Chapter two #2
Plus, the last thing I need right now is trouble, and that’s exactly what this woman exudes—trouble with a capital T.
I make myself busy for a few minutes, helping other customers and moving down the bar before finally standing right before the mystery woman. Sliding a cardboard coaster across the surface of the bar in front of her, I wait for her to acknowledge me before I speak. But she’s entranced in her phone.
“Dirty martini, three olives,” she says without meeting my gaze, her fingers continuing to tap the keys on her screen. Studying her, I wait a few moments to see if she’ll finally meet my eyes. But after one long-ass minute, I finally give up and speak to her instead.
“Was there a please behind that order?”
That catches her attention. Brown eyes like pools of melted milk chocolate swirled with caramel lift and stare back into mine. And that’s when I feel like someone just slapped me across the face with a brick.
Shit, she’s stunning up close.
“I’m sorry?” she asks, tilting her head at me, a perplexed look on her face.
Trying to fight against the way she just paralyzed me, I reply, “I heard your order, but didn’t hear a please after it.”
One of her brows arches painfully high on her forehead, but her lips curl into a grin. “Are you allowed to speak to me like that?”
“You bet your ass I am.” Resting my forearms on the bar, I lean over it slightly.
Her eyes narrow on me now as she slides her tongue across her teeth, her lips still closed.
“Can I have a dirty martini with three olives, please?” she grates, clearly irritated with the challenge I dished out.
But I don’t care who you think you are or where you’re from, manners go a long fucking way.
“There’s the magic word.” I dip my chin and say, “Coming right up.” I push off the bar and reach to the side, gathering a glass to make her drink, fighting the urge to look up at her again.
But I can feel her watching me, tracking each one of my movements as if I might try to poison her after our exchange.
When I’m done, I slide the drink across the bar to her. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” she punctuates her reply as she takes a sip of her drink, smacking her lips in approval, and then moves her gaze back to her phone, ignoring me once more.
Irritation runs through me, so I take the opportunity to check on other customers, even move to the kitchen to make sure the cooks have everything they need and refill their cups with ice water. It gets hot as hell back there, so I try to keep them as comfortable as possible.
Back out in the front of the restaurant, I make sure to keep my distance from the woman that captivated me when I have no idea why. Everything about her screams red flag.
But she also got your blood pumping, didn’t she, Dallas?
My eyes drift over to her casually as I stand behind the bar again, taking note that her drink is empty. Reminding myself that she’s still a customer, I inhale deeply and then make my way over to where she’s sitting. “Care for another?”
She bites her lip, staring at her drink, and then up at me—the movement so calculated it almost makes me think that she’s flirting with me. But then she speaks. “Are you going to make me say please again?”
The corner of my mouth tips up this time, in response to her wit. “Of course. Manners are important, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She scoffs. “Yup. I’m definitely not in the city anymore.”
A city girl, huh? I wonder which one. Raleigh? Atlanta?
Why do you care, Dallas? Just make her a god damn drink.
Before I can fire off a witty reply, she sighs. “Well, I guess I can’t argue with an appreciation for manners. I’ll have another, please. It will help take the edge off this long-ass day.”
As I pour the gin and reach for the olives again, I take a moment to appreciate the fact that she cussed, revealing a little crack in the shield she wears.
Personally, I love a woman that can use profanity and not feel ashamed about it. I think it shows confidence in who they are and how they communicate. It shows authority too.
My mouth starts moving without permission. “You don’t seem like you want to be here.”
She huffs, flipping her phone upside down. “Not at all, actually.”
“And you don’t seem like you’re from around here either.”
“Nope.” She pops the p.
I study her as I slide her drink across the bar. “Then what brings you to Carrington Cove? Most people are either from here or they’re on vacation. Clearly, you’re neither.”
She swirls the liquid around in her drink, reaching for the stick of olives, placing it in her mouth before drawing it back out with one less olive attached.
She locks her eyes with mine as I watch her chew, trying not to get lost in the visions my mind is conjuring of what else those red lips could be used for.
Finally she sighs. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Do what?”
“That small-town thing where you attempt to strike up a conversation to be polite. No offense, but I have no intention of being here long enough to establish some sort of repertoire with the townsfolk.” She darts her eyes around the room.
“I’m here on business. Shouldn’t be here more than a few days, I imagine. Just need to tie up a few loose ends.”
“I see.”
She takes another drink from her martini. “And believe me, this is the last place I thought I’d ever end up.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stand against the bar, growing more curious about this woman, even though my brain is telling me to walk away.
But I’m a man—when do we ever listen willingly to our brains?
“And why is that? Carrington Cove is a great place.”
“Ha. Yes, well, to someone like you, I guess that makes sense.”
My head rears back on my neck. “Someone like me?”
She nods. “You have local handyman-bartender vibes written all over you,” she says, waving her hand at me.
“More like restaurant and bar owner. My brother is the bartender and handyman.”
“Well, good for you, and your brother, but I don’t belong here.
” She brings her glass to her lips, draining her drink dry right before my eyes.
I watch her throat bob up and down as she takes back the martini with minimal effort.
As she sets the glass on the bar, she moves to stand, unsteady on her feet.
“You shouldn’t be driving.” I nearly reach out to steady her but catch myself.
“I’m fine,” she says as she clears her throat, pasting on a smile.
“You’re swaying in your Manolos.”
“They’re Louboutins, and they were not made for these uneven wooden floors,” she retorts. “But I’m impressed you know designer shoes.”
“Well, I figure the price of the shoe should match the pretention you exude,” I reply, feeling myself grow more irritated with this woman by the second.
Who does she think she is waltzing into my town and sneering down at me, or anyone else for that matter?
“You have a lot of nerve judging me when you don’t know the first thing about me.” With a purse of her lips, she tosses a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and then reaches for her purse. “That should cover two martinis.”
“More like four. That’s too much.”
“Keep the change. Consider it a large tip.” She tosses her gaze around the room. “And perhaps you can use the extra money to buy yourself some manners as well.” With a lift of her purse, she spins on her heels and walks away from me, and I hate that I’m watching her ass as she does.
Who the fuck is that woman?
It doesn’t matter. She was just another tourist passing through. Don’t let her get to you, Dallas.
“Who was that?” Penn asks, coming up beside me, mimicking my own thoughts as we both watch her walk out the door and down the sidewalk, the dark sky providing a backdrop that she clearly stands out against.
“Someone too good for our little town apparently.”
Penn narrows his eyes at me. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, attempting to shake off the interaction with her. “I’m going to go into my office for a while. You think you can hold down the fort?”
He nods. “You got it.”
I pat him on the back. “Don’t stare at Astrid too much though, okay? I don’t want a harassment suit to deal with.”
Penn shoves my shoulder. “Fuck off.”
Chuckling to myself, I push through the double doors and walk down the hallway that leads to my office.
As I take a seat in my chair, I begin gathering paperwork with the intent to get some work done, but all I can see is her—the blonde from out of town, the stuck-up suit that clearly thought she was better than all of us here.
It’s not the first time someone like that has come through our small town, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But I hate that no matter how hard I try, our conversation—albeit a brief one—won’t leave my mind.
And neither does the image of her ass in that skirt and heels as she walked away from me.