Tap That

by Jennifer Blackwood

  You’d think that wink had been from an underwear-clad David Beckham by the way the women titter.

  Oh, gag me.

  I’d like to specify that I’m not pissed at them although I’m annoyed they’re blocking my way. But no, I’m pissed at myself because just a couple of days ago, I was just as enamored with him.

  “Excuse me.” My voice is more forceful now, and it gets results because the women turn around.

  Scratch that. It gets partial results.

  They eye me up and down, evidently basing their dismissal of a threat on my attire alone, which is absolute crap considering I’m not exactly wearing a potato sack.

  The redhead gives me the fakest smile known to mankind. “Sorry, but we were here first.” Then she turns back to the bar top to commence salivating over Reid.

  If that’s not bad enough, I catch Reid’s glance and knowing smirk. That officially sends me over the edge.

  Namaste mantras fade into the background as my irritation mounts.

  I shove past the redhead and her friend who are standing in my way. At their expressions of outrage, I widen my eyes in innocence. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” With an overly bright smile, I add, “I work here.”

  Then I march over and grab a clean glass and hold it beneath the designated tap, merely two feet away from Reid. I jerk the handle with far more force than necessary and begin filling it with the amber-colored beer. I scowl at the glass while I engage in a decadent fantasy about dumping the contents of it over Reid’s head.

  “What did that handle ever do to you?” he says.

  My eyes snap up, and I discover Reid quirking an amused brow at me. He lifts his chin, gesturing to my grip on the tap handle. With gritted teeth, I ignore him and avert my gaze, concentrating on not overflowing the glass.

  Reid slides the drinks in front of the customers, and right as I shut off the flow of beer and turn to make my way back to my table, Reid turns and bumps into me.

  Beer goes everywhere. As if happening in slow motion, I watch in horror as the liquid splashes all over my blouse, leaving me drenched. My lips part in a gasp, and I widen my eyes in shock, gaping at him.

  He mirrors my reaction and quickly signals to Lea to keep an eye on things for a second. I’m fairly certain he didn’t do this on purpose—not with the surprise etching his features. Without a word, he ushers me out from behind the bar with a hand on my back.

  I shrug out of his touch but follow him into the hallway, through the door marked “Employees Only,” and to our employee lockers. He strides to the end of the row and tears open one small metal door, producing a neatly folded polo shirt. Reid shakes it out and offers it to me.

  “Here. I’m…” He hesitates, and his gaze lowers to my chest. The fabric of my blouse is now transparent thanks to the beer. He jerks his eyes back up to meet mine and offers a wan smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “It was an accident. Accidents happen.” I stare at him and make sure he gets the implied meaning. That getting with him was like a semi-truck jackknifing my life.

  He frowns, and his cheeks tint a light shade of red. “I really am sorry.”

  I reach for the shirt and work hard to ignore that crackle of awareness when my fingers brush against his. “Me, too,” I mutter.

  He slams the locker door shut and stalks over to the door. Pausing with a palm on the handle, he says, “I’ll be outside. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  He doesn't give me time to form a response. He simply slips out the door and stands guard while I hurriedly rid myself of the soaked blouse. My bra is damp, but there’s no way I’m waltzing around work without one, so I tug Reid’s polo over my head, mindful that I have tables of patrons who still need me.

  The instant I pull the collar down over my head, his unmistakable scent permeates my senses, and I can’t resist breathing it in once again. God, I’ve missed this. I swear, his scent lingered on the pillow he used in my bed for a few days following our little...whatever the hell it was.

  I know I look ridiculous, but this shirt will have to do. I gather the extra material at the bottom on one side and tie it in a knot so it’s not a completely egregious fashion fail.

  I place my blouse in my own locker and make a note to bring an emergency change of clothes to work, then stride over and carefully exit the locker room.

  The remainder of the night, aside from catching Reid’s quick, odd glances, I’m tormented by the constant intoxicating scent of him.

  It’s five minutes until we close and last call has been announced. One guess who hasn’t left yet.

  Yep. The redhead from earlier is doing her best to re-enact a Scarlett O’Hara bit and practically swooning over Reid. Can I blame her? No, not really. And that’s what makes me jerk my eyes from their little tête-à-tête and focus on scrubbing the empty table clean when the door opens. Because I need to get over myself. Fun was had. Now it’s time to move on and focus on work. And with thirty more days until my final evaluation from Tom, I’ll need to be on my A-game.

  I go back to scrubbing an empty table and refrain from an internal groan because seriously, I’m beyond ready to go home at this point.

  I manage to keep a pleasant smile on my face until a certain individual strolls in the door. Then my expression sours when I spot Grayson.

  Look, I can’t help it if I’m one of those people who doesn’t have the poker face capability past a certain threshold of crap. I’ve been through the wringer tonight. Between Reid’s yo-yo attitude toward me—one minute, he’s being surly and ignoring me, and the next, he’s literally giving me his shirt—and his adoring patrons of the female persuasion that he never once turned away, I’m ready for this night to be over.

  Seeing Grayson is not exactly how I wanted to end my night. Because I get it. I know how the best friend code works. You support your friend in need. If your friend says the guy did her wrong, you hate on that guy.

