by B. Cranford
He was flirting with her. She was sure of it.
And she liked it.
A strange urge to start talking to him about anything and everything drifted in like a fog. Opening her mouth to say she-didn’t-know-what, she was interrupted by Aaron settling into the passenger seat and killing the moment. Which she was more than relieved about, given that she really wasn’t sure where her mind and runaway mouth were about to take their conversation.
Besides, she thought, he’s your brother’s best friend. It’s not a good idea. Not that it stopped her from taking one last look at the dark hair and handsome profile of the man driving her and her brother away from the house that was no longer a home.
It was a sobering thought—one which reminded her that she was in the car not to flirt with the driver, or even to check him out. She was there for her brother.
“Everyone ready?” Dunk didn’t wait for an answer, looking over his shoulder briefly before pulling away from the house and starting their journey.
“No,” came Aaron’s reply as they reached the end of the street, his eyes locked on Ashton’s where he’d twisted around in his seat, clearly telegraphing that he wasn’t happy about her presence in the car.
“Yes,” she replied, not breaking their eye contact, determined that he see she wouldn’t be moved.
Dunk’s laughing words were the last spoken. “This is going to be a long trip.”
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”
Ashton startled awake, Dunk’s warm breath caressing her cheek as he gently shook her shoulder. “’Mwake,” she mumbled, blinking her eyes in an attempt to clear the groggy haze that had formed when she’d fallen asleep about an hour into their drive.
“Your brother is already inside.” He gestured towards the building that Ashton knew housed apartments that were typically rented to students of the nearby college. “Let’s go.”
“What’s Dunk stand for? Mean? From?” Her words were thick, slow, and embarrassment crept up her cheeks as her mind processed the jumble of words she’d just dumped on this man.
Jesus, did he get more handsome while I was asleep?
“Duncan. It’s my last name.”
“What’s your first?”
“Ah, that’s for me to know, Kitten.” He leaned over her and pressed the red button to release her seatbelt. “And you to find out.”
“What kind of answer is that? Come on, are you like—oh, you know, what’s his name with the spinning wheel and gold thread? I really hated that story when I was a kid, because what’s up with all the fairytales where women have to give up their babies to a man? If she wants to, then yeah, sure, go for it, but otherwise, that’s a hard no from me. When I become a mom, you’d have to pry my baby away from me, and even then I’d fight you.”
His laugh was low, the burn across her cheeks hot and the moment fraught. She wanted to hang her head or maybe sink into the seat, but instead she half-smiled when he said, “I’d never take a baby from you. But I might give you one,” while winking at her in a way that eased the flush of embarrassment she was feeling and replaced it with a snicker at the cheesiness of his offer.
They stared at one another for the briefest moment, before the brush of his arm across her body—so unexpectedly sensual that Ashton could feel her body tense—made the blood rush to the place between her legs that suddenly craved Duncan’s touch. A strangled noise passed through her lips and she was thankful that he’d wasted no time in turning away, striding back towards the apartment building as if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn’t implied, even jokingly, that he’d be the father of her baby.
Yeah, one half of her had smiled, but the other half had frozen in place, trying not to betray how actually-kind-of amazing that sounded.
Dragging her sluggish self from the car took more effort than she would cop to, should her brother or his roommate ask, and as she slowly made her way into the building she replayed her brief brush with Dunk—Duncan’s—arm.
What pairs well with Duncan? Her question kept her amused as she wandered into the lobby, looking around for some sign of where she should be going next, and then as she waited for one or the other of the boys to come back downstairs and show her the way. She’d sent her brother a text to ask him where she should go, and his curt response of “back home” wasn’t especially helpful.
So, she waited.
By the time Aaron came back downstairs, she’d made friends with three people and been invited to a party the following night, but failed to come up with a first name she thought suited Duncan.
Present Day
The bar was bustling, which was exactly what Ashton loved to see.
Typically.
But for the first time since she and Austin had taken control of The Avenue, she wished it was quiet. That there were only two or three patrons, and certainly not the rowdy group of men who were currently enjoying an impromptu karaoke session.
Because The Avenue didn’t actually offer karaoke.
They’d attracted quite a crowd, not to mention the swells of people that had grabbed high-top tables or placed themselves along the bar and were now alternating between looking over at the group and drinking. Normally, there’d be two or three other bartenders working alongside Ashton, but tonight, it was just her and one other, which meant—
“Doll, I’d like another.”
“Hey, honey, where’s my drink?”
“Yo, what’s taking so long?”
The chorus of masculine complaints began to fade into the background as Ashton’s stomach curled.
Oh Lord, please not now.
Morning sickness had been kicking her ass for over a week—ever since she’d seen the doctor and confirmed that her oven was full of bun—and tonight, with the bar packed to near capacity and only one other bartender on duty, she really, really didn’t need to start swaying in place.
“Lady, drink, now.” The command, shouted at her by a man who was average everything—height, weight, looks—came at the exact wrong moment.
She saw red.
He had a look on his face that said he thought he was intimidating, but after years in the bar business, the only thing it made Ashton feel tonight was glad. Glad that he was the one whose brusque, entitled words had tipped the scales. Stepping up to the spot at the end of her bar where he was leaning in, she steeled her wits and readied herself for a fight.
