Falling for the Bad Boy (Bad Boys of Newbridge #2)

1. Oliver

Oliver

"Can I get you a drink?" I stopped in front of the woman who’d just stepped up to the bar.

The wet woman. The very wet, good-looking woman.

Water dripped from her long, dark hair, soaking through her thin white T-shirt, making it stick to her petite frame.

I could see the polka dots on her bra through the drenched material.

My pulse ticked up at the sight of the tiny hot pink dots as I imagined what I might find underneath if given the opportunity.

"Do you have a towel? Maybe some napkins?" she asked, running a hand through her hair.

I grabbed a clean bar towel from under the counter. "Not sure if this will help. Restrooms are in the back hall if you want to use the dryer on the wall."

She snagged the towel off the bar then crossed her arms over her chest like she could suddenly feel the heat of my gaze. "Thanks. I think I will. And I'll have a gin and tonic. Easy on the tonic."

I lifted an eyebrow and gave her backside a once over as she walked toward the hallway. Not many patrons ordered gin in this place. Tapped was more of a college bar where jugs of beer and rounds of shots reigned. Then again, she didn’t look like our typical customer. But nowadays, who did?

I’d been working behind the bar part-time for a year.

Even in that short amount of time, the women seemed to get younger, and the guys seemed to get cockier.

And I loved it. The college town of Newbridge, Indiana, was half a world away from the tiny town in New Zealand where I’d been born and raised. Literally and figuratively.

As I waited for the woman to come back for her gin-light-on-the-tonic, I filled a couple of drink orders and leaned against the bar.

I’d only been in the States for a few years but already I dreaded having to leave.

Once I finished my MBA, I’d have no reason not to return to the family farm in rural New Zealand.

That made the time I had left all the more precious.

My jaw clenched like it did every time I considered my predicament.

Unless I could figure out a way to switch my student visa and find a permanent job using my degree, I’d be on a plane to Christchurch in the next three months.

I turned to help another customer, and by the time I looked back, the woman had returned to the bar.

She hung her bag and a flimsy scarf over the back of one of the tall stools and reached for her glass.

I’d given her a double. If I’d been the one caught in the early spring thunderstorm, that’s what I would have wanted.

"So, I don't think I've seen you here before." I filled a pint glass from the tap as I let my gaze meet hers. Most likely, she was associated with the college in town. "Are you a student at Tempest?"

She lowered the short glass from her lips. "No."

Hmm, not so talkative, this one. Not the typical barfly who was only there to pick up a guy for the night. I could spot them from a mile away: made up, came alone, sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with any guy walking by. So far, the only box she checked was the fact that she was alone.

"Meeting up with friends?" I tried again. The only two reasons a woman might show up solo at Tapped were either to find someone to take home or to meet up for girls' night out.

"Not exactly." Her green eyes—bright and sharp like the pastures where my family’s sheep grazed—sized me up, a hint of a smile at the edges. "Are you always this chatty?"

I spread my arms wide. "It's a slow night. Just trying to make conversation."

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” She gestured to a trio of women taking their seats. “Looks like you’ve got some new customers.”

“Thanks for looking out for me.” I shot her a grin, my smile growing wider as her cheeks tinted a slight shade of pink. Then I left the woman with the bright green eyes and moved down the bar. "Hey ladies, what'll it be tonight?"

They put in a standard order of vodka cranberries. No surprises there. Even though I hadn’t been pouring drinks that long, I prided myself on my ability to predict what people would order as they sat down. It was a little trick I’d learned from my predecessor.

I’d been right about the guy who ordered the local craft beer, a dark stout. I’d also nailed the table of guys playing pool. They’d gone with a pitcher of the cheapest swill we had on tap.

But the gin and tonic had thrown me. I’d figured her for something classy and a little off the beaten path.

Maybe an Old-Fashioned or a Dark and Stormy.

I never would have guessed gin. That, coupled with the fact she seemed reluctant to engage in a little harmless banter, made me wonder what the hell she was doing there.

As I swiped a towel over a wet spot on the bar, she waved me over. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"That depends."

Her eyes widened. "Really? On what?"

"Is that the question you wanted to ask?"

"No." She tilted her head, evaluating me with a spark of something in her eyes. "I'm wondering if you have the landlord's number?"

I flipped the bar towel over my shoulder. "For this place?"

She nodded. "He owns the whole building, right?"

"Yeah. Can I ask why you need the number?"

Leaning forward, she let her elbows rest on the bar. "Well, you could, but I might not answer you."

"Then I might not have the number." I shrugged, enjoying the way her forehead creased. If she wanted to play hardball, I’d be happy to join in for a round or two.

"Really?"

"Look, I'm just curious about why you need it, that's all.

The building's been for sale. He's not interested in renting out the space next door.

" I knew that for a fact. My boss had been trying to buy the building from the crusty landlord but was waiting for a chance to lowball the man and get a better price. While I didn’t exactly agree with his methods, I might benefit from the result.

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to rent out the space next door."

Good. After the boss bought the building, he planned on opening up the wall and expanding into the extra space. If all went well, he’d be able to start his own craft brewery with the extra room and maybe have room to hire me on full-time and save me from going home to tend sheep.

I shrugged. "So then why do you need his number?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because I'm supposed to meet him here and he's late."

