Chapter 8 Tropes
Tropes
Amy’s fury fizzled at the sight of Shane O’Brien’s firm hand on Rude Jerk’s shoulder.
She hadn’t realized he’d broken formation and raced over.
She could have stuck up for herself, given enough time, thank you very much, but she couldn’t deny the thrill zipping through her body at Shane doing the sticking up for her.
At six-three, with squared-off shoulders, he could stare this idiot down without breaking a sweat.
And even though he wasn’t wearing his badge, he didn’t need it.
An aura of don’t-mess-with-me rolled off him in waves, making the entire package one big tower of intimidation that gave her tummy forbidden flutters.
Rude Jerk was apparently too stupid to get the message, though, and his mouth thinned into a defiant slash. “Says who?”
Now Noah leaned onto the bar. When had he appeared? “Says the owner of this establishment. Tell the lady you’re sorry, and then you can leave. The exit’s that way.” Noah pointed in the general direction of the front door.
The whole place had grown quiet—except for Micky, who was cluelessly yammering in the background about his empty beer glass and the “poor service around here.” Amy vibrated with an overwhelming urge to slap him. It probably wouldn’t wake him up, though.
Rude Jerk gave Shane’s hand—still locked on his shoulder—a disdainful glance. “This is assault. I’m calling the cops.”
One corner of Shane’s mouth curled up, and challenge glinted in his brown eyes. “I am the cops. Care to see the inside of my jail? I can arrange a personal tour.” His grip tightened.
Amy’s jaw swung open. She hadn’t seen Shane in full-on deputy mode too many times because the opportunity usually never presented itself.
If he had to confront anyone while wearing his deputy’s hat, usually that person was giving him lip because they were falling-down drunk or they were complaining about a neighbor’s pet.
In those cases, his approach was more of a drawling “aw shucks” that disarmed folks and brought any escalation to a grinding halt.
Shane was one of the calmest people she knew.
This time, though, he seemed to be the one escalating.
The wrath blazing in his eyes was unmistakable.
And dear Gaia, it was also really, really hot.
Not hot in the I’m-pissed-off kind of way—which he was—but … sexy-hot.
She gave herself a mental slap for the inappropriate thought.
Rude Jerk looked around at the faces surrounding him. From behind Shane, the dude’s friend shouted, “Mark! Don’t be stupid. Say you’re sorry, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Without releasing Mark, Shane swiveled his head slowly toward the sidekick. “Glad to see one of you has a working brain.” He turned back to Mark with the same deliberateness. “You’d be wise to follow your friend’s advice.”
Mark swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple rode up and down his leathery neck like an elevator car. “Uh, sorry.”
“Look at her, not at the floor,” Shane growled.
Mark raised narrowed, dead-as-coal eyes to Amy, making her squirm inside.
She wasn’t sure she wanted an apology from this creep if it meant looking at him.
She pushed her shoulders back anyway, hiding the fact her belly was currently hosting a swarm of slithering snakes.
“I’m sorry.” His tone was pure venom without a hint of apology in it.
Shane gave his shoulder a hard shake. “There. Now was that so hard? I’m sure Councilwoman Caufield appreciates the apology.”
Mark’s eyes widened, then slanted with a grimace, and Shane stepped back, only to be replaced by Dixie crooking a finger at the ill-mannered jackass and his buddy. “Right this way, fellas.”
The entire tavern watched the two men slink out the front door … everyone except Micky, who looked around with a baffled expression. “What just happened? What’d I miss?”
Reining in her fangirl, Amy looked up at Shane. The only words she could get out were, “I can’t believe you invoked the councilwoman thing.”
A sly grin spread over Shane’s clean-shaven face. “Worked, didn’t it? People are usually reluctant to cross elected officials.”
“Appointed,” she corrected and immediately felt foolish. “Um, I think it had more to do with the six-inch difference between you two. Would you really have arrested him?”
“Nah. Didn’t have any reason to, but he didn’t know that.”
“Well, I, uh … Thank you.”
He touched two fingers to his forehead in a mini-salute. “Pleasure.” He opened his mouth to add something but was assailed by Estelle claiming his arm and walking her fingers up it like it was a ramp.
