Chapter 2 #2
I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to erase what I just witnessed. Nope. Still there. I press clenched fists against my eyelids, swallowing back the knot in my throat, willing my brain to focus on anything else. Cute puppies. Cupcakes. A good book. Literally anything but a man drinking his own puke.
It takes a few agonizing moments, but finally, my stomach settles. This was supposed to be a nice, quiet night at home. A glass of wine. A nice dinner. Maybe stream a movie. Not this. Not desperately slinging drinks and serving booze to men who mistake vomit for vodka.
As Mike tries—and fails—to explain the varying degrees of intoxication to the stumbling groom, I frantically pour six glasses of wine, stacking them onto a tray with practiced precision.
My heart races, already anticipating the disaster waiting to happen.
If this groom and his groomsmen decide to start a drunken brawl over a glass of puke, I want no part of it.
I take a deep breath and step out from behind the bar.
And then it happens.
The drunk in the golden crown stumbles into me—hard. My tray catapults upward. A spectacular arc of red splashes across the front of my shirt. And just for good measure, the entire mess drenches the man standing to my left.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I gasp, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I drop the tray onto the bar and grab a towel, frantically dabbing at the red wine stain now splashed across the front of the poor guy’s jeans. I squat down, feverishly blotting at the mess, my mind racing for a better apology. Something that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous.
A deep, gravelly voice rumbles above me. "Don't I deserve dinner before you feel me up?"
The words hit me like a slap, and horror washes over me as I process exactly what I’ve been doing—and where my hands have been.
Oh. My. God.
Mortified, I shoot upright, heart pounding.
My gaze snaps up to his face… except it doesn’t.
It lands on his chest. His impossibly broad, solid, very-much-in-my-personal-space chest. I swallow hard, forcing myself to look higher.
And higher. By the time my gaze finally reaches his face, my pulse is racing.
This man has to be at least six foot four, while I am…
well, nowhere near that. And then, as my brain finally catches up to my eyes, my heart slams to a dead stop.
I stare, completely useless, as reality shifts around me.
He’s gorgeous.
Breathtaking.
"I'm so . . ." The words die on my tongue. Apparently, he’s stolen not just my breath but any ability to form an intelligent sentence. “So…”
Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular, heavily inked forearms. His dark hair is a tousled mess, like he’s raked his hands through it in frustration.
Which, to be fair, makes sense. He just had six full glasses of merlot dumped all over him.
But somehow, the wine doesn’t even matter.
It’s impossible to notice anything but him.
His jaw is all sharp angles, chiseled to perfection, clenched tight as if he’s holding back words—or maybe a reaction.
Dark, swirling tattoos trail down his neck and disappear beneath the collar of his shirt.
When he folds his arms across his chest, the movement draws my gaze lower, and I swallow hard.
He looks like trouble.
The really fun kind.
I blink, struggling to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. Something about cleaning up…? Getting drink orders…? Scale him like a rock wall?
Nope. Still nothing.
My brain is officially out of order.
He leans in, his gaze dark and guarded. "Looks like we both need to get out of our clothes."
Whoa. That escalated fast. Faster than I could’ve hoped for, but honestly? I’m here for it.
His smirk deepens as he gestures toward the front of my shirt.
I glance down and gasp.
I look like a walking crime scene.
Behind me, the drunk groom stumbles past again, this time held up by Mike and about a dozen other guys, all steering him toward the door. Oh, good. Maybe the wedding will still turn out nice.
I turn back to Trouble, meeting his gaze, and sigh.
His eyes are a mesmerizing hazel, flecked with tiny hints of green and gold.
Our children would be gorgeous.
“I’m really sorry. It’s been a crazy night,” I say, shaking my head.
"No worries, Angel," he murmurs. His voice is deep and husky, sending shivers straight down my spine. "I'd offer to help wipe you up, but I think you'd just end up getting wetter if I did."
Is there a signup form for that? Because yes, please. Heat floods through my entire body. Normally, I’m quick with banter, but with him? I’m malfunctioning.
Completely short-circuiting.
I just stare, dumbfounded, before finally sputtering, "H-How about another d-drink? On my house. It’s the do I could least."
What?
What did I even just say?
I actually sputtered and jumbled words.
Who even does that?
But this guy—he has a presence. Like danger and sex wrapped in a tattooed, smirking taco shell.
