Just A Little Joy (Just A Little #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

TRAVIS

“Mind if I join you in here?”

The question startled me out of my catnap, and I peered through the steam of the sauna to see who was speaking at the door, letting in a rush of cold air.

The face looking back at me was open and friendly, framed by a bright smile.

I’d noticed him earlier while I was doing my circuit training, though we hadn’t spoken.

It was hard not to miss that easy grin he seemed to gift to everyone who crossed his path, including me a few times.

But even that tiny break had felt like something I had no business taking, which said more about how stretched thin I already was than anything else.

“Not at all. Come on in.”

The man slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

We were both wrapped in white towels, and he settled on the bench across from me.

The smile I had seen earlier was still plastered across his face, or maybe it was just permanently settled there.

He eased back against the cedar walls and let out a hefty sigh.

“Thanks for letting me crash in here. The other one was a little too crowded.”

He gave me an assessing look, as if trying to figure out who I was.

I didn’t want to be the guy who said, “Oh yeah, I used to be kinda famous, that’s why you’re trying to place me,” so I kept quiet.

There was something too observant in the way he watched people, like he picked up tension before anyone named it.

“Do I know you from somewhere other than the gym?” After asking, he closed his eyes without waiting for an answer. Wrapped in his towel, and since he couldn’t see me anyway, I took my time giving him the once-over.

He wasn’t tall, maybe five eight or nine, but his chest was broad like a barrel.

His arms were thick and dusted with dark hair.

From what I could see, his waist was trim, his thighs deliciously thick, and his calves solid muscle.

His chest, though, was smooth. That was a bummer only because I liked a man with a furry chest. Still, nobody was perfect.

A few tattoos marked his skin—his forearm, one just below his collarbone, and thank god for towels, a peekaboo glimpse of one along his upper thigh.

He was built like a sexy-as-fuck brick house. One story.

“It’s probably here. I’m in a lot.”

“Oh, yeah, I know I’ve seen you around this place, but that’s not it. It’ll come to me.”

He still hadn’t opened his eyes, so I kept ogling him.

Maybe not the most polite thing ever, but anyone who saw him would understand the temptation.

When he spread his legs farther apart and his towel slipped even more, I almost swallowed my tongue.

It was a shame this wasn’t that kind of bathhouse because I wouldn’t have minded seeing what was under the towel.

“How long are you going to stare at me?” he asked conversationally.

Fucking hell. I’d spent so much time willing that towel to open a little more that I hadn’t noticed his eyes weren’t closed anymore.

“Oh shit. Sorry.”

“No worries. I know my leg days have been lacking.”

“Your leg days are fine.” I paused before adding, “Staring was rude. The tattoo caught my attention, and I forgot to look away.”

“Oh, this? You should’ve said something.” He pulled the towel back to reveal a cloud with stick-figure legs, rainbow socks, and untied sneakers. So random. So odd. But kinda cute.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, that’s not what I imagined.”

“Yeah? What did you think it was?”

“No clue, but not that.” And because I was tired of calling him guy, I added, “I’m Travis, by the way.”

“Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Casey.”

“Casey, but what does it mean?” I nodded toward the tattoo.

“It means I like cute shit, and this, my friend, is some cute shit.”

His grin widened, and this time I noticed how his white teeth contrasted with his sun-kissed skin.

How the hell had I missed the dimples? They popped out on both cheeks every time his mouth even slightly curled.

His dark-brown eyes shone like he had a secret, and I wondered if he did.

It felt like he could suss out mine pretty quickly.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I answered.

“You don’t have any?”

“Cute shit?”

“No, silly, tattoos. Or if you do, they must be crowded under that towel of yours.”

“I think I might be the only one under the age of forty without a tattoo.”

“Scared of needles?”

“My mom had this thing about how the only people who got tattoos were ex-cons and bikers. She drilled into our heads how disappointed she’d be if we came home with one. I guess I never felt rebellious enough to get one despite all that bullshit.”

“Does she still feel that way?”

“Evidently not because the last time I was home, my cousin came over showing off their new tattoo, and all my mom did was gush over how much she liked it. So I guess it’s not just for bikers and ex-cons anymore.”

“So now are you going to get one?”

