by Tara Wylde
Looking down, I chuckle. He’s right. The dress calls for a pair of strappy, mile high, stiletto heels. Not the white sneakers currently covering my feet.
“Heels are great for dancing. Bartending requires something practical.”
“And are you?” He settles back onto the barstool, eyeing the numerous rows of fringe decorating my dress, and his left eyebrow travels upward toward his hairline. “Practical?”
Reading the direction of his thoughts, I smile. I’ve always been one to appreciate humor and am more than willing to make fun of myself from time to time. “When it suits me.”
“Mmm.” For the first time since I stopped before him, he breaks eye contact, his gaze moving toward the live jazz band and the three couples happily twirling and swaying on the dance floor. “What about dancing? Is that something that suits you?”
“I’ve been known to cut loose on the dance floor from time to time.” I smooth my hands over my hips.
His eyes sparkle, and his smile deepens. “I bet it’s something to see. Hopefully I’ll have an opportunity some time.”
Every time he speaks, that dark velvet voice does strange things to my insides, making it damn near impossible to focus on his actual words. I suck in a deep breath, steadying myself. “What can I get you to drink?”
The sudden change in topic doesn’t phase him. “What’ve you got on tap?”
“Never been here before, have you?”
He slowly shakes his head and studies me with warm eyes. “No. But how did …”
“I modeled this place to mirror the speakeasies of the 1920s. So, we don’t sell any beer, but you’re welcome to as much of our house made whiskey, brandy, and gin as you want.”
His eyes widen. “What kind of bar doesn’t serve... Wait a minute, did you say you modeled this place?”
Pleasure blooms within my chest. I’m not the kind of person who walks around telling everyone I encounter about my business, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take a great deal of pride in what I’ve created. “Yes. So what kind of drink can I get you?”
He leans back with a shrug. “Surprise me.”
Short of telling me that I’ve won the lottery, he couldn’t have said anything that made me happier. The only thing I love more than matching a drink to a customer is figuring out the perfect whiskey recipe.
Spinning on my sneakered heel, I grab a high ball glass and snag a couple of bottles from the glass bottomed shelves.
“Paul.”
“Hmm,” I murmur as I watch two different colored liquids mix together.
“Paul. That’s my name.” Humor warms his voice. “Paul Sullivan.”
“Oh.” I was so caught up in his beauty and the interesting way my body responded to the sound of his voice, I didn’t realize I don’t have the faintest idea what his name is, or anything else for that matter. “Paul Sullivan.” I say it slowly, letting the syllables flow over my tongue, getting a feel for them. As far as names go, it’s a bit old fashioned, but it sounds nice and it seems to suit him. “I like it. It’s a nice solid kind of name.”
“My mother thought so. What name did your mother prefer?”
“Lara. I’m named after my great-grandmother.” Satisfied with what I’ve prepared, I scoop up the glass and present it to him. “Here you go.”
“Ah. Excellent.”
Paul accepts my offering, his fingers brushing mine, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity racing straight up my arm all the way to my heart. Startled, I nearly drop the drink and hurriedly take a step back, bumping into Trent, one of my fellow bartenders.
“Clumsy much?” Trent grins as he reaches out to steady me.
Heat floods my face. The only thing worse than overreacting to a single touch is knowing that all of my bartenders – and a fair amount of my patrons – know I’m hot and bothered. “Thanks,” I mutter and turn back to Paul.
Amusement dances in his eyes as they meet mine over the rim of his glass. Great. I’m about to become a puddle of unrequited lust on the floor and he thinks it’s funny. Clearly, he doesn’t realize this is all his fault.
I take a deep breath to cover my embarrassment and edge closer. “Well?”
Paul sets the glass down and reaches out, catching my hand in his, sending another blast of electric heat coursing through me. “I think this might be my new favorite place.”
I bite my lip to contain a smile. “Wonderful.” The word comes out too bright, too eager. I hurry to mask the eagerness with upbeat professionalism. “That’s exactly what I like hearing my customers say.”
He returns my smile. “Anything else you like hearing?”
“There’s a few phrases.”
“Such as?”
I nudge his drink towards him. “Drink up and hang around for a little while, and I’ll tell you.”
3
Paul
“You’re ready to close the place down.”
Even as I say the words, a heavy reluctance settles over me. While the Blind Pig isn’t my kind of place, there’s something about Lara that strikes a chord deep inside of me. For the past two hours, we’ve done nothing but talk about local sports—she’s a Pistons fan—favorite movies—we both love the Die Hard series—and favorite books—I prefer Steinbeck while she’s a Nora Roberts fan.
The conversation hasn’t gone any deeper, nothing past the type of things that two people who will probably never see one another again discuss before going their separate ways, but… I don’t know what, but there’s something different, something deeper about our connection.
It makes me reluctant to leave, despite the fact that last call was more than twenty minutes ago. So I continue to hold down the bar stool, while my thoughts turn away from movies and literature, and become consumed with wondering what Lara’s kiss tastes like.
She seems as reluctant for me to leave as I am.
Wide-eyed, she glances up from the receipts she’s totaling. “Oh, if you have somewhere you need to be…”
“At ten past two in the morning? Hardly.”