In an eerily calm voice, she gave him one more chance. Because she was nice like that. “You can either place your order with respect, or I can respectfully decline to serve you and have you escorted from the premises. Which would you prefer?”
The sensible bar owner in her was hoping that he’d select option one, have one more drink and slink back home to wherever he lived.
The hormonal, nauseous and overworked pregnant bartender in her was just waiting for him to—
“Lady, how about you do your fucking job and get me my fucking drink? Please.” The please was tacked on in an overly aggressive manner, making sure that, if she missed the two swear words he’d thrown into his request, Ashton would know he was definitely choosing door number two.
“How about you gather your shit and get out of my fucking bar?” she responded, placing a hand at her hip, fisted and ready like a cocked gun. “Please.”
“You’ve got no right to refuse me service, baby, so how’s about you get a move on?”
Is this guy for real? Ashton couldn’t believe he was. Sure, he had the telltale sway of a man who’d had too much to drink, but other than that, his average face would never have given away that, in reality, he was a grade-A twatwaffle.
“I have every right, as the lead bartender on duty tonight.”
He began to scoff, no doubt readying a reply that would only incense Ashton more, so she cut him off. “Not to mention, as the owner of this place. So, yeah, either gather your things and walk out under your own steam, or wait for Randy over there”—she pointed to the short-but-stocky man w
alking towards them—“to assist you. I should warn you though, he’s not so gentle.”
“You fucking bitch, I’ll show you what ‘not so gentle’ looks like. Huh, I bet a nasty little piece like you takes it hard and rough. Maybe even throws in a few protests for good measure.” He gritted his teeth at her, the menacing look on his face finally revealing the truth of the man within.
Average in looks.
Above average in psychotic asshole.
Randy moved to stand in the psycho’s personal space, but before he had the chance to say or do anything, her problem patron slammed a fist down on the bar top and lowered his voice to say one last thing. “Bitch, I’ll be back.”
As he was retreating, Ashton took a long moment to calm herself. The noise that had been overwhelming her earlier—the sounds of other patrons looking for drinks, cat-calling, talking loudly about their days—faded completely until she started to wonder whether the bar had closed down and she hadn’t noticed.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins, pumping through her blood with every beat of her racing heart.
“Bitch, I’ll be back,” was the soundtrack that had replaced the rest of the cacophony and, before anyone could say anything to her, she moved toward the far end of the bar.
She might be down a bartender already, but the venom in those words, combined with the roiling of her stomach, was enough that she needed out, just for a minute.
“Odie, I need five.” She walked on surprisingly steady feet without waiting for a reply and made her way back to her office—feeling guilty for leaving Odette alone with the crowd, but desperate for quiet and the chance to regroup from her encounter.
And to revisit the late lunch she’d had before the night ran away from her.
Ugh, morning sickness, my ass.
“Yo, Ash, you all right?”
Ashton moved around in the process of cleaning up after the crowd had finally died down, placing used glasses in the tray for the dishwasher, wiping up spills, checking bottle levels to see what needed to be replaced. She’d come out of her office raring to go—determined to put the event behind her long enough to get The Avenue closed down for the night and get upstairs and into her bed, with a flat bottle of ginger ale at her side and a box of crackers wrapped in her arms.
“Hell of a night,” Odette continued, working around Ashton to make the clean-up go faster. “What a fucking asshole that guy was.”
Ashton smiled over at her co-worker—her employee, she reminded herself, though she’d known Odie since she was a kid—who, at five foot nothing, was a powerhouse in personality. Her red hair was cropped close to her head, her blue eyes constantly alight with mischief. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
“I reckon I could have taken him, though.” Odette raised two fists in a one-two punch combo that Ashton knew was lethal, given that her fellow bartender was an amateur boxer. “I would’ve enjoyed it too.”
“He threatened to come back,” she replied, her voice betraying how those words had shaken her. “Bitch, I’ll be back.” “I might need to hire you as my bodyguard.”
“Why do you need a bodyguard?” Austin’s voice startled both women, his presence having gone undetected as they talked and cleaned.
“Jeez, Aussie. Frightened the hell out of me.”
“Sorry, but explain. Now.” He looked at her with an expression that brooked no argument, and besides, she really didn’t want to keep this to herself. Something about the way the psycho had spat those words out made her feel like it was more than just an idle threat.
He meant them.
He meant to act on them.
Her hand moved of its own accord to her belly, already protecting the little bun within.
“I had a run in with a patron. Average guy—height, weight, all of it. Randy came over and he left, but before he did, he, ah . . . threatened me.”
Her brother ran a hand through his blond hair—hair that was the same color as her own—and swore. “Did you get a name or anything?”
“No, but he’s probably—” She waved a hand around the room, indicating that the man in question was most likely caught on the cameras placed strategically to capture the goings-on of The Avenue without being intrusive.