What is it with me and tacos?
One of the busboys starts cleaning the mess at our feet as Trouble follows me back to the bar.
“What can I get you?” I ask slowly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
“Guinness.”
The man is exquisite—and massive. Even seated, he towers over the counter, his broad frame taking up the space of two barstools.
A group of guys wedge their way in next to him, toppling over a few empty drinks that were left on the bar. Strangely, though, they keep a noticeable distance from him, like he has some kind of invisible force field around him.
"Hey, sweetheart, how about four shots of Mind Erasers?" one of the men says, waving a crisp fifty-dollar bill in my face, his gaze glued to my chest.
"And you can keep the change, gorgeous."
Keep it? That’s a one-dollar tip, and he’s talking only to my breasts.
Mashing my teeth together, I force a polite smile across my face, but inside I’m disgusted. I step back and start making drinks. I pour Trouble’s beer first and slide it in front of him.
He offers me a small nod, and his eyes hesitate on mine for the briefest moment. Then he busies himself with his phone.
The men beside him order another round of shots. This time, they don’t tip at all—but they make sure to get their fill of leering at me.
When I have my bakery, I won’t have to deal with this. I cross my fingers, silently wishing for the day, as I serve them another tipless round.
As the night wears on, the once-packed bar begins to thin out.
Every so often, I catch myself glancing at Trouble as he mindlessly scrolls through his phone, taking slow sips of his beer.
There’s something very alluring about him.
Something that makes my worries fade into the background.
He's captivating—from the way his dark hair falls over his forehead to the way he drinks his beer.
My mind wanders, imagining how those glistening lips would feel against my skin.
“Hey,” Mike murmurs, sneaking up behind me and hooking a finger through a belt loop of my jeans. My body jolts back to reality as he tugs me toward him, pressing a wet, noisy kiss against my cheek.
I cringe.
Across the bar, Trouble’s gaze flicks up from his phone, locking onto mine.
"Thanks for the help tonight. I owe you," Mike says, laughing a little too loud in my ear. "Even though your sister brought on the chaos."
He gives me a small tap on my ass.
I untangle myself from his hold, forcing a neutral expression. "It’s not a problem. I need the tip money." However small it is.
Sidestepping away, I turn my attention to the gorgeous monster of a man still watching me on the other side of the bar top. “Another one?” I ask.
“Sure,” he rumbles. His gaze lingers on Mike as he walks away—sharp and assessing, like a predator watching prey.
I don’t know why I find that incredibly hot, but I do.
I’ll unpack that later. Maybe call my therapist. But right now, all I can do is stand here, wondering what it would feel like to have his big, tattooed hands on me.
And those dark, voracious eyes stalking me down.
Taylor was right.
It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex.
“So, what brings you to Atlantic City?” I ask, realizing a second too late how stupid the question is as I slide another beer in front of him.
“Work,” he replies, lifting the glass to his lips. His eyes stay locked on mine as he drinks.
I swallow hard. “That’s a pretty intense stare you’ve got there,” I blurt. It’s the kind of look that feels like a challenge—like he’s daring me to ask more, just so he can refuse to answer.
But I’m not going to ask. I’m never going to see this guy again, and I’d rather not ruin my fantasy of him if he turns out to be, I don’t know, an accountant from Boring, Maryland.
He sets his glass down slowly, his gaze still fixed on mine. Then one corner of his mouth lifts, curling into a half-smile that transforms his entire face into something boyish and devastatingly beautiful. “Let me guess,” he murmurs. “You’re not intimidated, are you?”
“A little,” I admit. “But I think that’s the appeal, isn’t it?”
He responds with a low grunt, then immediately picks up his phone, effectively dismissing me.
Something low in my belly flutters. Most sane women would say, Screw anyone who dismisses you and makes you feel like you aren’t good enough. My answer to that is typically, I do. That’s pretty much my exact type.
“How long are you in town for?” I ask, unable to help myself. He’s just too gorgeous, and talking to him is a welcome distraction from low bank balances and family drama.
“A few more days.” A perfect vague, no-strings-attached answer.
My mind immediately starts to wander. Would he be up for…
“Are you staying in the Rum and Room?” I ask, a little shameless, a little reckless.
“Yes.” His lips curl into a mischievous grin, his gaze trailing down my body before flicking back up to meet mine.