Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
After looking for seven days and seven nights, Jada and Paul don’t find anything. Not a single trace of me or my whereabouts on the internet.
“Maybe she didn’t know who you were after all,” Jada suggested. “Your hair probably threw her off.”
“Or maybe she recognized you,” Paul offered over our video call last night, which didn’t really help, but I still love him, “but she chose not to say anything.”
I stomped down the idea that she could have recognized me and gone directly to my mother because that would be insane. But now, twenty-four hours later, I’m not proud to admit it has resurfaced.
And now isn’t the best time for distractions.
The Lair is packed to the brim with Travis’s friends. A guy named Josh turns forty tonight, and he chose The Lair as the place to celebrate. Apparently, he offered Travis a ridiculous sum of money to rent the bar for a private party.
The first hour goes by as normal as any birthday party full of half-drunk people would—an indecent number of shots, loud conversations, and endless laughter. That’s until I notice something unacceptable.
“What are you doing?” I arch a curious eyebrow at Travis, who doesn’t so much as spare me a glance as he gets some drinks ready.
“Working,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Why are you working tonight? Isn’t it your friend’s birthday party?”
He sets two beers in front of a waiting customer before turning to me. Those green eyes scream boredom as he asks, “Your point?”
“Travis…”
“Allie.”
So, this is how it’s going to go.
I watch his profile as he cleans some spilled beer from the counter. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with them? I’m not asking you to get first in line for karaoke, but you could let loose for a bit.”
I know what he’s going to say before he says it, and I’m ready to fight him on this.
Travis is one of the most—if not the most—hardworking people I know. He’s here every day before anyone else and is always the last one to leave. Whenever there’s an issue with any of the patrons, he gets involved and doesn’t relent until the customer leaves satisfied or at least less pissed off.
Granted, I have no clue what he does in his spare time. He could have the most active of social lives known to humankind, but I doubt it. I mean, he’s pretty much here fifteen hours a day, and he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. But right now, I do.
“I have to work,” he says in that deep voice, which is exactly what I expected of him.
“Charlie and I can take care of everything for a bit if you want to grab a drink with them,” I offer.
But of course, the next thing he tells me is, “I don’t drink on the clock.”
“Then get off the clock.”
“Allie.”
A warning.
“Boss man.”
He shoots me a bored stare that, for some reason, I find amusing.
“One drink, and I’ll stop pestering you,” I tell him. “Sounds like a great deal to me, considering I’m planning to keep pestering you if you don’t agree.”
He isn’t amused, which only makes this even more fun for me. So what if I enjoy poking the bear? It’s not like he’ll fire me over this—he’s had enough reasons to before today, yet here I am.
When he still doesn’t answer, I circle the bar until I get to the other side, open the cooler, and take out a cold beer. Then I shove it into Travis’s giant hand as his eyes scan every inch of my face, probably looking for the audacity.
“You touched it, so now it’s yours.”
A beat passes. Travis only blinks.
“Go, boss man. Charlie and I got this.”
And then I make a mistake.
In an effort to convince Travis that the world won’t end if he has a drink with his friends, I wrap my hand around his forearm to guide him to their table. But when I touch his bare, hairy, firm skin, something weird happens.
Something weird and bad .
A sudden jolt of electricity climbs up all the way from my hand and lands in the pit of my stomach—and that traitorous jolt of electricity flutters. Just once, but it’s enough for me to recognize what is going on.
A butterfly.
A stupid butterfly has taken flight in my stomach, bumping into every corner of it.
I let go of his arm as if he were on fire. Travis hasn’t moved an inch from his original spot.
Wearing what I’m pretty sure is a nervous smile, I say, “I need to go back to my tables, but think about it. Even if it’s only for ten minutes, you deserve a break. We’ll be fine, and it’s not like you’ll be leaving the bar anyway. If we mess up, feel free to yell at me.”
His body still hasn’t moved. Those eyes travel from the hand that just touched him to my face in one slow, agonizing swipe that makes the single butterfly in my stomach flap its wings a little faster.
And then he says, “I would never yell at you.”
My heart jumps.
Yes, someone not yelling at me should be the bare minimum, but I’m not focusing on that. Travis never yells at anyone.
It’s the way he says it that makes the butterfly in my stomach start getting ideas. It’s the subtle change in his voice, from gruff and annoyed to gruff and almost soft. Softer, at least. As if the mere idea of yelling at me made him sick to his stomach.
Or maybe I’m just seeing things.
The small smile I give him is genuine and maybe a little freaked out because what the hell is happening to me, and can it stop? “I know. It’s just a figure of speech.”
“I don’t like it.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Okay.”
We stare at each other, neither of us brave enough to end the safety of this silence. It takes one of his friends calling his name for him to break our impromptu stare off contest.
“Go with them.” I nudge him one last time. If he insists on being a workaholic grump, at least I tried.
But the planets or stars must be aligned because Travis lets out a deep breath—one that tells me he’s already tired of dealing with me—and says the last thing I expected. “Fine. Ten minutes.”
