Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Wyn
My knee-jerk reaction should be to straight-up murder them, but my sisters read between the lines and have plucked out palpable chemistry like they’re destined matchmakers.
Their motives have always been well-intentioned, but I never let them meddle in my social life.
My version of a good time has never lined up with theirs—I wonder if that’s still the case.
Growing up with Lu as our shining example meant we accrued hard, unwavering shells but squishy, hopeful centers when it comes to love and relationships.
And they’re both acting on that hopefulness right now as they push me closer to Julian.
“Dealer’s choice,” he says with his eyes on mine. His attention on me is like a full-body experience. I feel it everywhere, like electricity lingering in the air just after a lightning storm.
The newest bartender with the long blond hair, who looks like she was born when I got my PhD, saunters up beside me. “I’ll offer myself as tribute if nobody is going to take this one,” she says, biting her lip as she mixes a cocktail in her shaker.
Suppressing the glare I’d like to aim her way, I look out across the crowd, noticing everyone’s focused either on Julian or my sister, and there’s not a single face I recognize.
The old me would’ve walked away and told the attractive man “thanks, but no thanks” to avoid whatever rumors this would start.
Not to mention, if there was someone from the university, faculty or student, in this crowd .
. . The cautious part of me knows that’s still possible, but I’m not the kind of woman who runs anymore.
The power of recognizing that winds its way through me.
I raise my leg, wedging my foot into the small step built into the bar, and hoist myself up next to Jo. The crowd cheers out when she smiles and says, “Consider this a very lucky evening, everyone. My big sister, Dr. Wyn Crowne, ladies and gentlemen.”
Rubbing along the leather cuff on my right wrist, I don’t dare look up along the balcony. Instead, I gaze down into the crowd, eyes locked on the man who has a teasing look in his eyes and his arms crossed as he waits.
“Dealer’s choice,” Jo explains on the mic, as if the drunk crowd are her eager students, “simply means, the bartender can pour whatever they want, however they want, and the recipient has to take it.” Stevie cups her hands in front of her mouth and shouts, “Make it count, Wynnie!”
I spot one of Julian’s tattoos peeking out from the neckline of his dark shirt and decide immediately what concoction to make for him.
Stevie jumps down from the bar top, snagging a couple of orders, skating behind me. “Call out what you need, Wynnie, and I’ll grab it for you.”
“The unmarked bottle with the dried orange wheel and rhubarb,” I say, pointing to Birdie’s homemade Aperol-style liquor, then call out the remaining bottles.
I settle my ass on the bar in front of him, trying not to mirror the smile he's giving me.
“Crowne,” he says, stepping between my legs, and I can immediately feel the warmth of him. His broad body forces them wider, and the cutoff shorts I decided on ride up high on my thighs. “You heard the woman, make it count.”
Trying to ignore how my stomach flutters, I lean back, reaching for the silver cocktail shaker. Before I tilt too far and lose my balance, Julian’s hands grip the sides of my thighs, bracing and holding me in place.
“Looks like your sisters talked you into bartending after all,” he says. And I don’t know why that observation—which is very true, I might add—pisses me off.
“I’m surprised to see you . . . still in Rumor .
. . in this bar,” I challenge. Leaning closer, allowing my cheek to brush along his, the scratch of his beard and the warmth of his body nearly make my pulse careen off its cliff.
“I would imagine it’s frowned upon in your line of work to return to the scene of a crime. ”
He chuckles, and it’s way too sexy. “They all keep telling me you’re the smart one,” he answers sarcastically as he looks down, just north of where he’s holding me.
The way that I moved caused my cropped shirt to rise a little too high.
I flinch, trying to right the hem before anyone can see the marred skin along my left side.
Dammit. It’s not the fact that I have imperfections that makes me overtly aware of what’s there, it’s knowing that having a scar like mine will cause questions that need an explanation.
Julian’s attention stays locked on where the shirt lifted for an extra moment—he doesn’t look away or give me a sympathetic smile. Instead, when his eyes lift to mine, his curiosity feels as if it’s laced with something more aggressive, maybe even angry at what and who caused it.
His grip on me pulses tighter, and when he leans in, it somehow silences the noise around us.
He doesn’t say a word, his lips brushing against my skin, ghosting the racing pulse point below my ear.
