Faking It with the Cop (Evergreen Lakes Romance #3)

Chapter 1

Steph

The Lucky Tap is a madhouse tonight, which means I'm working both the bar and the floor. All of us are working double time.

I weave through the packed Friday night crowd with a tray of empties balanced on one hand, dodging elbows and wandering hands with the practiced ease of someone who's been doing this too long.

A country song about whiskey and heartbreak, sung along to by half the bar, plays loudly on the jukebox, rattling my teeth.

The air smells like beer, fried food, and too many competing colognes.

"Steph!" Belinda calls from across the room, her blonde ponytail swinging as she hoists her own tray overhead. "Table seven needs another round!"

I nod, depositing my empties behind the bar and reaching for clean glasses. My feet are already screaming, and we're only three hours into my shift. Five more to go.

Ainsley appears beside me, cheeks flushed and smiling in a way that makes my chest ache with something like envy. She's been like this for weeks now—glowing, lighter, the happiness that comes from being stupidly in love.

"You good?" she asks, already pouring drafts with the efficiency of someone who could do this in her sleep.

"Define good," I mutter, but I'm smiling. "You?"

Her gaze flicks across the bar to where Troy is sitting with Kevin, and her smile goes softer. Sweeter. Troy catches her looking and winks, and she blushes.

Damn, they're disgusting. In the best possible way.

"I'm great," she says, and I believe her.

Troy leans over to say something to Kevin, who's nursing what looks like his first beer of the night. Kevin doesn't drink much when he's here—always staying sharp, always watching. Protecting, even when he's off duty.

Especially when he's off duty.

I feel his eyes on me before I look. It's been like this for months now, ever since that night.

The night he showed up at my apartment in full uniform, all controlled authority and quiet rage, and got my ex-boyfriend Carl out of my life for good.

Kevin's been checking on me ever since. Subtle.

Steady. And always there when I need him, even when I don't ask.

I glance up, and sure enough, his gaze is already on me. Those dark eyes do a quick sweep—checking if I'm okay, if I need anything, if anyone's giving me trouble. It's become a routine between us. He watches. I pretend not to notice. We both act like it means nothing.

I give him a small nod that says I'm fine.

His jaw relaxes just slightly, and he nods back before Troy says something that pulls his attention away.

"You know he's crazy about you, right?" Ainsley says quietly, following my gaze.

Heat floods my cheeks. "We're friends."

"Friends don't look at each other like that."

"He's just... protective. It's what cops do."

Ainsley gives me a look that says she's not buying it, but she doesn't push. She knows better. She knows what I've been through, knows I'm not ready for anything that even resembles a relationship. Knows that the idea of letting someone that close again makes my chest tight with panic.

Kevin knows it too. Which is why he's kept his distance, even when I catch something heated in his gaze that has nothing to do with protection.

"Table seven!" Belinda calls again, more urgently this time.

I grab the beers and head into the fray.

The next hour passes in a blur of orders and refills and the constant navigation of bodies packed too close together.

Archer, our new bouncer, stands near the door with his arms crossed, watching everything with the sharp-eyed focus of someone who's seen trouble and knows how to spot it coming.

Simon hired him last month after one too many tourists thought it was okay to put their hands on the staff.

Archer's presence has helped, but it hasn't stopped everyone.

Case in point: the guy at the end of the bar.

I noticed him earlier in the week. Mid-thirties, brown hair, expensive watch, a confidence that comes from never being told no. He's been in every night this week, always sitting in my section, always watching me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

He's asked me out four times. I've said no four times. Politely at first. Then firmly. Last night I told him flat-out I wasn't interested.

Tonight, he's drunk.

I can see it in the loose way he's leaning on the bar, the glassy look in his eyes, the too-loud laugh when Harriette walks past. She shoots me a look that says good luck, and I steel myself as I approach, thanking God I have a bar between us.

"Can I get you anything else?" I ask, keeping my voice professional. Distant.

"Yeah." His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate. "Your number."

My stomach clenches. "I've already told you—"

"Come on, sweetheart." He leans forward, invading my space. "Just one drink. What's the harm?”

"I'm working," I say, taking a step back. "And I'm not interested."

His smile doesn't waver. "You keep saying that, but I don't believe you."

The words hit like ice water. How many times did Carl say the same thing? How many times did my "no" not matter because he'd already decided what I wanted?

"I need to get back to work," I say, turning away.

His hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist.

Everything stops.

The noise of the bar fades to a dull roar. My heart slams against my ribs. His grip isn't tight—not yet—but it doesn't matter. Feeling held, trapped, controlled, sends panic flooding through my veins like poison.

"Let go," I say, but my voice comes out too thin. Too shaky.

"Just give me a chance," he says with a wicked smile. He doesn't notice me pulling away. More like he doesn't care.

"Let. Go." I yank my arm, but he holds on, and the panic morphs into something sharper. Angrier.

"Come on, don't be like that—"

"I have a boyfriend," I blurt out.

The words tumble out before I can stop them, desperate and clumsy, the only defense I can think of at the moment. Maybe if he thinks I belong to someone else, he'll back off. Maybe then my "no" will finally be enough.

He laughs. "No, you don't."

The casual dismissal, the certainty in his voice, makes rage flare hot and bright in my chest.

And then I see Kevin.

He's already off his barstool, already moving, and the look on his face is pure, controlled fury. His eyes lock onto the hand around my wrist, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches so tight it could shatter.

The words come out before I can think them through.

"Oh, yeah?" I say, meeting the drunk guy's eyes with all the defiance I can muster. "Well, you're about to meet him."

Kevin reaches us in three long strides, and I turn to face him, heart pounding.

"Here's my boyfriend, Kevin."

Kevin doesn't flinch. Doesn't hesitate. His expression doesn't even flicker.

He just steps up beside the guy, fists clenched at his sides, close enough that I'm sure the drunk can feel the rage boiling underneath the surface, and says in a voice like gravel, "You need to let go of her. Now."

His hand settles on the bar as he leans over the man, and for the first time since this man grabbed me, I can breathe.