CHAPTER 7
DEVON
"THIS IS THE tap." I point at the beer tap like I'm revealing a secret. "It makes beer happen. Don't fuck with it."
Ace and Petrov stare at me like I just explained astrophysics in interpretive dance.
"That's it?" Petrov asks.
"That's it," I say, because that's all I've got.
I've been a bartender for seventy-two hours and I'm teaching two athletes how to pour beer when I barely know how to pour beer myself.
This is what they call 'fake it till you make it,' except I'm not faking it well and I'm definitely not making it.
"Just tilt the glass and pour down the side. Easy."
Ace reaches for a glass and I make the mistake of watching.
Big mistake.
Huge mistake.
His forearm flexes as he grabs the glass and I'm momentarily convinced I've died and gone to some kind of horny heaven where everyone has arms like that. Thick, corded muscle shifting under sun-kissed skin. The kind of forearms that could pin you down and—
Nope. Stop. This is a workplace, Devon. You're supposed to be professional.
Professional my ass. Have you seen this man?
He tilts the glass exactly like I showed him and starts pouring, and of course it's perfect.
Because apparently Ace is good at everything, which is infuriating and also incredibly hot.
I'm watching his hands—those stupidly competent hands with long fingers that are currently wrapped around a pint glass but could be wrapped around… other things.
"Like this?" He looks up at me and I realize I've been staring at his hands for a solid ten seconds.
"Yeah. Perfect. You're a natural." My voice comes out weird.
Get it together.
Petrov tries next. Foam explodes everywhere, coating the glass, the counter, and somehow Petrov's shirt.
"Is not working," he announces, glaring at the tap like it insulted his mother.
"The tap's fine. You're just—" I reach over to help and accidentally brush against Ace's arm.
My brain flatlines for a full three seconds.
I jerk back like I've been electrocuted. "Sorry. Didn't mean to— Petrov, try again. Less aggressive. You're pouring beer, not wrestling a bear."
Kayla's in the back showing Becker and Wall the inventory system, which apparently requires both of them because they both have the attention span of a concussed goldfish.
Which leaves me here. The blind leading the blind. What could possibly go wrong? Actually, don't answer that. The universe is listening and it's a dick.
The front door swings open and two guys walk in. Huge dudes in navy blue shirts, utility pants, and massive, heavy-looking boots. They've got that casual confidence that comes from running into burning buildings for a living.
My brain makes exactly one computation: Uniforms = Authority = Fire Department = OH SHIT.
"The fire only lasted a few seconds!" I blurt out, hands shooting up like I'm being held at gunpoint.
"Okay, yeah, it exploded a little when someone poured vodka on it—" I glance at Ace, who's suddenly fascinated by the beer tap, "—but there was barely any structural damage!
The sound system was already old! Honestly, we did Frank a favor—"
"Yo!" Becker comes flying out of the back like he's been shot from a cannon, face lighting up like it's Christmas morning. He vaults over the bar and crashes into one of the firefighters with a bro-hug that looks like it might crack ribs. "Marcus! My guy! My dude! My hero!"
I blink. "They're with you?"
The firefighter—Marcus—extracts himself from Becker's death grip and crosses his arms. Those are some quality arms. Not Ace-quality, but solid. "There was a fire?"
Oopsie.
"Umm. Define fire?" I try.
"Flames. Heat. Potential death."
"Then yes. But very briefly! Almost like it didn't happen."
Ace jumps in, smooth as butter. "There was a small decorative incident. Very contained. Barely worth mentioning."
The other firefighter—shorter, stockier, beard that probably requires its own maintenance schedule—grins. "And here I thought this was gonna be boring."
Becker's still vibrating with excitement. "Devon, meet Station 42. This is Marcus, that's Parker. Guys, this is Devon. He's the reason we didn't all die in the Great Christmas Tree Massacre."
"I just yelled at people."
"Exactly."
Marcus offers his hand and I shake it, still confused about what's happening. "We're here for scheduling. The station's joining your charity game," he explains like he’s reading my thoughts.
"We have three weeks to learn hockey," Parker adds.
They huddle up with Becker, diving into logistics—practice times, rink availability, who's bringing what equipment—and I tune out because it sounds boring as fuck and I have much better things to focus on.
Like Ace's jawline.
That jawline could cut glass. Probably has cut glass. I bet he just looks at glass and it shatters out of respect.
And his shoulders. Jesus Christ. They're broad enough to land a helicopter on. I could probably ride those shoulders like—
He shifts his weight and his shirt pulls tight across his chest.
I'm staring again. I've crossed from "casual appreciation" into "HR violation" territory but I can't stop because look at him.
Ace catches me.
His eyes meet mine and one eyebrow goes up. "What?"
I tilt my head and consider. Backtracking would probably be the safest bet, but I just need to know if he's straight or not. One way to find out.
"Nothing. You're just hot, is all," I say.
Petrov coughs.
Ace's face does this beautiful thing where his cheeks flush pink, starting at his neck and creeping up to his ears, and his eyes go wide for half a second before he tries to look normal.
He fails deliciously.
"I—what?" He sounds strangled.
"Hot. Attractive. Easy on the eyes. A solid twelve out of ten.
You know." I lean against the bar, enjoying this way too much.
Watching him squirm is its own special kind of entertainment.
"I'm just stating facts. Like how pizza is better than salad.