“No. Not because I’m scared of needles, but I don’t like them very much.”

“So what I’m hearing is you’re terrified of them.”

I shot him a quick grin. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

On the redwood bench, Casey did a happy dance that reminded me of the littles at the club—if the littles were built like the broad side of a barn and wrapped in towels in my gym sauna.

It was a goddamn shame this was a family-friendly gym because I could think of countless things I’d rather be doing in this steamy room with the door locked.

Unfortunately, all I could do was sit there and imagine instead of act.

We both lapsed into silence, letting the steam work over our muscles.

My mind, though, was full. We were short-staffed at the bar, and with the holiday season about to be in full swing, business had picked up.

Everyone needed time off, but there was only so much we could do.

I didn’t want to run my bartenders into the ground and have them quit in frustration.

My mind refused to settle, already juggling bar schedules and the uneven weight of doing everything myself.

“You okay over there?” Casey called across the room.

“I think so. Why?”

“Because for someone who’s supposed to be relaxing in a sauna, you’re pretty tense. If your jaw gets any tighter, you might snap something.”

His voice was still friendly, but I caught the curiosity in it. He reminded me of a kitten who knew it was supposed to stay in the box but couldn’t help climbing out whenever something interesting caught its attention.

“Yeah. I snuck away this afternoon before my place opens because I know I’ll be there all night.”

“Your place?”

“Yeah, I own a bar, and I’m working tonight.”

“You don’t want to work in your bar?”

“I love working in my bar. I just don’t love doing twenty days in a row.”

“Oof. That’s a long time without a day off.”

“I’m not gonna ask my bartenders to work harder than I do or leave them without a barback.”

“I’m not trying to be rude, but why don’t you hire one?” His face was open and curious. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He genuinely wanted to know why the obvious solution wasn’t an option.

He said it so simply, like the world was full of easy fixes I kept forgetting to reach for.

“I’d love to hire a barback, but I haven’t found anyone who stays longer than a night. Two, at most.”

“Are you that terrible of a boss?” His question carried pure mischief.

“My bartenders like me, and so do the servers, but the barbacks? I don’t know. They’re just not feeling it.”

“Are you looking for someone full-time?”

“That’s the other problem. We only need someone a couple of nights a week, and that will probably drop after the holidays. I can’t blame anyone for not jumping at the chance to work a temporary job and then lose half their hours come January.”

“Well, Travis, today might be your lucky day.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“It just so happens I’ve been looking to pick up a couple of evening shifts after my regular job.”

“What’s your regular job?”

“Right now, I’m waiting tables at Stone and Vine, but I always do the lunch shift, so I’m never there in the evenings.”

“Have you barbacked before?”

“Yeah. Off and on for a couple of years in a ski town in Colorado during the summer.”

“What about winter?”

“I worked at the ski lodge.”

“A ski bum, huh?”

“My résumé refers to that time as Frozen Terrain Operations Associate.”

“Oh wow. Sorry, my bad. What does someone with that job title do?”

“We’re ski bums.” Casey followed up his tongue-in-cheek answer with a raucous laugh. Even muffled by the sauna walls, it echoed.

“Why don’t you stop by the bar around four? We’ll do a proper job interview.”

“Hell yeah. How soon are you looking for someone to start?”

“As soon as possible. Come in jeans and work boots, and you can start tonight.”

“Assuming the interview goes well.”

“I’m desperate. If you show up on time and you’re not already drunk, you’ve got the job.”

“Since I don’t drink, that won’t be a problem. See you at four.”

With that, Casey slid off the bench and sauntered out the door. He didn’t bother to tighten his towel, and it hung low on his backside, caught on the bubble of his ass. Goddamn, what a view.

Remembering I was supposed to be the boss might be the death of me.

As a workday, my afternoon was an absolute bust. Since next week was Thanksgiving, I expected there to be a big crowd on Thursday night and needed someone in place by then.

By that point, everybody was sick of turkey and their cousin’s bullshit and needed a break from all the family time.

That meant everything I normally did on Thursday nights needed to be done earlier.

That brilliant plan was shot to hell because I had spent more time looking at the clock than actually scrubbing behind the bar or taking inventory.