See now, here’s the thing. I know you can handle it. But if I’m right and Richie is using, you can’t be sure how he’ll react to you…easing your mind about him.”
“Richie would never hurt me. He’d never hurt anyone.”
Dean studied her as if wondering whether she really was as naive as she sounded.
But her naïveté was all in the past. And while she’d willingly give Richie the benefit of the doubt, she wasn’t about to let him take advantage of her.
“I’m sure Richie’s a regular old pussycat when he’s sober,” Dean said. “But if I’m right and he is high, I’d feel better knowing you weren’t questioning him alone. Besides, you’re confronting him because of what I told you. I have no problem standing up and letting him know I’m the one behind the accusation.”
“Definitely not. I don’t want him to feel accused, or worse, cornered.”
Dean shifted and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “What if I apologized?”
“To Richie?”
“To you.”
“For what, exactly?” Yeah, she was messing with him. But no more than he deserved. She thought he’d blow it off or say he was sorry for making her mad. Most men, in her experience, never knew what they were apologizing for half the time.
He bowed his head for a moment, but when he raised it again, didn’t look angry. Just…sheepish. “For sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. For acting as if you needed help with Richie and that college Romeo. And for making it seem as if you were some sort of cheap flirt.”
“Well.” She cleared her throat. Holy cow, he was good. When she met those intense green eyes of his, she wanted to believe he meant every word. “I guess I’d accept your apology. If you meant it.”
“Fair enough.” He rubbed his chin and then let his hand drop. “To be honest, I’m not sorry I told you my suspicions about Richie. But I am sorry you have to do what you’re about to. I’m sorry you’ve been let down by someone you care for.”
“And the thing about my flirting?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Do you really want to know why I sent that drooling kid on his way?” he asked quietly. “How I felt to see you smiling at him? Or when he put his hand on you?”
Her throat went dry. The last thing she wanted was to admit the attraction between them was real. She needed to ignore it for as long as possible. Maybe even forever.
“Apology accepted,” she said.
He seemed almost as relieved as she was.
“I’d like to sit in while you talk to Richie.”
Although he’d made it a statement, she knew what it really was. A question. And she couldn’t help but appreciate that he was asking.
“Fine. But let me do the talking.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
She inhaled and put her hand on the door, but couldn’t push it open. What if she was wrong? What if there was some reasonable explanation for Richie’s odd behavior?
She sighed. And what if she didn’t confront him? What if she pretended not to see what was in front of her?
Like with the Addison case.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not again. She’d already paid too high a price for believing in Miles Addison. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Dean placed his hand on the small of her back, the warmth of his fingers seeping into her skin. “It’s okay,” he said into her ear, his breath warm as it caressed her cheek. “I’m right behind you.”
And why that meant as much to her as it did, she’d never know.
She pulled her shoulders back and entered the kitchen. Richie was taking a pan of meatballs from the oven.
“Richie, what—”
He spun around, losing his grip on the large pan in the process. It crashed to the floor. Grease splattered and meatballs rolled everywhere, some crushed under the heavy container.
“I’m sorry, Allie.” Richie tossed the pot holders onto the counter and dropped to his knees in the midst of the mess. “I’ll clean it,” he said, sweeping meatballs into a pile with his forearm. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“Those are still hot,” she said, avoiding as much of the grease as possible as she crossed to him. “Why don’t we let them cool first, then I’ll help you? After all, you wouldn’t have dropped them if I hadn’t startled you.”<
br />
Richie blinked up at her. “Yeah, yeah. Good idea.”
She helped him to his feet and tugged him away from the chaos. “I thought you were mixing the meatballs tonight. Not cooking them.”
“I wanted you to taste one.” His quick grin made him look five years younger. “So you’d know Grandma’s were the best.”
“I’m sure they’re great,” she said as he wiped his hands down the front of his jeans. Even though the kitchen was a comfortable temperature, sweat beaded his upper lip. “Richie, I was hoping I could talk to you before you head home.”
“Sure, sure. No problem.” His eyes widened and Allie turned to see what had spooked him.
She ground her back teeth together. Dean had so far kept his word by not speaking, but his body language said plenty. He stood by the door, his large arms crossed, his hat partially shading his hooded eyes.
“Dean, why don’t you get yourself something to drink?” she asked, although from the way he raised his eyebrows, he understood it wasn’t a suggestion. “And there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge if you want to heat up a late dinner for yourself.”
Their eyes locked as they silently battled. She didn’t so much as blink. After all, facing down hostile witnesses, egomaniac judges and jurors had all been a day’s work for her not too long ago. No way was some smooth-talking, stubborn cowboy going to get her to back down.
He took his sweet time pushing away from the wall and moseying on over to the fridge. If she hadn’t seen him punch Harry the other night, she would’ve sworn the man only had one speed: slow-enough-to-drive-a-person-insane.
“Is everything okay, Allie?” Richie asked. “Am I in trouble?”
“Everything’s fine.” She even added a smile, but figured it came across more like a grimace. Not that Richie seemed to notice. He was too busy sending nervous glances Dean’s way.
She sat down. “Richie,” she said, when he remained standing, staring as Dean straightened from the refrigerator, a can of soda in his hand. “Richie.” This time louder. “Please sit down.”
His body twitched as if someone had shot electricity through him, but he finally sat opposite her. “What’s up?”