“I’ll look. You shouldn’t be here alone for a while though. Ever, actually.” He leveled a stare at her that would have had anyone else cowering and agreeing to whatever terms he was laying down. But this was her little brother. The one who, when he was three, decided to climb into the top bunk in the bedroom he shared with Aaron so he could pee over the side; the one who had developed a fear of googly eyes during a summer camp art class and had subsequently run home crying—at the age of twelve.
“Yeah, I know, I know. It’s rare I’m here alone, and I wasn’t alone tonight, anyway, so . . .”
“So nothing, Ashton. You’re not just you anymore,” he said, gesturing to where her hand still laid on her stomach. “You have that one to think about, too.”
The “oooh” from Odette seemed incongruous given her otherwise tough demeanor, and it served to break the increasingly brittle battle that Ashton and her brother were engaging in. “You’re pregnant?”
Forcing a smile, Ashton turned and nodded in confirmation, before adding, “Yeah, but I don’t want everyone to know yet. Okay? It’s still early. Baby’s only the size of a blueberry.” Plus, she wasn’t exactly inclined to share with any of her other staff yet. Odie was an exception. Ashton didn’t mind her knowing early, since she was more than just an employee—she’d been Austin’s best friend since they were kids.
Odette mimed zipping her lips and throwing away a key, a childish sign that she was down for keeping a secret. “Got it.”
“Let me finish up here. You go upstairs and get to bed.” Austin moved to stand behind her, whipping the towel that she’d lodged in the back pocket of her dark-washed skinny jeans out and giving her a gentle nudge. There was a door to her apartment at the other end of the hallway that led to the locker room, kitchen and office, which meant it was a short commute.
“I don’t mind finishing,” she tried to protest, before mentally rolling her eyes at herself. Why wouldn’t you accept that offer? She actually did want to go to her place, flop on the bed face first and sleep for a solid ten hours, and habit was the root of her original refusal. Her original, stupid refusal. “Actually, screw that, I’m going.”
Bracing a hand on her brother’s shoulder, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Aussie.”
“Any time, Little,” came the response, his use of Aaron’s nickname for her making her snicker because, though he was taller, she was older, and the nickname had started as a lazy version of “Little Sister.”
Taking a moment to gather a few things from the office, Ashton made her way up the stairs to her apartment and, while washing the night off herself, began to do something she’d done a lot of in the last week—ever since her encounter at the doctor with Brighton jogged her memory.
She thought about Duncan.
Fifteen Years Ago
Three days of sleeping on the foldout sofa in Dunk and Aaron’s apartment was wreaking havoc on Ashton’s back. The first day, her brother had told her that since she’d invited herself, he wasn’t going to give up his bed for her.
He’d thought it would convince her to go home.
How wrong he was. Ashton had formed a routine easily, rising each morning, straightening the sheet, folding the bed back in and placing the covers and pillow on a small table that sat in the corner of the room and seemed to serve no purpose but to hold her stuff.
She made coffee and breakfast—if you could call grabbing bowls and boxes of cereal out of the cabinet making breakfast. She listened to her brother as he talked with Duncan about a bunch of stuff she really didn’t have any opinion on—how work was going, which classes to take, which professors were the best, where they could get the best beer at the cheapest price.
And she watched, with heated eyes, as Dunc
an moved around the apartment, developing an ever-growing need to know more about him. Sometimes, she even managed to talk to him, which usually ended in flaming cheeks and awkward moments interspersed with double entendres and out-and-out flirting.
“Kitten, what are you doing today?” His voice slid over her, wrapping her in melted chocolate, warmth, and dirty thoughts, as he sat opposite her at the small table in the kitchen.
“Why do you call me that?” She tilted her head as she asked the question, unaware that she’d been about to ask it. “Kitten.”
His shrug was lazy, but his eyes were intense. “I can’t call you Little, since that’s what A calls you. It just came out, and it fit so . . .”
“So?”
“You don’t like it?”
I love it.
“It’s fine, I was just wondering.” And by wondering, she meant obsessing over it for at least twenty minutes every time he said it.
He lowered his voice, leaning in and enticing her to do the same. “It probably also has to do with the fact you were wearing a cat T-shirt that said Pet Me, I’m Irish.”
She drew in a long breath, having forgotten the shirt she’d been wearing as she’d shoved her essentials in her bag and made her way out to the car so she wouldn’t get left behind.
It was old and worn and a far lighter grey than it had originally been. It started as Aaron’s, and had become Ashton’s when he’d grown out of it. She wore it for comfort, enjoying the way the age-softened, stretched-out material caressed her skin, like a gentle kiss from someone loving.
Torn between embarrassment at having been caught unawares at the connection between her clothing choices and his nickname—what must he think that I didn’t even realize that was why?—and pleasure that he’d noticed something about her right away, the same way she’d noticed his . . . God, his everything.
The dark, messy hair, the same shade as his warm eyes. The mouth that twisted into a smile so sexy Ashton thought she’d spontaneously combust every time he sent one her way. The broad, muscled shoulders that looked like they could hold the weight of the world without sagging, even a little. The Adam’s Apple that was so apparent that her gaze found it without fail and that somehow made the motion of swallowing so arousing her panties dampened and her heart pounded whenever she saw it happening.