Or how you have the kind of face that probably causes traffic accidents. "
His flush deepens, spreading down his neck. "You can't just—people don't just—"
"Can't just what? Tell the truth?" I'm grinning now, fully committed to making this man implode. "What, did you not know? Have you looked in a mirror recently? Because buddy, I have news for you."
"I don't— I mean, thanks?" He runs a hand through his hair and I'm momentarily distracted by how that makes his bicep flex.
Fuck me, even his nervous gestures are hot. How is that fair?
"You're a bit insane, aren't you?" he manages finally.
"I prefer refreshingly honest."
"You're insane," he repeats, but there's this underlying amusement in his voice that makes my stomach do a weird flip.
Down, boy. He's straight. The blush is proof. Gay and bi guys don't blush like that when you compliment them. They either flirt back or tell you to fuck off. There's no middle ground.
Straight guys? They get that adorably confused look. Like someone just asked them a math question in a foreign language.
Ace is firmly in the does not compute category, which means: off limits.
Tragic. Truly tragic. What a waste of a perfect face.
Becker and Wall head out with the firefighters, still deep in conversation about practice schedules. But before they disappear, Becker dumps a stack of papers on the bar.
"Almost forgot! Fresh off the printer." He's gone before I can respond.
I pick up the top flyer and—
"Oh my god."
It's a photo of Hendrix mid-screech, beak wide open, wings spread, looking like he's about to commit murder. The caption, in bold red letters: "KISS KISS OR ELSE."
Below that: "Pucks for Paws Charity Game – December 23rd – All proceeds benefit animals who are judged by society, but honestly? Society sucks."
"Damn it, Becker." Ace takes the flyer, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
I flip through the stack. Each one is a different animal with increasingly unhinged captions.
A three-legged dog: "I'M NOT DISABLED, YOU'RE JUST BORING – Come support pets with personality!"
An ancient, one-eyed cat: "I'VE SEEN SOME SHIT – Help me see better days. (I can't actually see. I'm blind. But the point stands.)"
A pissed-off-looking rabbit: "I BITE – But only people I don't like. Come find out if that's you! (Spoiler: it's you.)"
"These are—" Ace is trying not to laugh and failing. "These are atrocious."
"These are genius." I prop a few up on the bar, making sure the most deranged ones are front and center. "Becker's gonna save the world with aggressive marketing and I'm here for it."
Petrov picks up the Hendrix flyer, nodding. "I would go to this. Bird has good energy."
"The bird is a terrorist," Ace says.
"Yes. Good energy."
Ace and Petrov drift over to the beer tap, which apparently isn't dispensing at the right pressure or something equally boring and mechanical.
I should probably help.
Instead, I'm watching Ace's hands as he tinkers with something on the tap. Those long fingers, the way his forearms flex when he adjusts the pressure valve, the little furrow of concentration between his eyebrows.
I'm in so much trouble.
He looks up and catches me staring. Again.
"Seriously, what?"
"Nothing. Just admiring quality craftsmanship."
"The beer tap?"
"Sure. Let's go with that."
His ears go pink again and I have to physically stop myself from saying something that'll make it worse.
Petrov mutters something in Russian that I don't understand but sounds distinctly like judgment.
The front door opens again and Mama Paws walks in, and I know it's go-time because she's got three dogs on leashes and Hendrix's cage in her other hand.
The dogs—a scrappy terrier mix, an anxious pit bull, and something that might be a dog or might be a sentient mop—immediately start sniffing everything like they're conducting a very important investigation.
Hendrix sees me and screams, "Kiss kiss!"
"Not today, Satan!" I yell back.
Mama Paws beams, setting Hendrix's cage on the bar. "Evening, boys! Ready for your big debut?"
Ace and Petrov look at each other.
"No," they say in unison.
"You'll be fine." I grab a stack of menus and start distributing them around the bar like I know what I'm doing (I don't). "I've been doing this for three whole days. I'm basically a pro."
"That's not comforting," Ace says.
"It's not supposed to be comforting. It's supposed to be motivating." I wave him off. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"
Petrov opens his mouth.
"That was rhetorical. Don't answer."
Mama Paws releases Hendrix from his cage and he immediately does a victory lap around the bar, shrieking "What the puuuuck?" over and over, like he's narrating his own life.
The pit bull—name tag says Roxie—plants herself at Ace's feet and gazes up at him with the kind of devotion usually reserved for deities.
"I think you have a fan," I say.
"I didn't do anything."
"You exist. That's enough." I crouch down to scratch behind her ears. She's all wiggling happiness and soulful eyes. "She's got excellent taste."
Ace crouches too, offering his hand. Roxie immediately starts licking his fingers like he's made of bacon.
We're both down here now, close enough that I can smell his cologne, which I try not to sniff but definitely do.
When he looks up, our faces are maybe a foot apart.
His eyes are so blue they look Photoshopped. Nobody's eyes are actually that blue in real life. It's offensive.
"You're staring again," he says quietly.
"Yeah, well." I stand up fast, putting distance between us before I boil over inside. "Like I said. You're hot. It's a whole situation."
He laughs, soft and surprised, and the sound burrows into my chest and refuses to leave.
Mama Paws flips the sign to OPEN.
"Alright, boys!" she calls out, clapping her hands together. "Let's make some magic!"