5. Clover
"You're acting all twitchy tonight," Navy observes as she lines up shot glasses. Her eyes, though, are locked on me. "And you've checked your phone like a million times in the last hour."
"I'm not twitchy," I protest, shoving my phone back into the pocket of my apron. I've just been checking the time… a lot.
"Uh-huh. And I don't reread my favorite graphic novels until the pages fall out," she deadpans, tipping the bottle of tequila upside down across the shot glasses. "Spill."
"There's nothing to spill. I’m just counting down the minutes until we close, okay? Inventory days are always brutal and I’m about to crash."
Navy's eyes narrow into these suspicious little slits. "Nah, it's something else. You’re always tired. It’s your natural state.” She spins to set up a tab for a young guy who checks out her ass and I roll my eyes. “You've been acting weird and distracted all week." She suddenly gasps, pointing a dramatic finger in my direction. "You're getting some, aren't you? That's totally what this is!"
"What? No, I am absolutely not!" The bottle of Aperol I'm holding nearly takes a nosedive onto the sticky bar top. "Why in the hell would you even think that?"
"Because you've got that 'I'm getting the good dick and can’t wait to have it again’ look. Who is he? I’m dying to know who got you to break your personal best dry spell record.”
"I am not hooking up with anyone," I hiss, glancing around nervously to make sure none of the other bartenders or the owner, Theo, are within earshot. "And it hasn’t been that long, so shut up."
"Thirteen months and counting." She waves her phone at me before sticking it in her back pocket. “I put an entry in my calendar.”
“You did what?”
Navy winks, grabbing a bottle of gin. “I knew you’d argue with me at some point. Now I’ve got the receipts.”
I let out a dramatic sigh, knowing there's no way Navy's going to let this go. She's like a bloodhound with a scent when it comes to gossip. It’s even worse when it involves me and my non-existent love life. "Fine. If I tell you, you have to swear you won't make a huge deal out of it."
"Huge deal? Me? Never. Now, continue. And leave nothing out."
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the big deal she’s about to make. "Banks is… staying at my apartment for a little while."
Navy fast blinks about twenty-five times as she processes this information. She lets out this dramatic gasp that makes a few of the people sitting at the bar glance over at us. "Banks Priestly?! As in, your brother's gorgeous firefighter friend who you've been not-so-secretly drooling over since you were practically a fetus?"
"I have not been drooling—" I cut myself off at her raised eyebrow that calls me on my bullshit. "Fine. Maybe there was some mild, totally age-appropriate attraction when I was a hormonal teenager that I have since completely outgrown. His apartment flooded, and Kasen guilt-tripped me into letting him crash on my futon for a couple of months."
"A couple of months ?" Navy's shrieks. Thank god for loud music. Her face splits into this wide, delighted grin. "Oh, this is pure gold. The sexual tension between you two could probably power all of Portland."
"There is no sexual tension," I insist, even as my cheeks start to feel suspiciously warm. "There is only regular, run-of-the-mill tension because he's annoying and arrogant and he had the nerve to reorganize parts of my kitchen."
"He what ?" Navy bursts out laughing, grabbing a bar towel to wipe imaginary tears from her eyes. "Oh, honey, he's totally that kid on the playground pulling your pigtails because he’s got a crush. That's adorable."
"It is not. He's driving me insane." I grab a cloth and start wiping down the already gleaming bar top with unnecessary force. "And he walks around shirtless. And fixes things without even asking. And he somehow manages to make coffee exactly how I like it." I realize I'm only making her point for her and snap my mouth shut.
"Sounds horrible," Navy says, not even trying to hide the massive smirk on her face. "How will you go on with a hot, tattooed handyman who makes you perfect coffee and wanders around half-naked? My deepest condolences on your truly awful situation."
"You are so not helping right now."
"I'm not trying to help," she says, bumping her hip against mine with a knowing smirk. "I'm trying to get you to admit you've got it bad for Firefighter Priestly."
"Well, I don't," I lie through my teeth, feeling my cheeks heat up anyway. "I have to tolerate him for three months, and he's gone. Then I can get back to my life."
"Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, sweetie. Just make sure you give me all the juicy, embarrassing details when you inevitably end up ‘accidentally’,” she makes air quotes, “slipping and ‘accidentally’ falling on his dick.”
Thankfully, our first wave of Friday night customers chooses that exact moment to descend upon Ember, and soon the bar is slammed, preventing any further interrogation from my best friend. Friday nights are always a chaotic blur of spilled drinks, loud music, and even louder conversations, and tonight is no exception. I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of shaking cocktails, chatting with the regulars, and trying to keep everything from descending into utter madness.
It's nearly midnight when the hair stands up on the back of my neck and I know he’s walked in.
Since when can I feel his presence before I ever see him?
Banks slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar, looking good enough to attract the attention of almost every woman in the bar in his dark henley that stretches across his broad shoulders like it was personally tailored to showcase his biceps. His jeans are doing things to his thighs that Instagram models only dream of. His hair is still damp from a shower and they’re messy in that I just fucked someone way he has. He catches my eye across the crowded bar and offers this small, almost shy wave, and yup. There goes my heart—and that pulse between my thighs.
He doesn't try to flag me down for service. Instead, he starts chatting with my boss, Theo, who actually looks like he's enjoying a conversation for once. That's almost as surprising as Banks fixing my shower.
I try my best to ignore his presence, but my awareness of him is like this constant, annoying tug, my eyes magnetic as they keep getting drawn back to him whenever I'm not actively dealing with a paying customer.