“Than if you don’t mind, would you stay? You’ve had a fair amount to drink tonight. I started a small pot of coffee. You’re welcome to share it with me.”
Lara bites her lip, unsure of how to continue. She doesn’t have to. Short of hiring a skywriting pilot to spell it out, she couldn’t make her wishes any clearer. She wants me to stay and I’m ready and willing to oblige her.
“Lara, if you want, I’m fine helping out for a little bit longer.”
A short, stocky waiter with mocha skin and expressive eyes stands near the end of the bar, eyeing me. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s not happy that, while Lara sent the rest of her customers home just fifteen minutes after last call, she invited me to stay. He’s also the last member of her staff to still be here; the rest she steadily sent home as the night wore down.
His distrust doesn’t bother me. It’s good that there’s at least one person here that has Lara’s back. The rest of her staff took off the second she gave them the nod, leaving her to close up the place on her own.
Shaking her head, Lara rinses the last dish and sets it on a rack to dry. “Go home, Emile. I’ll be fine. And don’t forget to give that little girl a hug and kiss from me, okay?”
“If you say so.” Emile doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs into his lightweight windbreaker. “If you change your mind, I’m just a phone call away. Just say the word and I’ll come running.”
“Thank you,” Lara murmurs with a half-smile.
Unexpected jealousy spikes through me. Her smile should be directed at me. Not at another man. The realization nearly knocks my world off its axis. Yeah, I think Lara’s gorgeous and after spending several hours talking to her while she served customers, I can tell she’s intelligent - and fun.
There’s no denying that I’m attracted to her, but she’s hardly the first woman to catch my eye. I don’t consider myself a playboy, but I’ve enjoyed a fairly steady stream of companions over the years, and not o
nce have I cared when their attention wandered to another man.
So why now?
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Emile.” Warmth and good humor colors Lara’s voice.
Emile takes a couple of steps towards the door before sliding to a stop and spinning back toward the bar. “Crap, I almost forgot.” He slides a piece of paper out of the waiter’s apron draped across his shoulder and passes it to Lara. “One of the customers asked me to give this to you.”
For the first time since I met her, Lara’s smile slips, her mouth compressing into a thin line as her shoulders visibly stiffen. “Who gave this to you?”
Emile shrugs. “I don’t know. They sat at the table beside the window. Older couple. They weren’t here long.”
“You waited on them? Do you remember what they ordered?”
“Sorry, Lara. Can’t help you there. They were in Jonelle’s section. I wouldn’t have even noticed them, but they didn’t seem to be having a good time. I think they paid in cash.”
“So it will be hard to figure out who they were.” Lara glances at the paper before tucking it under the stack of credit card receipts.
“Problem?” I ask.
“No, not really. They just wanted to let me know about a … minor problem with their order. If I can figure out who they are, I’ll give them a free drink to make up for it the … error.”
She’s lying. It’s as obvious as the nose on her face. Whatever’s written on that note is troubling her on a deep level. But as much as I want to make it right, I can’t. I don’t know her that well, and besides, I have enough issues of my own to sort through. Another problem, especially one that’s not mine, is the last thing I need right now.
“If they come in again, I’ll point them out to you.” Emile aims a warning look in my direction. “If you’re sure you don’t want me to stay, I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m fine,” Lara assures him with a small wave of her right hand. “Go. Now.”
I sit still, biding my time until I hear the door close firmly behind him. “He seems … conscientious.” That wasn’t quite the word I wanted to use, but since I’m trying to make a good impression, I figure it’s the best option.
“Emile.” Lara shakes her head, like she’s trying to pull herself back into the present. “He’s great. I’ve known him since high school. He was a year behind me, but we worked at the same place and always stayed in touch. When I opened up this place, he was the first person I hired. Once things smooth out and I have a grip on what I can count on this place earning from one month to the next, I’m going to hire him as my manager. He and his wife just had their first baby. A girl. They named her Caitlin Rose.”
She slides the half-full coffee carafe off the warming plate and fills two coffee mugs, placing one in front of me.
“Decaf,” she says. “I always drink it while I’m shutting this place down. Something about it calms my nerves and helps me unwind.” She dumps a spoonful of instant hot chocolate mix in her drink and stirs.
Reaching over the bar, I take her hand in mine, savoring the silken feel of her skin. She tenses, just like she has every other time we’ve touched. A small flame of satisfaction burns within me. I love knowing that she’s as affected by my presence as I am hers. Selfishly wanting to keep her close for a moment longer, I tighten my grip when she tries pulling away.
“So, tell me, do you always send your staff home and close up this place on your own?”
“Not always,” she whispers. “If we’re too busy for them to handle the bulk of the clean-up near the end of their shift, I keep them around so that I don’t have to clean everything, but otherwise, I get them out of here as quickly as possible.”
The pad of my thumb rubs small circles across the back of her hand. Her lips part and she trembles. The flame brightens, warming my blood.
“Why?”
“I’m up to my ears in debt right now. The more I can shave off the payroll, the better this place’s profit margins become, and the sooner I can pay off a few bills.”