“Ooh, Sheriff,” she cooed, “that was masterful.”
A beet-red hue stained Shane’s cheeks. “It’s ‘Deputy,’ not ‘Sheriff,’ and I only did it because he was way out of line.” He paused, gulping as he looked between Amy and his biggest fan. “With guys like that, sometimes you have to use more of a hammer approach.”
“I’d like to hear more about your hammer.” Estelle locked down his arm and tried to tug him away. “C’mon, Sheriff. Let me buy you a beer,” she purred.
Amy squelched a giggle as Shane let himself be dragged off. The scene reminded her of a cavewoman hauling her chosen mate back to their lair for some reproduction time. Beyond them, Micky chugged his brew inside a blissful beer bubble.
Dixie sidled up beside Amy and called for three beers.
While she waited for Noah to fill the order, she clucked.
“Them two were obviously a few firecrackers short of a full string. He thought you was Mexican. Ha! And my land, I do believe that’s the first time I’ve seen our mild-mannered Deputy Dawg bare his pointy canines thataway.
” She tapped a long, curved fuchsia nail against Amy’s elbow.
“It goes to show that he definitely has favorites.”
What the heck was Dixie talking about now? Adrenaline still coursing through her veins, Amy sputtered, “Favorites? I don’t get it.”
Dixie picked up the pints Noah placed on the bar top.
“No, you don’t, but someday, child, I expect you will.
First, though, you need to clear out some of them stale leftovers.
Then his nibs might actually come sniffing around.
But you’re on the right train track.” With a wink, she turned and sashayed away, leaving Amy utterly dumbfounded for the second time that evening.
Who was “his nibs” in this scenario? It was a term Dixie usually reserved for Noah, but Amy suspected Noah had nothing to do with whatever bees were buzzing in Dixie’s bonnet. Normally, Amy could follow Dixie-speak—it was a language all its own—but right now, she needed a translator.
Joy Hunnicutt plopped onto the coveted barstool beside Amy.
She laid a perfectly manicured hand on Amy’s arm and stared at her with her warm, whiskey-brown eyes.
“Amy, I’m so sorry for what that ignoramus said to you.
And what a dumbass! He can’t even get his nationalities straight.
You don’t have a drop of Spanish blood in you!
Just proves how stupid he really is. Some people,” she huffed. Amy loved her for it.
Hailey leaned across the bar. “Actually, Amy might have a gallon or two of Spanish blood.” When Joy gaped, Hailey tilted her head Amy’s way. “Tell her about your dad.” Hailey gave her a knowing smile that said, “It’ll get your mind off what just happened.”
Grateful for the change in topic, Amy erased Mark from her mind and latched on to the opening Hailey had presented to her. “My dad is Black Irish.”
Joy’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I thought your dad was white and your mom’s family was from Mumbai.”
Amy nodded. “That’s right. Black Irish is used to describe Irish people with dark hair, dark complexions, and light eyes.
That describes my father.” Joy gave Amy an encouraging nod, and she ran on about shipwrecked sailors in the Spanish Armada who ended up on the shores of Ireland in the sixteenth century.
“They settled there and raised families, and the theory is certain people of Irish descent have DNA that carries the darker features.” She shrugged.
“I don’t know if it’s true, but I like to think I might have Spanish blood.
One of these days, I’ll take one of those tests and find out.
” She stole a quick glance at Micky, who had just polished off another beer.
Her gaze then snagged on Shane, who’d somehow separated himself from Estelle and was bearing down on Micky.
“How did your parents meet?”
“Dad tutored Mom in college. Dad says it was instalove for them both, but Mom claims she was too focused on surviving calc to notice him that way. It wasn’t until after he helped her pass the class that she noticed how good-looking he was, but I’m not sure I buy it.”
Hailey chimed in. “Isn’t it romantic? Amy’s going to write a book about it someday, and I’ll carry it in my bookstore.
We’ll sell a ton—right next to your books, Joy.
” When she wasn’t wheeling and dealing, Joy was a steamy romance writer, though only a handful of her closest friends knew about her alter ego and that alter ego’s pen name.
“That would be amazing.” Grinning, Joy elbowed Amy. “Let me know if I can help. I’d even collaborate on it with you if you don’t want to write it yourself.”