Chapter 3
Erin
M y heart’s pounding like a drum.
Samuel Holt’s eyes are too intense, too knowing. The way he looks at me should cause me to bolt for the door, but I stay put, like I’ve got something to prove.
Maybe I do.
His gaze is nothing like Misha’s. There’s nothing slimy about it, no sense of a trap waiting to snap shut. It’s sharp and focused, but instead of making me feel stripped bare, I feel steady and confident. Like he’s a wall I can lean on, if I dare to.
He smiles, a slow curve of his lips that lights a fire low in my belly and sends heat skittering up my spine, causing my pussy to clench.
His smile says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“What can I get for you, sir?” I ask, putting on the show of a bartender eager to satisfy her newest customer.
“Something good.”
I meet his eyes, ignoring the heat running under my skin. I smile confidently, even if my insides are a mess. “What’re you in the mood for?”
Before he can answer, Ben’s voice cuts in from down the bar. “She made a killer Manhattan earlier.”
Samuel’s eyes flicker with interest, the corners crinkling slightly. He leans in just enough to say, “Surprise me.”
A challenge. The heat in his eyes dares me to impress him, to show him I’m not just some girl who got lucky with a single drink. Determination settles in my gut, grounding me.
I give a small nod. My pulse is doing somersaults as I walk slowly around the bar, scoping out my options while hyper-aware of his eyes following my every movement. There’s no creepy leering causing a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like with Misha. Sam’s attention doesn’t feel dirty or dangerous. It feels exhilarating.
I like the way he watches me.
God help me, that’s dangerous.
My rule about bosses flashes through my mind—don’t get involved, don’t get burned — but that rule feels flimsy when his eyes are on me like this.
“Surprise you,” I mutter under my breath.
Challenge accepted.
My fingers reach for bottles and tools with practiced ease. The sound of clinking glass and the scent of citrus and bitters ground me, reminding me that here, behind the bar, I’m in control.
Samuel’s eyes stay on me. His stillness is unnerving, and it makes my pulse trip over itself, but I continue my task and stay focused.
“Something classic, right? You seem like the type of man who appreciates the basics done perfectly.”
His lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”
I smirk, pouring a measure of bourbon into the mixing glass. “Somewhat. You seem like you don’t tolerate any bullshit. I can respect that.”
I stir the drink, my movements fluid and precise. “Respect is important. Especially when you’re surrounded by drunk idiots five nights a week.” I pause, meeting his gaze head-on. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. “And who do you think you’re dealing with?”
My heart thuds hard. “That’s what I’m still figuring out.”
“Fair enough.”
I lift the strainer and pour the amber liquid into a crystal glass. I pluck an orange peel, twist it over the drink, and drop it in with a flourish. I slide the glass across the bar to him, my fingertips lingering on the edge.
“One Old Fashioned. No bullshit.”
He picks up the glass, his fingers brushing mine for just a second. The contact is brief, but it might as well have been a lightning strike. His eyes never leave mine as he lifts the drink to his lips. He takes a slow sip, his throat working, his jaw tightening just a little.
He sets the glass down. “Perfect.”
My smile is small and restrained as I confidently reply, “Glad to hear it, boss.”
His eyes narrow slightly at the word boss , like it doesn’t sit right with him. He leans in a fraction, his voice dropping low. “You won’t have much time for smooth talk when the place is packed.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I’m good under pressure.”
“I have no doubt.”
For a moment, we just look at each other. His gaze drops to my mouth, heat flaring beneath my skin once more, spreading like wildfire. I fight the urge to lick my lips and to lean in closer, to see just how far we can push this.
I clear my throat and pull back, breaking the spell. I can’t afford to lose control, or this job opportunity.
“So, is there anything else you want me to do?”
“Yeah. Don’t call me boss. Call me Samuel.”
I nod. “Alright, Samuel.”
I shift my weight, pretending to focus on tidying up the bar, but my mind is a mess. My fingers wrap around the cocktail shaker, needing something to hold onto. My rule about not mixing business with pleasure is screaming at me to back off, but my body is doing everything it can to betray me.
Samuel’s eyes track my movements, dark and thoughtful.
I clear my throat, trying to steer my focus back to professional. “So, what do Fridays and Saturdays look like around here?”
“Busy. Crowded. Controlled chaos,” he says. “We’re open five nights a week. Closed Mondays and Tuesdays. You’ll have to be fast, accurate, and keep your head on straight.”
“Being fast and accurate is my specialty.”
His eyes flare, like he’s daring me to push back, to challenge him. And I want to. God, I want to.
I grab a glass and absentmindedly wipe it with a towel. “Any house rules I should know about? Besides the obvious ones.”
“Yeah. Don’t take shit from anyone. Not customers. Not staff. Not even me.”
As I lift the glass to put it away, I catch his eyes flicking downward, his gaze skimming over my waist, my hips, before snapping back up to my face. He doesn’t try to hide it or pretend he wasn’t looking.
I don’t mind.
I swallow hard, my panties soaked. “Got it. No shit from anyone.”
He leans back, giving me just enough space to breathe again, and takes another slow sip of his drink. “Good.”
I grab a second glass I hid behind the bar, one I poured for myself while he wasn’t looking. His eyes widen slightly and I smirk.
“Thought you’d need someone to toast with,” I say, holding up my glass. “Cheers, Samuel.”
He flashes me a sexy-as-hell grin. “Cheers, Erin.”
We tap our rims, the clink echoing throughout the empty expanse of the bar.Our eyes lock, and I swear the temperature in the room spikes. I take a sip, the burn of the alcohol exactly what I need.
I set my glass down. “So, when do I start?”
Another smirk. He glances over his shoulder at James. “What do you think, bud? Should we give her a shot?”
James doesn’t say a word, he just nods.
“I’m the boss,” Samuel says, “but he’s my second-in-command.” He sits back for a moment, as if giving the matter of hiring me one last thought.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” I say finally.
He extends his hand for a shake and I take it, his grip warm and firm. “Tomorrow night,” he says. “Try to keep up.”
“Don’t worry. I plan to set the pace.”
His laugh is low, dark, and sensual.
“We’ll see, Erin,” he says, easing off his stool and walking away. “We’ll see.”