Because I’m a little shit, I say, “Make it twenty.”
I don’t imagine that growl. “You won’t drop this, will you?”
“Nope.”
And if my playful smirk bothers him, he doesn’t say.
“Fine.”
Feeling an immense sense of accomplishment, I give him a thumbs-up before going back to my tables and telling Charlie we’ll be on our own for a bit.
Ten minutes deep into the chaos that is running The Lair without Travis’s extra help, a guy flags me over to their table.
“What can I get you?” I ask with a smile.
After months of bartending, I have grown quite the thick skin when it comes to dealing with drunk people—mostly men—and their flirty natures. Flirty is better than aggressive, so I’ll take it even if they still make my skin crawl.
Yet nothing could’ve prepared me for this guy to wrap an arm around my shoulders and press me against his sweaty side.
“I don’t need anything else now that you’re here,” he drawls, the alcohol on his breath all the more evident now that he’s so close.
“Mike,” one of the women at the table warns.
I send her a grateful look and swiftly slither my way out from under his arm. I smile to be polite, but I’m struggling to find any of this funny at all.
“I’m working right now. What can I get you?” I ask again.
The drunk man, Mike, pouts at me. A grown man, pouting. “How about when your shift ends? We can go somewhere, you and I.”
“I’m not interested,” I tell him, my voice losing all traces of politeness.
“Oh, burn.” One of his friends at the table laughs.
The woman is still glancing at me, an apologetic look in her eyes. She turns to Mike. “I think it’s time to call it a night and stop bothering Travis’s employees, don’t you?”
Mike tsks before giving me a once-over, that sly smile back on his face. “Come with me to the karaoke machine. We’ll have a good time.”
I don’t want to draw attention to myself, so I don’t lash out as I maybe should. Instead, I ask the table in an even voice, “Did you want anything?”
“I think he wants his fucking teeth knocked out,” a familiar voice says behind me. A deep, rough voice that makes my heart skip a beat. “Don’t you, Mike?”
The next thing I feel is a gentle hand on my elbow, guiding me away from the man who looks like he’s just peed his pants a little. I can’t bring myself to feel bad about it.
A shiver travels down my spine, and my brain shifts all its attention to that warm hand on my skin. A hand that belongs to a man who has been coming to my rescue one too many times recently.
Towering over me in all his ex-Navy SEAL glory, Travis stares down at Mike as if he already knows how to get rid of his body.
“Sorry, man.” Mike backs down, considerably paler, as his eyes pinball between me and my boss. “Didn’t know she was yours.”
His?
With Travis’s body against mine, it’s impossible to miss the tension in his wide shoulders or his strong yet gentle grip on my arm, but not a single part of me feels threatened right now. Not by Asshole Mike and certainly not by Travis’s closeness.
If anything, the latter makes me feel shielded.
He tips down that handsome face to look at me, his eyes asking me what his words won’t. Are you okay?
Only when I give him a small nod does he turn to Mike.
“Get the fuck out of my bar.”
The other people around the table say nothing. One of the guys sends Mike a death glare, which he misses since he’s too busy gaping at my boss. “The fuck, man?”
“You mess with my staff, you get the fuck out.”
His staff.
Right. I mean, yes, that’s who I am to Travis. It makes sense that he would come to the rescue so fast. He probably fears I would sue the bar or something for not feeling safe at the workplace. I shouldn’t overthink this.
Those long fingers curl a little tighter around my elbow as Mike leaves his chair and takes a step closer. Travis positions himself in front of me.
“Sorry, man,” Mike says, a hint of remorse in his voice. “I apologize,” he tells me while I’m still partially hidden behind Travis’s tense back. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m not having the best day, and it’s just… never mind. It’s not an excuse. I’m sorry. I’m leaving now.”
I say nothing. Travis doesn’t move until Mike exits the bar, his huge military-style boots planted like tree roots. His jaw does that ticking thing again before he drops my elbow.
But before I can say anything, he surprises me by turning around and asking first, “Are you okay?”
Dragging my eyes up his waist to his shoulders and then his face, I nod. “Yeah.” I swallow, giving him a smile. “I would’ve punched him in the balls if he had crossed any more lines, but thanks for coming to the rescue.”
A strange sound escapes the back of his throat, and it takes me a second to realize what it is.
A chuckle.
Travis is chuckling . At something I said.
Is he sick?
“My break’s over.” He tilts his head toward the bar. But his voice sounds… lighter. He points to the bar with his bearded chin. “I’ll be there.”
I’ll be there in case you need me is how my brain has decided to finish his perfectly complete sentence.
I’m so delusional.
Travis said it himself—I’m part of his staff, which is the only reason he worries about me. I shouldn’t entertain any other crazy ideas or focus too much on how the warmth of his hand seems to have settled within my skin, leaving a tingly sensation behind.
I’m too young for him, and he’d never be interested. He doesn’t know me either. Not really.
And despite all the reasons why crushing on my boss is a disaster waiting to happen, my heart refuses to get the memo.