I release her hand. The last thing I want to talk about is money. It’s a subject that’s ruined too many relationships in my life. I want whatever is happening between me and Lara to be … different. Special. Though I don’t know why.
Lara turns away from me. She transfers the now dry bar glasses from the drying rack to the shelves.
“Even if I wasn’t trying to stay on top of payments for this place, I’d probably still let my staff go as quickly as possible.” She angles a glance over her shoulder, our eyes locking. “I love it here when everyone has gone home and it’s just me. There’s something magical about the quiet after so much noise during open hours, and it gives me a chance to reflect and evaluate my life.”
And she asked, all but demanded, that I stay and drink coffee, and share this obviously special time with her. Interesting.
I sip my coffee. It’s strong and so hot it burns all the way down my throat. Just the way I like it.
“How long have you owned this place?”
“Nine months, next Thursday.” She gathers the credit card receipts in one hand and disappears through a door that I presume leads to an office. “It took forever to get it ready for business,” she continues, raising her voice so that it carries to my seat. I hear her opening drawers. “I opened about three months ago, and have enjoyed a nice steady stream of business ever since. This place is different, and people like different.”
She reappears and closes the door behind her. Locking it.
Instead of turning to me, she moves away from the bar, her sneakers’ rubber soles squeaking on the marble floor as she makes her way to the nearest set of windows. “I’ve answered all of your questions. I think it’s only fair that you answer a few of mine.”
I can’t argue her logic, though I’m far more interested in talking about her than me.
“Okay.”
“Where did you pick up your accent?” She reaches up and tugs on a cord, and a dark green shade steadily unfurls, covering the enormous plate glass window. Her red dress stands out against the shade like a flame.
“Southern North Carolina.”
Lara nods and walks to the next window. “Do you still live there, or have you moved to Chicago?”
“I still live in the same town I grew up in. An important appointment brought me to Chicago.” I’ve come this far, she might as well know the whole truth. “I’m flying home tomorrow afternoon.”
Feeling restless, I stand and go to the spot where the band was set up, where I find a small box full of CDs. As Lara lowers one window shade after another, I shift through the collection, finally finding an instrumental collection of Glenn Miller’s greatest hits.
“What about you?” I slide the CD out of its case and into the nearby CD player. “Are you a native Chicagoan?”
The opening strains of Miller’s Moonlight Serenade fill the cavernous room. Lara’s hips sway in an automatic response. Transfixed, I watch the bright red fringe brush back and forth across her luscious back side.
“Not native to Chicago, no. I was a military brat. For the first fifteen years of my life, we moved from one base to another about every three years. When my mom retired from the marines, we settled in my dad’s home town, which is in the middle of Illinois. My parents still live there.”
“And why did you …”
“Oh no you don’t.” Chuckling softly, the sound mixing nicely with the soft music, Lara lets down another shade. “You’re out of order. It’s my turn to ask.” She thinks for a moment. “Why are you in Chicago?”
That’s the last thing I want to talk about. There’s no way I can expect someone like Lara, someone who appears to know her own mind and her own heart, to understand the intense loneliness that darkens my soul and my life.
“Business.” Acting on the impulse that first drew me to this section of the Blind Pig, I stride across the floor until I reach Lara just as she lowers the last shade. I capture her hand in mine and lead her back the way I
’ve just come.
“What are you doing?” Lara doesn’t attempt to tug her hand away or dig in her heels, but follows me willingly.
“Earlier, you mentioned dancing.”
“So I did,” Lara confirms.
“Ever since, my thoughts have been consumed with the idea of dancing with you.” We reach the dance floor, and I use my hold on her hand to slowly tug her close, easing her into my body until her curves settle against me. Heavenly. “I hope you don’t mind taking a quick turn around the dance floor with me.”
She tips her head back and studies me. In the depths of her indigo eyes, I see confusion, desire, and … maybe just a hint of apprehension. I hold my breath, hoping she grants my request.
She lifts a hand, resting it on my chest before toeing off first one sneaker and then the other. Standing on her stocking feet, she slides her hand upwards, cupping my shoulder, and places her spare hand in mine. Her wide, plump lips curve into a shy, sweet smile.
“Lead the way,” she whispers.
4
Lara
I love dancing.
During the occasional lull in business, I’ve been known to hit the dance floor, usually with a few members of my staff, to shimmy and shake along to whatever live musician I’ve brought in for the night. These impromptu sessions always involve heart-pounding good fun and lots of laughter.
But slow dancing with a man?
The last time I’ve done that … not my senior prom, which was so long ago I can’t remember my date’s name, much less what he looked like. I scramble through my memory and finally land on one from three years ago.
My cousin’s wedding. I was a last-minute replacement for a bridesmaid and danced with the groom, the groomsmen, and about half of the guests. It was fun and a few of the guys were sweet and good dancers, but none held a candle to the way Paul feels right now.
He’s more than six inches taller than me, so why do our bodies fit together like they’re made for one another?
His hand on the small of my back slowly strokes back and forth, cat-like. I arch into it, wanting the light strokes to both continue, while simultaneously knowing that I should put an end to this, that doing so now is the best thing for both of us.