Chapter 13
GRIFFITH
Clementine stays cold toward me for the rest of the day after the snide comment I made. We had actually been getting along, and I had to go and ruin the truce.
This time, I can admit it was my fault and uncalled for.
I don’t know if I can forgive and forget the hell she caused my best friend, but I have to admit that picking at her about her actions from nine years ago doesn’t help anyone. Besides, I was the one to come up with the idea of being her bodyguard.
Or babysitter.
Despite the cold shoulder she’s giving me, Clementine decides to set up her workstation at the far end of the bar rather than in a back corner booth. She situates her laptop and a Bluetooth mouse, then focuses so thoroughly on the screen that I’d hazard she has no idea what’s going on around her.
Not exactly safe, but I guess that’s what I’m here for. To watch out for her.
The first hour of Local Brew opening is relatively slow. With everything set up behind the bar and the handful of patrons served, I find my eyes continually drawn Clementine’s way.
At some point, she gathered her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head, tendrils shooting out in all directions. My hair is long enough for a bun at this point, but I’d probably look ridiculous while Clementine manages to come off as casually gorgeous.
Casually gorgeous? What the fuck is happening to my brain?
I blame her earlier teasing about feet. The moment she said something about sucking on toes, I couldn’t get the image out of my brain.
Never considered myself particularly interested in feet, but my imagination blared a scenario of Clementine sprawled out, writhing with uncontrolled laughter as I licked the sole of her foot, and that …
Fuck. It did something for me.
Finally, I can’t help but walk over and rap my knuckles on the bar to capture her attention. She jerks her head up, blinking a few times, as if she needs to force herself to focus on me before sliding her headphones down around her neck.
“What’s up?” Her voice is husky with distraction, and the tone makes me need to clear my throat for some unknown reason.
“Best you order food and a drink now, before the dinner crowd comes in.” I had sandwiches delivered from Coffee & Claws for our lunch, but that was hours ago.
“Oh. Sure.”
As she peruses the options, I lean over the counter and find the big, furry body I was searching for. Shrimp has wrapped himself around the base of Clementine’s stool and is snoozing away.
“I’ll do fish and chips, house salad, and a Moscow mule.” She closes the menu and pushes it away.
I frown at her. “You’re not going to try the beer?”
Not that it matters. I definitely don’t care if she tries any of the brews I’ve worked so hard to perfect.
“The menu said the fish is beer battered. I’ll try it that way.” She smirks, then returns her attention to her work, effectively dismissing me.
Swallowing my grunt of annoyance, I type her order into the electronic system that will print a ticket in the kitchen.
Alfie is back there, eagerly awaiting orders.
He’s only nineteen but already a magician with food.
Claims he’s saving to go to culinary school.
It’ll be a sad day at Local Brew when he leaves, but I’m still going to give him an end-of-spring bonus that should have him much closer to pursuing his dreams.
As the afternoon turns into evening, the bar fills up.
The regulars glance at Clementine, but they leave her alone for the most part.
Unfortunately, there’s a steady flow of interest from humans and mythics who don’t get the hint that she’s working and not looking for a hookup.
Even the beast of a dog at her feet doesn’t ward the attention off.
Seriously, it’s almost every few minutes that a new person sidles up to the stool next to Clementine and shoots their shot.
And each time, I watch a smile claim her mouth, even as the corners of her eyes tighten in annoyance.
She lets them down easy. Nothing like the snark she throws my way.
To their credit, almost all vacate the space when she tells them she’s not interested. There’s one who lingers though. Leaning too close. When he reaches out to touch a longer strand of her hair that’s fallen out of her bun, I move to grab him by the collar and toss him out of my business.
But before I reach their side, Shrimp stands up instead, snorting and coughing out a combination of spit and half-digested grass onto the guy’s lap.
The man gags and runs off while Clementine pats Shrimp’s head and slips him a chunk of fried fish.
If I thought that’d be the end of potential suitors, then I’m proven wrong five minutes later, when a werewolf from the Lake Galen pack—the newer of the two in town—leans against the bar next to Clementine and asks what she’s working on. Her sigh is audible, even over the jukebox.
The constant parade of drooling admirers gets so annoying that I finally storm back to my office, type a quick sentence onto a blank document, print it out, and fold the message so it stands up like a sign. A sign that I set on the bar next to Clementine.
If you hit on this woman, the bartender will stop serving you.
Clementine reads it and chuckles, shaking her head before getting back to work.
Turns out, the threat of no booze is exactly what the situation called for. Everyone leaves her alone for the rest of the night.
Clementine keeps the sign and sets it up next to herself each day.