2. Noah
Noah
If one more guest asked about the thread count of the sheets, I was adding a line item to their bill labeled pain in my ass. Either you enjoyed the bed, or you didn’t. Thread count had nothing to do with it.
I glanced down at my empty whiskey tumbler and nodded at Grant for another. My brothers said I needed to “let off steam” after work, so here I was at my own bar, letting off “steam.”
“Another round, boss?” Grant asked, smirking.
“Call me boss one more time, and I’ll make you clean the toilet of the family in room six. I heard their toddler was recently potty-trained and has poor aim.”
He visibly shuddered. “Another round coming up. On the house, actually!”
“It can’t be on the house, dipshit. We own the inn,” I retorted.
“Well, then I’ll pull twenty bucks out of your wallet and call it even.”
I glanced at my phone as emails continued to pour in. Ma gave up everything to raise my brothers and me. Late nights doing payroll and early mornings checking guests out. This was the least I could do to repay her.
Having your deadbeat father leave when you still believed in Santa Claus made you grow up fast. You made sure your brothers didn’t miss football practice.
You gave up out-of-state college so you could stay close to home.
Was it a lot of pressure? Absolutely. But pressure was a privilege, and if that meant late-night emails to keep the inn booked and thriving, so be it.
During the day, the restaurant was a cozy space offering breakfast, lunch, and dinner for guests.
It had refurbished wood floors, high-top tables, a couple of booths in corners, and an ambiance that presented itself as comfortable but classy.
The glossy bar top wrapped around the back of the room, with stools scattered underneath to support orders ranging from breakfast smoothies to whiskey sours.
We dimmed the lights in the evening to help transition the restaurant into “bar mode.” Low lighting and smooth jazz transformed the space into the kind of setting where people either started confessing town gossip or making bad decisions.
I was so engrossed in my screen that I barely noticed Grant sliding my drink over and laying a napkin down for the newest guest at the bar.
“You must not be a local,” Grant said, laying it on thick. “Because I’d recognize your beautiful smile anywhere.”
I flicked a glance at him, unimpressed, then turned on my barstool to see exactly who he was talking to.
A gorgeous woman who was definitely not a local sat at the bar.
She had chocolate curls that flowed down her back like silk, tanned skin, a megawatt smile, and curves men might start wars over.
She caught my eye, and something tightened low in my chest—sharp and unexpected, as if I’d just missed a step I hadn’t seen coming.
“Her drink’s on the house,” I told Grant.
“Your house? My house? Want to make sure I get the address correct,” he laughed.
“Monday morning toilet duty sound good to you?” I shot back.
The woman, who probably turned heads on every street corner, laughed softly. “I didn’t mean to start an argument over a glass of wine. Can I get your house white?”
Something about her voice eased a tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. I was tightly wound by nature, rarely relaxed, but this woman made me want to sit there all night and learn everything about her. Her favorite show. Her biggest fear. How many kids did she—
Jesus Christ, Noah.
How much whiskey was in that last pour? I didn’t typically date.
I didn’t have time for distractions from the business, and I wasn’t willing to open myself up to that kind of hurt anyway.
I didn’t even do one-night stands; small towns had long memories.
So why did this woman have me wanting to break every rule I’d made?
Resigning myself to the fact that simple flirting never hurt anyone, I turned fully toward her and gave her my attention—the classic Noah charm, if I’d ever had any.
“The bartender’s an asshole,” I said, “but he makes the best cocktails in town. He’s also not wrong about the smile you’re wearing.”
She took a beat, eyes flicking over my face. “How do I know you’re not an asshole who preys on women at this bar every night?”
I caught the teasing glint in her eyes and shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”
It was clear that whatever spell she had me under wasn’t stopping anytime soon, and I blurted out, “I’m Allen,” before I could stop myself.
Noah Allen. But what was the harm in dropping Noah for the night? Being someone lighter, less responsible—someone less weighed down by expectations.
“I’m Bailey.”
I mouthed the name silently, liking the way it felt.
Bailey.
“What brought you to Bexley, Bailey?”
“Oh, it wasn’t obvious?” she asked. “The entire reason I came to town was to weasel my way into this bar and get a free drink. I considered coming an hour earlier for dinner but didn’t want to push my luck.”
Gorgeous. Witty. And absolutely putting me on my fucking back foot.
“I’m friends with the chef,” I said. “If you want a meal.”
She smiled again, slow and deliberate. “Actually, I think I’d just prefer to sip my wine and keep talking to you.”