  In this case, the guy did me wrong and was a complete ass to me, so I automatically engage my defenses around his best friend.

  The same best friend who approaches me without any hesitation.

  “Hey, Callie.” Grayson’s deep baritone voice washes over me, and I steel myself against his charm. On principle alone.

  “Hey.” That’s it. That’s all I say. I continue scrubbing the table, ensuring it’s as clean as a whistle before moving to the next high top.

  He follows me.

  “How was your night?”

  I pause in my scrubbing and turn my head slightly to stare at him in disbelief. “Grayson.” I mutter his name with absolutely no inflection in my tone because the night has wiped me clean of that. “I’m not sure you even want to know my answer.”

  “Considering you’re wearing Reid’s shirt, I definitely want to know your answer.” Grayson’s eyes sparkle with amusement.

  Releasing a long, exasperated sigh, I toss the rag on the table and whirl around, placing my hands on my hips. “Look, it’s been the crappiest of nights, and I just want to get out of here and head home and get out of these—”

  “Still don’t know why you’re wearing his shirt.” Grayson cocks an eyebrow.

  With my jaw clenched, I answer, “Because he knocked a glass of beer all over my blouse.”

  His eyebrows fly upward, nearly reaching his hairline. “Really?”

  Frustrated, I reach for the rag to finish up my cleaning. “Yes,” I reply tiredly.

  “So I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He trails off as I concentrate on cleaning a sticky spot on one edge of the square high top. “I know it’s probably not the best timing, but want to go to dinner with me sometime?”

  I’m scrubbing at the annoying spot so intensely that it takes a moment for Grayson’s question to sink in. When it finally does, I slow my movements until they come to a complete halt.

  Is he...asking me out?

  Slowly, cautiously, I turn to study him because he can’t actually be serious. Can he?

  However, I
discover his attention isn't resting on me, but over my head, across the bar in Reid’s direction. Which is odd…

  His eyes flit back to mine. “So what do you say?”

  Is it just me or did he raise his voice a bit?

  “I, uh…” I falter for an answer because Grayson is ridiculously handsome, yes, but he’s just not… Um, he’s not really...

  Ah, friggin’ hell. He’s just not Reid Morgan, dammit. And this makes me even more pissy. The fact I still have a hang-up when it comes to Reid, even with him acting like a complete ass to me, fires me up. When that happens, nothing good normally comes from it.

  I repeat nothing.

  Which is why I hurriedly blurt out, “I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

  26

  Reid

  The woman stayed far longer than I expected. Marley. Wait, no. Marla?

  Shit. I’m an asshole for not remembering, but in my defense, I’ve been pretty damn preoccupied tonight. By Callie pointedly ignoring me all night. Then, when I accidentally spilled beer on her blouse, the way it soaked the fabric, I’d have given my left nut to help her undress.

  It took a shit-ton of self-control to walk her back to the employee locker area and hand over my shirt. To step out the door and wait for her to change, knowing she was shaken up. Knowing that I did this to her. I’ve been acting like a complete dick, and it needs to stop. I’ve never done the whole relationship thing—honestly haven’t been interested in it since I’ve been busy with work and my grandma—but there must be a way I can make this work with Callie. Except nothing exactly comes to mind—especially if I plan on taking her job.

  Her fluid movements as she navigates her way through the bustling bar would normally not be anything to write home about. But her doing so while wearing my shirt made some primitive feeling wash over me. I liked her wearing my shirt, as though it served as a signal to others that she was mi—

  Shit. I can’t let my mind go there. That’s off-limits. She’s off-limits.

  I breathe my first sigh of relief when I spot Grayson walking in, praying he’ll rescue me from this woman who seems great—don’t get me wrong—but she comes on a little too strong.

  My sigh of relief transforms into a low growl of disapproval when my friend makes a beeline for Callie. I watch him gesture to her shirt in question, and even with her back to me, I can imagine her animated explanation of how things went down with the spill. They’re standing far enough away that I can’t quite make out their conversation.

  While I finish closing the bar and ensure it’s ready for tomorrow, I attempt a polite response to the redhead and her blatant hinting at my plans for tonight.

  “Sorry, but I’m beat.” I flash an apologetic smile. “I’m ready to head home and get some rest.”

  Her expression falls, but she recovers quickly, grasping her small purse. “Well, you have my number, Reid.” She offers me what I’m sure she believes is a sexy wink. “Don’t be a stranger.” She slides off the barstool, gives a little wave, and heads to the exit. I exhale a slow sigh of relief because it’s damn hard to walk the thin line between being professional while also partaking in bantering and innocent flirting with the customers.

  But my sigh is cut short once I hear Callie’s words, clearly spoken and loud enough for me to hear.

  “I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

  My head snaps to their direction.

  What. The. Fuck?

  What the hell happened to the code? Grayson knows better. I slam the sliding door closed on the chest cooler that houses the bottled beers. I’m practically burning a hole into my friend with my glare. My friend who’s currently smiling down at Callie. When he reaches out to finger the collar of her—my—shirt, that’s when I lose my cool.

  I flip the switch beneath the bar to kill the music playing throughout and stalk over to the door with my keys in hand, prepared to lock up.

