8. Daisy
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAISY
I’m never late for work. But tonight, I’m running way behind.
After Harrison ran to his place to shower and change clothes, I stayed at my place to get ready.
What should’ve taken me no more than fifteen minutes took over an hour because I spent most of the time mooning over Harrison and the effect he has on me.
Of course, The Sin Bin is humming, every table packed wall-to-wall. And I’m kinda glad to be busy so my mind doesn’t overanalyze how I spent the afternoon. My hussy lady bits are still buzzing from the workout they got from Harrison.
“Are you okay?” Jerome, who’s been a bartender at The Sin Bin since I was in grade school, stops me when I whiz by the bar.
“Fine.” I give him a thin smile and read off the order from my pad.
“Let me know if you need something,” he tells me as he efficiently pours and mixes all the drinks.
There’s no way in hell I’d ever admit why I’m really off my game.
But I am. Every time I move, my body remembers what his hands did to me.
I tell myself to get it together, but everything feels different.
I keep my head down, hustling orders, until the hair on the back of my neck suddenly tingles.
I know that energy before I see it. I could pick Harrison Stafford’s presence out anywhere.
I turn to see him strolling in the door. Even in a sea of bodies, he stands out like a freaking exclamation point.
He strolls through the crowd in a black T-shirt and jeans that look spray-painted on. The shirt clings to the shape of him, every muscle outlined in soft cotton.
He doesn’t rush. He prowls. The crowd splits for him without him even having to try.
He catches me staring and his mouth curves. Not a smirk, not a leer, just that slow, wicked thing that says he knows exactly what he does to me. My knees threaten to give out. My hussy lady bits start buzzing even louder. Oh, man. I’m in over my head with him.
Harrison slides onto a bar stool, spreading those massive thighs, taking up more space than any normal human should.
“Decided you couldn’t get enough of me?” I tease as I walk up to him.
“You’re pretty fucking addictive.” He stares into my eyes, and I nearly melt on the spot.
“I wish I had time to stop and talk, but we’re slammed,” I tell him as I pass by on my way to give my order to Jerome.
Jerome catches my gaze, hands moving fast but steady, and I pass over the slip without breaking stride. The place is absolutely slammed.
Table twelve waving for refills, couple at the end asking for separate checks, someone at the bar yelling about the Astros game on the TV. Pure chaos, and honestly, I should be loving this—the rush, the order within the madness—but my head is spinning for entirely different reasons tonight.
Mostly because I can feel Harrison watching me.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. Every time I turn, there he is.
Sometimes perched at the bar, thighs spread and forearms braced on the counter, grinning like he knows a secret.
Sometimes leaning back, surveying the room, scanning for me.
I keep telling myself to ignore him, but my traitorous eyes check, again and again. Just in case.
I take a lap, dropping checks and stacking empty glasses in my hands, but the crowd’s getting rowdier by the minute. Someone’s yelling for shots. The printer behind the bar is spewing tickets like it’s possessed. I head over to grab the next round and… stop dead.
Harrison is behind the bar. Just rolling his sleeves up and sliding in next to Jerome, who doesn’t even blink. Stafford’s opening beers, lining up shot glasses, and taking orders like he’s done it a thousand times.
It shouldn’t get to me. But it does. My heart does a slow somersault.
He glances up and finds me watching. The wink he gives me causes my lady bits to tingle.
Every pass through the bar, I catch him in profile, that jaw flexed in concentration and his forearms braced while he works away.
We fall into a rhythm that feels like muscle memory, even though this is the first time. Him sliding fresh beers down the bar. Me weaving trays of drinks across the worn wood floor. Every so often, our hands brush or our eyes lock.
The bar empties in waves. Monday night die-hards hang on until the last call bell. Harrison handles them, not even breaking a sweat now, voice pitched low and steady. Guys actually listen when he tells them to settle their tabs. Like he’s some kind of beer whisperer.