"What, like on a date?" I couldn’t see it myself. The building owner had to be in his late seventies. No way could the firecracker in front of me get hot for a guy who had to be three times her age.

She almost choked on the sip she'd just taken. "Seriously? Is that what you automatically assume? That I'm going to drop my drawers for a guy old enough to be my grandfather?"

"Damn, sorry. Just wondering why you're being so secretive about the whole thing."

"I’m not being secretive, you’re just nosy. I'll stick around for a few more minutes and see if he shows up."

"Suit yourself." I moved down the bar to where a server held out a drink ticket. As I pulled on the tap, I kept an eye trained on the gin and tonic. Who spat in her Weet-Bix this morning? That's what my little sister used to ask when I’d stumble to the breakfast table, pissed off and hungover.

Thinking of home brought a smile to my face for a moment.

Then I remembered my days in the US were numbered.

I wasn't ready to go home, wasn't ready to give up my dream and settle down to the quiet life my parents had created.

But unless I figured out a way to get a job that would keep me in the States, I wouldn't have a choice.

The crowd picked up, and I moved back and forth between filling orders, cashing out tickets, and keeping the servers on the move.

By the time I had a moment to breathe, someone had taken the seat next to the woman at the bar.

The kid appeared to be trying to chat her up but was striking out in spectacular fashion. He couldn’t even stay on his stool.

"You need some help?" I asked as I gestured to the happy drunk on her right.

"Thanks, I’ve got it." She glanced up, her hand wrapped around the near empty glass.

"How about another drink?"

At her slight nod, I reached for a clean glass.

The kid continued to pepper her with questions. She tried to be polite, but I could tell by the way her shoulders rose and fell that she was about to lose it.

I rounded the bar, making my way over to escort the drunk Romeo back to his friends when the guy reached for her arm.

She pulled away, setting the poor kid off balance.

He tumbled toward her, knocking her off her stool.

I reached out to catch her, her breasts smashing against my chest, her mouth pressing against my neck.

"I’m so sorry." She placed her palms on my chest, pushing away from me.

"No worries. Looked like you might need a little help there." I offered a hand to the drunk kid on the ground. He got up, his fingers rubbing at a lump on his temple. "I think you owe this lady an apology."

"Sorry," the kid mumbled. Then he grabbed his beer off the bar and stumbled toward a table of jeering friends.

"You okay?" I leaned toward her, trying to get a read on whether or not she was alright.

"I’m fine. You know what? If Eugene shows up, will you ask him to give me a call?"

"You want to tell me what this is about?"

"Not really."

I backed up, palms out. "Okay then. I'll pass the message along."

"Thanks." A hint of vulnerability sparked in the depths of those green eyes. "And thanks for catching me."

At the hint of softness, I took the opportunity to make an introduction. "That's what I'm here for. Hey, I'm Oliver by the way."

"Trinity." She took my hand, her small hand feeling so delicate in my own.

"Nice to meet you. I hope your day gets better from here."

"Me too. Based on the way things have been going, it can't get much worse."

"Hey, at least finish your drink." I pointed to her glass sitting on the bar. "It's bad luck not to."

"Really? Says who?"

"My dad." I shook my head, smiling. "He's full of superstitions like that."

"Well I can't afford any bad luck." She slid back onto her stool. For some reason, my chest expanded knowing she’d be sticking around for just a little bit longer.

I set the overturned stool upright then returned to my post behind the bar. "You want to talk about it?"

"What? My run of bad luck?"

"Yeah. Bartenders make the best listeners."

She let out a laugh. "Is that what you tell all of your prospects?"

"Prospects?" I put my hands over my chest, faking a fatal chest wound. "Is that what you think I'm doing here, prospecting?"

"Your options appear fairly limited tonight." Her gaze drifted around the room. Besides the trio of vodka-cranberries giggling at the far end of the bar, the only other women there appeared to be with their significant others.

"I'm offended." Honestly, I was the exact opposite. Nothing got my blood pumping like some good back-and-forth banter.

"I know guys like you."

I cocked a brow. "Then please, enlighten me. What are my prospecting plans?"

She set her glass down and leaned forward. "You're like a wolf in sheep's clothing. First you infiltrate, mixing in, trying to be nonchalant and appear non-threatening."

"A wolf, okay. Go on." I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the bar.

"Then you separate the stray lamb from the flock."

I lifted my brows. "Oooh, this is getting good. And then?"

She shrugged. "Then you go in for the kill."

"You're not suggesting I actually murder the lamb, are you?" I tilted my head, getting a better look at her.

"No, it's all a metaphor. You're the wolf."

"And that makes you the sheep?" My mouth twisted into a smirk. She was cheeky, this one.

"A lamb. Just forget it. It's a stupid analogy." She whirled around on the stool, putting her back to me.

I was about to volley back, but I caught sight of the landlord making his way through the crowd to the bar.

Trinity got up off her stool and thrust her hand at the older man. "Mr. Hopkins, I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it."

"Sorry, Ms. Ryan. I was running behind. I would have called but I can't figure out how to work the darn phone thing in my car."

"That's okay. Oliver here was entertaining me with stories of wolves."

"Oh good, I see you've met then." Mr. Hopkins put a hand on Trinity's back, propelling her a few steps toward the bar. "Mr. Martin, meet Trinity Ryan, your new landlord."