  With Grayson on the other side of the door.

  “Time to head out, man.”

  My eyes lock with his, and I swear his are shining with amusement.

  As if this shit’s funny.

  He winks at Callie. “I’ll catch up with you when I stop by tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” Why the fuck does Callie’s voice sound all breathy and shit?

  I shove the door open for him, but when he brushes past me to exit, I shoot my arm out in front of his chest, flattening my palm against him.

  I fix him with a hard glare, lowering my voice so Callie doesn’t overhear. “What the hell’s your deal?”

  His eyebrows rise quizzically. “Not sure what you mean.” He shrugs, giving a pointed glance at my hand on his chest, and I let it drop. “Just asking a pretty woman out.” He cocks his head to the side. “One you obviously aren’t interested in anymore.”

  “I never s—” I break off, internally cussing my slipup.

  One my best friend immediately picks up on. He slips past me and turns back, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You need to figure your shit out, Reid. Because we both know she’s not going to stay single forever.”

  He spins around and walks to his car in the parking lot. I lock the door and stalk back over to the control panel for the lights to turn off the brightest ones, and it leaves the bar area ensconced in a softer glow. Callie’s moving the high-top barstools in preparation for mopping the floor when Lea emerges from the back.

  “Hey, guys? Do you mind if I cut out early? My sister just called, and she needs me to watch my nephew. She’s not going to finish her shift in time, and the sitter has to leave.” Lea appears concerned, her fingers twisting nervously.

  “Go.” I wave her on. “I’ll help Callie.”

  Lea’s eyes dart back and forth between Callie and me, uncertainty etching her features. Finally, she exhales and offers a grateful smile. “Thank you! I owe you one.” Then she’s gone, rushing down the hallway toward the back exit.

  “I’ve got this covered.” Callie’s hushed tone still carries steely undertones. “You can finish your own stuff.”

  Her meaning is clear. She doesn’t want my help.

  Well, too damn bad.

  I start hefting up the stools, placing them upside down on each of the cleaned tables, to prep for mopping.

  “Reid, I said—”

  “I know what you said.” I grit out the words but don’t turn to face her. “I heard you.” I set another stool on the table with more force than necessary and grumble, “Doesn’t mean I have to listen.”

  This is part of it—part of the job. If I want to prove to Tom that I’m the better candidate for management, then I need to show it. And this is another way.

  Once I lift the final barstool and set it on top of the table, I head to the back to get the mop and bucket ready. What I don’t expect is for Callie to match my strides.

  She shoulders me when we approach the cleaning supplies. “I’ve got it covered.”

  I nudge her with my shoulder. “I was here first.”

  Her look is incredulous as she stares at me. “What is with you?”

  I scowl but take advantage of the fact she’s distracted to begin filling the bucket with hot water and disinfectant cleanser. With my focus on the forming suds, I add, “Just trying to prove that I’m good enough for management.”

  “What are you talking about?” Confusion laces her tone.

  I eye the rapidly rising water level in the bucket. “I’ve got to make sure I get this management position.”

  Silence. That’s all I get in response.

  Swiftly turning off the flow of water, I grab the mop and shove it in the bucket before I turn and finally brave a look at Callie.

  Her expression immediately causes the pit of my stomach to churn because dismay, anger, and hurt are etched upon her features.

  But it’s the last one that acts like a devastating gut punch. Because I never wanted to hurt her. I just don’t know how the hell to navigate my way around...us.

  Not that there’s an
us anymore.

  She slowly schools her expression into one of utter calmness and nods thoughtfully. “I see.” Callie takes a step back, folds her arms across her chest, and her eyes regard me carefully. “And when exactly were you planning to tell me this?”

  I grip the wooden handle of the mop so tightly my knuckles turn white, not wanting to answer that question. Without thinking, the words spill past my lips. “When the hell did you decide you wanted to date my friend?”

  Her hands fly upward, and she makes a sound of disgust. “Are you kidding me right now?” Her narrowed eyes flame with anger. “You kick me to the curb, but you think you can dictate who I date?” She clenches her jaw. “After you weren’t man enough to let me know we were both competing for the same job?”

  “Look”—I cringe at the defensiveness in my tone—“I didn’t think—”

  “Exactly.” She cuts me off with that single word. “You didn’t think. You didn't think to have the common courtesy to talk to me. Especially after we…after what’s at stake.” Her words lose heat, fading off, and she averts her gaze to the floor. “I see how it is.” Her voice is subdued.

  My throat is uncomfortably tight, and I swallow hard past the sudden lump. “Callie, I’m—”

  She stops me with the palm of her hand before stepping forward, jerking the mop from my grasp and wheeling the bucket away to go mop the front.

  Leaving me standing here, she makes me feel like she just kicked me in the gut. And I want to call out to her, but I don’t.

  Instead, I force myself to finish up my usual tasks, and Callie and I studiously avoid one another for the remainder of the evening.

  27

  Callie

  “What do you suggest?”

  None of my outfits feel quite right for tonight. I’ve admittedly been in a funk since the dinner with my parents, and now, I’m failing at dressing myself appropriately.