Once, I catch him watching me mix some complicated, multi-step cocktail, his gaze tracking the movement of my hands with an intensity that makes my skin prickle in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with annoyance. Heat crawls up my neck, and I have to resist the urge to fidget.
"What can I get for you?" I ask when I finally manage to make my way down to his end of the bar, aiming for professional detachment and probably landing somewhere closer to flustered mess.
"Just a beer. Whatever you’ve got of Timber's on tap." His eyes don't leave my face for a second, and I get this distinct, unsettling feeling that he's seeing way more than I want him to. "Good crowd tonight."
"It's Friday," I say with a casual shrug that feels anything but casual, pulling the tap for Kasen's go-to IPA. "How was your shift?"
"Quiet, thankfully. Just a couple of medical calls and some idiot who thought pulling the fire alarm for fun was a good idea." He accepts the beer with a nod of thanks. And then, of course, his fingers have to brush mine during the exchange, again, and I'm pretty sure he's doing it on purpose now. "Oh, and Kasen says hi, by the way. He's still stuck at Timber dealing with some kind of distribution fuck up."
I nod, already scanning the crowded bar for my next customer, when I notice some entitled douche at the other end getting increasingly aggressive with Navy. His body language is all kinds of wrong – leaning way too far over the bar, jabbing his finger in the air, his voice loud enough to carry over the music.
"Excuse me," I murmur to Banks, already moving toward the brewing storm.
"I said I want to talk to you!" the guy is slurring as I approach. He's huge, his face is blotchy red, and he's clearly had one too many. "Why won't you just give me your damn number?"
Navy's glaring at him and it takes a lot to get her to drop her customer service smile. "Like I've already told you, I'm not interested. Can I call you a ride?"
"I’m not going anywhere," he snaps, his eyes bugging out. "I want your number. And for you to stop being such a fuckin’ tease."
"Is there a problem here?" I step in, positioning myself in front of Navy. I've dealt with my fair share of drunk, entitled assholes in my years slinging drinks and I’ve got thick skin.
The guy swivels his attention to me, his bloodshot eyes narrowing into these squinty little slits. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the manager," I say, keeping my voice even. "And I think it's time for you to wrap it up and head out."
"I'm not finished with my drink."
"Yeah, you are." I nod my head toward Marco, our security guy who's built like a brick shithouse and probably bench presses small cars for fun. "You can either walk out on your own two feet, or Marco here can help you. Your choice, buddy."
The dude leans forward, getting all up in my personal space, and his breath smells like stale beer, making my eyes water. "Listen, you little bitch—"
"She said you need to leave." Banks's voice has dropped about ten octaves and is now this low, dangerous rumble that vibrates with barely leashed aggression. His whole body has gone rigid, shoulders squared, jaw tight. It's like watching Dr. Jekyll turn into Mr. Hyde, only so much hotter. "I suggest you get the fuck out of here before I make you."
But the drunk idiot doesn't seem to realize he's about to pick a fight he can't win. Instead, he just snorts dismissively and reaches out his giant paw to grab my wrist. "I just wanna talk to the pretty bartender—"
His words cut off in a strangled gasp as Banks moves faster than I've ever seen anyone move. One second he's leaning against the bar, the next he's got the guy's wrist in a grip so tight I can practically hear the bones grinding.
"Touch her again, and the only thing you'll be walking away with is a stump," Banks says, his voice eerily calm despite the murderous glint in his eyes. He's not yelling, not making a scene, but the absolute certainty in his tone makes every single hair on my body stand on end. "That's not a goddamn threat. That's a promise."
The drunk guy's face goes completely white as Banks leans in close, his voice dropping so low I have to strain to hear his next words.
"She's not interested. She will never be interested. And the only reason you're still standing right now is because causing a scene in her bar would piss her off. Now get the fuck out before I decide her feelings on that matter less than teaching you some manners."
Banks releases the guy's wrist with a little shove, and the dude stumbles backward, clutching his arm and shooting Banks a look that's a mix of fear and pure, unadulterated rage.
"Whatever," he mutters under his breath. "This place is probably full of lesbians anyway."
He snatches his jacket off the back of his stool and storms out, nearly bowling over a group of women who are just walking in.
"You okay?" Banks asks, his intense gaze sweeping over my face like he's checking for damage. It makes my skin prickle in that weird way it does lately around him.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I say, irritation and this other, warmer feeling that I am absolutely not going to acknowledge right now bubbling up inside me. I turn to Navy, who's already back to wiping down the bar. "You good?"
She just nods, already moving to serve the next customer like nothing even happened. "Yeah. Thanks, you two."
Banks stays beside me for another tense moment, his large frame close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "I didn't mean to overstep, Freckles."
"Then why the hell did you?" I snap, keeping my voice low so the remaining customers don't get an extra dose of drama with their last call. "I had it handled."
"I know you did." His eyes are locked on mine, that intense gaze making it hard to breathe. "But I couldn't just stand there and watch him talk to you like that. And when he touched you—"
"Go sit down, Banks. I'm working."
He holds my gaze for one more beat, then finally nods and heads back to his stool. I immediately throw myself into serving the remaining customers, deliberately avoiding his end of the bar for the rest of the night as I silently fume over his whole knight-in-shining-armor thing. My body definitely appreciated it, but my brain? My brain is currently staging a full-blown revolt. Does he honestly think I'm incapable of handling some drunk idiot? That I need him to swoop in and rescue me like some damsel in distress?
I scoff out loud, earning a questioning look from a customer as I ring him up.
By the time last call is announced and the last stragglers are finally heading out, the tight knot of anger in my chest has solidified into something sharper and more uncomfortable.