One Night Charmer. Maisey Yates
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him question every damn thing he’d ever done. Every decision he’d ever made. It had made him question why he’d ever practiced restraint of any kind. Why he’d so firmly believed that self-denial, the greater good, morality and a host of other things would lead him down a smooth path in life.
No. He’d spent a lot of years doing the right thing. Being a good man. The better man.
It hadn’t gotten him anywhere in the end. So when he’d broken free of his marriage, when he’d finally left it all behind, left it all as dust and rubble in his past, he’d set his foot on the road to hell, and figured he’d better make the journey there pretty spectacular.
And he had.
When he’d decided to go for a life of debauchery and sin, he hadn’t gone halfway.
That made it difficult when he actually wanted to employ a little bit of abstinence. He didn’t know how.
These days, he only knew how to do three things really well.
He knew how to make drinks, he knew how to drink drinks and he knew how to screw. He did all those things as often as he could, and whenever he felt like it.
He hadn’t anticipated the effect trying to resist a woman he was attracted to might have on him. He’d figured it wouldn’t have an effect at all. But then, he didn’t typically try to resist women he was attracted to. Because he wasn’t usually attracted to spoiled little rich girls who also happened to work for him.
“You need to keep an eye on everyone, and make sure they don’t need anything else,” he said finally.
“Right.”
But she looked surprised by the directive. “You’ve been to restaurants before, right? I know you have. You come here.”
“Yes.”
“What does a server do? They make sure you have french fries, all the drinks that you need, and they do a little tap dance if you require it. So make sure no one needs french fries. Or a tap dance.”
“No one here has ever done a tap dance for me.”
“Have you ever asked them to?”
“Why would I ask someone to tap dance for me?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully, for your sake, no one wants you to tap dance tonight.”
She rolled her eyes and tossed her hair, the blond curls bouncing again, the glittery shadow on her lids twinkling beneath the light. She was a human glitter bomb. Which, in his opinion, had no place outside of a strip club. Or the rodeo arena.
She definitely looked like a rodeo queen. That thought did a little bit to quench the heat that had settled in the pit of his stomach. He’d made the mistake of getting involved with a rodeo queen once before. He knew how that ended.
“So then should I just hover around the tables like a fly, waiting for french fry shortages or demands of dancing?”
“You could fold bar towels.”
“There,” she said, planting her hand on her hip and cocking it out to the side. He might have noticed the dramatic curve of her waist down to that very sassy hip, only because he was human. “Now, Ace, was that so difficult?”
“You seem to be having a hard time remembering that I’m your boss, little girl.”
“Do you call all your employees little girl?”
“Only when they act like one.”
“I’m going to go fold bar towels.” She turned on her heel and started to saunter back into the kitchen, then paused and turned back around. “Where are the bar towels?”
He smiled, as slow and lazy as possible, because he knew it would make her mad. “Under the bar.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, a sweet little rosy color that made her look a lot more innocent than he was certain she was. She tossed that golden mane again and sauntered to the bar, bending down and pulling out the stack of unfolded white towels.
Those little shorts of hers rode up high, revealing the sweet curve of her ass. Were his scruples so easily discarded? He only had maybe two of them. You would think he could cling to them a little bit tighter.
She placed them on the back counter, and began to fold them clumsily.
He let out a heavy sigh. “That isn’t how you do it.”
He crossed the space between them, coming to stand beside her, taking one of the towels off the top and spreading it on the empty bar in front of him. He held the edges tight, before folding one half toward the green line that ran down the center. “This. You do it like this.”
“There’s a specific system for folding towels?”
“Of course there’s a system. If there aren’t systems, the whole damn world falls apart.”
“Because of a breakdown in bar towel folding?”
He snorted, folding the other side of the towel in tightly and smoothing the fabric flat with his hands before folding it in half again. “Like this,” he said, setting it off to the side. “Keep it compact. Keep it clean.”
“You do keep the place awfully clean. I’ve noticed.” She copied his movements, dainty hands sliding over the terry cloth. He tried not to imagine them sliding over his skin.
Restraint was a damned nightmare.
This, he remembered from his high school years. The more he had to think about not doing something, the more he obsessed about it. Abstinence in deed led to anything but in thought.
You thought so much about not doing something that it took over your life anyway.
But it had been pressed upon him from an early age that he had to be an example. His father was pastor of the largest church in Copper Ridge, after all. It wasn’t all bad. He’d believed in his father’s lessons. Back then, he’d believed that virtue was its own reward. He’d felt a kind of confidence, a direction that accompanied that belief. He had known who he was.
Then it had all bitten him spectacularly in the ass, and he’d turned away, hard and sharp. Now, he was firmly out of practice.
She matched his movements precisely, producing a very nicely folded towel. Which kind of irritated him. Not that he thought it was going to take her a whole lot of time to learn how to do such a simple task. But he wanted to cling to his irritation, and to his completely unfair thought that this job would be beyond her somehow. He wanted to hold on to his prejudice.
He had earned that prejudice.
“There,” she said, smoothing it down flat and placing it in a stack with the other towel. “I think I’ve got it. You don’t have to supervise me.”
“Good. Because I don’t have time.”
“You’re very busy,” she said, something in her tone irking him. He was certain it was designed to do that.
“I am. I have an entire bar to run. A lot depends on my presence.”
She lifted a pretty, bare shoulder. He swore that it had glitter on it, too. “It is your place. Your name is on the sign.”
“I’m also working out logistics for opening a new brewery.” He didn’t know why he’d told her that.
Actually, he did know why. There was clearly something in him—a part of him that wouldn’t die—that still wanted people like her—people who were born into a certain level of privilege—to understand that he was important, too.
“In Copper Ridge?” she asked, her tone genuinely interested.
“Yeah. In the old flour mill building, down by the beach.”
“That sounds nice. Is it going to be fancy?”
“My kind of fancy.”