The lightness of it sends a rolling thrill from the tips of my fingers to the very center of me.
It billows out, making it crystal clear that my body craves to be touched and teased by him again.
“Stop asking questions that you already know the answer to, Crowne.”
I hate that he has no issue calling me out. He made it pretty clear already that he wasn’t leaving just yet. The truth is, I want to hear him say it, and I want to know his reasoning.
“Spell it out for me,” rushes past my lips. But a bottle thuds down on the bar to my right, and another immediately follows, cutting off whatever Julian was about to say.
Stevie rolls up behind me. “Let’s go, Wynnie. Let’s show Julian how we do things in Rumor.”
Nerves swirl in my stomach, but I ignore them as Julian pulls back, creating just enough space between us.
His words still linger the same way as his hands that remain on the sides of my thighs.
Thumbs moving slowly back and forth against my skin, they sooth and tease just beneath the hem of my already hiked-up shorts.
When I meet his gaze again, he mouths, You okay?
It doesn’t make sense, the way that simple question and his touch eases me and makes me feel like he’s got me.
I tilt my chin up and give him a quick nod.
With a newfound focus, I tip the bottle of Amarino into the shaker first, followed by the bitter orange liquor.
Stevie glides behind me with a half of a lemon already stuffed into a juicer.
She knows what I’m making just based on the ingredients and gives an assist by squeezing it into the shaker.
With a side-eye glance and a smirk across her lips, she asks, “Which whiskey?”
“Any whiskey preference?” I ask him, my attention stopping on his lips. I can almost feel mine tingle when I think about the last time I felt them kiss mine. I swallow roughly, remembering the details, the things he said to me, and the way they made me completely unravel.
“You’re in charge,” he interrupts my wayward thoughts. Slowly, and so smooth that it sounds as if this drink has already dripped down his throat, he says, “I’ll take whatever you give me.”
Well, fuck me.
I clear my throat. “Grab a bottle of ours,” I call out over the music to Stevie.
Seconds later, a bottle from my distillery is placed in my hand.
I give it a long pour into the shaker, making a little show of it, and then slam the heel of my palm against it to lock the silver tumbler over the top.
My sisters are the ones with the bar tricks, so I look up at Jo and tip up my chin.
She reads what I’m asking just as I toss it into the air.
Without missing a beat, she catches the silver-frosted shaker.
Instead of watching her and paying attention to the show that both she and Stevie are putting on, I shift forward, closer to the man between my legs.
“What did you make me?” he asks.
“It doesn't matter, right?” I smirk. “You’ll take what I give you.”
He hums, and then says, “See? Sounds better when you say it.”
I take a quick breath, not allowing myself to linger on how good it feels to say what I want, play with it, and get rewarded.
He surprises me when he yanks my ass forward, closer to the edge of the bar, and into him. “Who was the guy?” he asks, catching me off guard. “The one you were with at Moonie’s.”
I look at my sister with a smirk pulling at my lips. He’s jealous.
Jo clears her throat loudly over the mic, drowning out the band. With the shaker in one hand and a strainer in the other, she stands there, watching and waiting for her next cue from me.
Julian guides my chin with the curve of his pointer and thumb, back to look at him. “Who. Was. The. Guy?” he asks, low and slow.
“Just a friend,” I rush out on a breathy whisper. Tipping my chin down, I move my lips closer to his. “And you’re sounding a little jealous.”
He doesn’t hesitate when he says, “More than a little, Crowne.”
Why does that level of confidence and honesty hit me so hard? I can’t help but smirk at his words and shift my legs wider to get just a little closer. I pick up the empty coupe glass perched next to my leg and hold it out. It’s Jo’s cue, and she strains the drink into it with precision.
With my free hand, I swipe my thumb along his lower lip and then move my fingers along his jaw and down the side of his neck. I stop at the small tattoo that peeks out and tap the dark triangle.
“Made you a paper airplane,” I say, referring both to his tattoo and the drink. “Would you like a taste?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, not with the way he watches what I’m doing as I press the edge of the cooled glass against my lips and drink.
“Yes, I want a taste. But the thing that I want most,” he breathes out. “Should be tasted without this kind of audience.”
He didn’t just say that. I can’t avoid the gasp that pulls from me, my thighs tensing like they want to clench—except they can’t because he’s standing between them.