I stab my way through the last tables, clearing glasses and shooting evil looks at anyone who looks like they might want “just one more.” The floor finally clears.
There’s this moment, right at the tail end. The air is thick with sweat and old fries, and I take a second to just stand there, leaning heavily against a tray stand, watching Harrison.
He’s behind the bar, stacking glasses into neat pyramids, forearms roped with effort.
His eyes find me. There’s heat, sure, but also something a little more. At that moment, my chest does a funny, stupid thing that I can’t ignore. Oh, man. I realize Harrison Stafford managed to steal my heart without me even knowing it was happening.
I walk up to the bar, the pulse of old energy still crackling between us, and drop the last tray with a thunk and tell him, “Nice work.”
“Anything for you.” He pulls me against his muscular body and leans over to cover my lips with his.
It’s not a quick kiss. It’s greedy. Full-body contact, his lips sealing over mine, tongue all-in like he’s been starving for this.
I don’t even pretend to resist. My arms go around his shoulders, and I fuse myself to every hard, perfect inch of him.
I make a noise in my throat, low and hungry, and Harrison just growls in reply, right up against my mouth. There’s just the press of his chest and the absolute certainty that if he let go, I’d collapse.
A throat clears behind us.
Jerome.
I jerk back, or try to, but Harrison isn’t exactly rushing to let me go. I’m flushed, breathless, and mortified. Jerome’s arms are folded over his chest, that bartender stare pinned right to the two of us.
“You two might want to take that private stuff upstairs,” Jerome says. His tone is warm, almost teasing, but it’s enough to make me want to crawl into a beer keg and die.
My ears flame with embarrassment, but Harrison just laughs, low and wicked, like he loves being caught. His hand drops to the small of my back, steady and possessive. I get a full-body shiver.
“Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, lips to my ear. “But we’re going to have to take it back to my place. I can’t handle a whole night in your tiny ass bed.”
“You want to have a sleepover?”
His smile widens, slow and hungry, but he doesn’t move. “I want forever with you, but I’ll start with a sleepover.”
It’s such a Harrison answer I nearly laugh out loud. I don’t, though. I let the silence do the heavy lifting.
“We can talk about forever when I’m not so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.”
My voice doesn’t waver. If anything, it’s surer than I feel.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He winks at me. And just like that, we’re both in motion. The last round of closing tasks whips by, habit and muscle memory. I wipe down the bar, elbow grease on full display, the subtle drag of cloth over wood anchoring me to the moment.
We work in tandem, never crowding or bumping, just orbiting each other. Every time I glance up, he’s looking back at me. No hiding it. The air is thick, charged, expectant.
Harrison wipes the last of the glasses and sets them upside down in a neat line, mouth twisted in mock pride. “Look at that. Didn’t break a single one.”
I load the tip jars and file them under the register. “Miracles do happen.”
He chuckles low. The sound skims straight down my spine, pooling hot and electric behind my ribs.
The deadbolt on the front door clicks, echoing through the quiet. We kill the neon signs, one switch at a time, until the only light left is the ugly fluorescents in back and the cool wash from the alley’s sodium bulb bleeding through the window.
There’s a charge between us. It’s familiar now, but no less wild for having a name.
I don’t look away as he asks, “You want to ride with me?”
“If I ride with you, you’ll have to bring me back in the morning,” I remind him.
A wicked, slow smile. “That isn’t a problem. I drive right by here on the way to the arena for practice.” His voice does insane things to my insides.
I don’t even try to answer. My body answers for me, already moving closer.
His hands settle at my hips, palms wide and possessive like he’s staking his claim. I melt straight into him. All my sharp edges get blurry. “Just let me head upstairs to pack a bag.”
“I’ll come with you,” he whispers in my ear, and the heat in his breath almost liquefies me.
“That isn’t a good idea. If you come up with me, we’ll never make it back to your place.”
“Then I’ll just wait for you here.” He smirks and sits back down on one of the bar stools.