Chapter 12 #2
Sure enough, halfway down I’m met with a solid green door that reads Connor’s Corner Pub across it in big, gold letters. I grab the grimy handle, pull the door open, and am immediately met with a big, burly bouncer in a small, dim entryway.
“ID,” he says, not even looking up from his phone. He’s sitting on a bar stool that looks comically small under his big size.
I pull my ID from my clutch and hand it to him with my signature smile. “Here you go.”
He looks at it and hands it back, motioning me inside without so much as even looking up at my face to make sure it matches my ID.
Sliding it back into my clutch, I move through another doorway and enter a large, crowded space.
Protruding into the center of the room like a peninsula is a long bar with seating all along its three sides.
Surrounding that is a collection of mismatched high tops, and along the walls are green leather booths.
There’s a couple pool tables and dart boards at the back, and a small makeshift stage area that’s currently empty but must be used for karaoke or live music.
The place smells like a beer filled root cellar—earthy, musty, and a little sour.
I immediately recognize this as the same bar from the photo I found in Blake’s truck. The walls are all exposed brick; the ceiling covered in copper square tiles with little designs in them. Lanterns hang throughout, providing the only lighting other than the occasional neon sign on the wall.
It’s casual. And I am not.
I quickly scan the area in search of Whitney, suddenly feeling completely out of place in my low cut, fitted black dress and heels. I don’t feel any better when I spot her in one of the booths wearing a t-shirt and jean shorts, her hair thrown up into a messy ponytail on the top of her head.
“A heads up on the dress code would have been appreciated,” I say in greeting when I reach the booth.
She gives me a once over before grinning deviously at me. “You look like a fox, though. You probably won’t even have to pay for a single drink tonight.”
She has a point there.
“And you are buyer number one,” I tell her as I slide into the booth and toss my clutch onto it near the wall. The cool leather is refreshing against my legs as I scoot toward the middle of the seat.
Whitney wiggles her eyebrows at me. “And what do I get in return?”
“Forgiveness for the business card fiasco and my undying friendship?” I suggest sweetly.
We both burst into a fit of laughter, and it feels so good to have someone here to laugh with again. Riley would love her. They’re definitely getting introduced whenever she comes back to visit me.
“Okay, fine. That works for me.” She waves a hand toward the bartender closest to us. “Connor! Two jager bombs, and a couple beers!”
The man behind the bar looks at Whitney and shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips, then proceeds to grab two shot glasses.
“I take it you’re a regular here?” I ask her.
“Yeah.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Blake and Skye have been coming here since it opened, and I started tagging along when I turned twenty-one. Blake actually helped Connor purchase the place, and it’s our usual spot now when we get together. Plus, it’s close to my condo.”
“You live in this part of town?” Blake must pay her well if she can afford to live here. I had to search for ages to find a one-bedroom apartment that didn’t cost me a kidney.
My face must show my surprise, because Whitney says, “I’m not just Blake’s secretary, you know.
I mean, I am that, but I also do all the accounting for him and for Skye’s construction business.
Among all the other random bullshit they have me do.
They pay me well, and I have an equity stake in both of their companies. ”
“So, you’re the glue that keeps both of their businesses together,” I muse.
“Precisely.”
I give her a wink. “The true reason for all of their success.”
“I like to think so.” She fiddles with her ponytail, those green eyes alighting with mischief as she says, “You should threaten to leave.”
“Leave?”
“Blake. The brokerage. Tell him you’re fed up with his attitude and you’re going somewhere else,” she clarifies. The bartender—or I guess owner, Connor—comes by just then and sets our shots and beers in front of us.
I’ve been itching to talk to Whitney more about Blake. I’ve already told her a little about my frustration with training, but now it feels wrong to share more, knowing she’s so involved in everything.
I may be upset with him, but I don’t want to drive a wedge between him and his sister, or do anything to hurt his business.
“One,” I say, leaning forward into the table, “why would I want to do that? And two, Blake wouldn’t care if I left. In fact, I think he’d celebrate.”
“Oh, please,” she drones. “He’s being an ass to you, and it’s because he can’t control you.
You’re not a pushover, and that has him reeling.
He’s protective of the brokerage and everything he’s built, and you breezed right in and crashed through all his defenses.
But I guarantee if you threatened to leave, he’d suddenly start taking you more seriously.
” She grabs her shot glass and raises it.
I grab my own and clink it against hers. And just as I throw it back, she says, “Plus, I think he likes you.”
My shot gets caught in my throat and I damn near spit my drink out at her. She just laughs like a wicked little thing and throws her own shot back.
When I’ve finally recovered from nearly inhaling my jager bomb, I tell her, “He does not like me. I’m actually pretty sure he hates me. Like, to the point that if I had died just now from choking,” I shoot her a glare, “he’d probably be relieved that he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she says, taking a sip from her beer.
“It feels like he does.” I drop my forehead to the table. “Ugh. I don’t know why I even care.”
“Because you like him, too,” she says simply, like it’s obvious.
Do I like him? I sure liked the way his lips felt on my neck.
Stop it, Tracy. He’s your boss.
I sit back up and toy with the ends of my hair. I styled it in loose waves tonight, but I’m about ready to throw it up into a messy bun to match Whitney’s.
“I don’t,” I finally tell her, reaching for my clutch to grab a hair tie.
“Sure you don’t,” she says, a smug expression on her face.
“Okay, yes, he’s attractive,” I concede, piling my waves onto my head and wrapping the elastic tie around them. “But he’s my broker, Whitney. Plus, he’s doing everything in his power right now to drive me to quitting, so even if I did like him, I know for certain the feeling isn’t mutual.”
She shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious,” I tell her, reaching for my own beer to take a swig.
“I know. I’m agreeing with you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Your words are agreeing, but your tone and face aren’t.”
“Connor!” she yells toward the bar, ignoring me. “Two more jager bombs!”
“We are not doing more jager bombs,” I snap. My throat still feels gross from the last one.
She rolls her eyes. “Connor! Scratch that. Two tequila shots instead!”
“Are you trying to get us sick tonight? Why don’t you just order a shot of everything while you’re at it?” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m sticking with beer the rest of the night.”
I don’t even like beer, but I like mixing alcohol even less. It’s a surefire way to get me drunk off my ass and puking all night.
“Trust me,” she says, full on grinning at me now. “You’re gonna want those shots.”
“Why?” I reach for my beer to take a sip.
“Because the old man is here to crash your little party,” a deep, silky voice replies.