Despite herself, Miranda found it hard not to laugh. Yep, Seth’s “way” was extremely efficient. All he had to do was level some poor dude with that lethal stare of his, and—poof—the unwanted admirer disappeared. Seth had been pulling this same magician’s act for more than three months now, scaring off any man who dared to flirt with her. What started out as a quick stop-by a couple times a week, just to “check how she was doing”, had become almost a nightly routine. Now when she worked a shift, she was surprised if Seth didn’t show up.
Any other woman might have swooned from all the attention, but Miranda wasn’t one of them. Having her own personal bouncer was more aggravating than comforting. Oh no, Seth Masterson didn’t provide her with even an ounce of comfort. If anything, he achieved the opposite effect, unsettling her with his commanding presence. He had bad boy radiating from every sexy, muscular inch of him, from the perpetual beard growth on his face, to his scruffy dark hair, to the piercing gray eyes that were forever undressing her.
“Like I said, I could’ve handled it. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my dinner break.” She brushed past him and strode into the break room.
Seth, of course, followed her right in. One thing she’d discovered about him? He didn’t play by any rules, a trait she found ironic considering he was in the military, where rules were a way of life.
Sighing, she walked over to the small fridge across the room. She grabbed a bottle of water, uncapped it, and chugged half as she headed for the ratty plaid couch that had seen better days.
Seth lingered near the door, watching her with disapproval. “Dinner is a bottle of water?”
“Dinner was fish sticks and French fries three hours ago. I won’t be hungry for a couple more hours.” She stretched out her legs and stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, letting out an aggravated breath. “Why do you keep coming by, Seth? You don’t need to check up on me every frickin’ night.”
“I’m not here to check up on you.”
“Oh really? So Missy called off her guard dog?”
“Nope. Mom’s still insisting I keep an eye on you.”
She held back a groan. She loved her former boss to death, but Missy Masterson, God bless her soul, had no idea what she’d unleashed when she’d asked her son to keep tabs on Miranda.
At first, she’d appreciated the gesture—the move from Vegas to California had been jarring, and it was always difficult to adapt to a new city, especially when you didn’t know a single person there. But now that she was more settled, she no longer needed Seth Masterson to hold her hand.
In fact, that was the last thing she wanted. Because another discovery she’d made about the man? When he touched her, she turned into a pile of hot, gooey mush.
“Well, tell Missy that while I appreciate everything she’s done, I’m doing just fine.”
Miranda took another sip of water, then set the bottle on the table by the couch and bent down to unlace her black sneakers. The club owner might demand the female staff display whatever T&A they could, but he didn’t begrudge them comfortable footwear. Still, she’d only been tending bar for three hours and already her feet were killing her.
As she kicked off her shoes and began to massage her right foot, she saw Seth’s gray eyes following the movements of her hands. His expression took on that smoldering gleam, and then he left his perch by the door and approached the couch. His strides were long, predatory.
“Not doing as fine as you claim, huh?” he taunted.
She rolled her eyes. “My feet hurt. My life, on the other hand, is just fine.”
The couch cushions bounced as he flopped down beside her. Instantly, the familiar scent of him wafted in her direction. Aftershave, a hint of pine and the faint traces of smoke. Of course he was a smoker. A bad boy had to have his vices, after all.
She dug her thumbs into the arch of her foot, knowing the ache in her feet didn’t bode well for the rest of the night. She had four hours left in her shift. Four hours of running up and down that bar catering to the Friday-night crowds. And tomorrow she’d be in the dance studio from morning until late afternoon. Her poor feet were definitely going to revolt if she kept this up.
“What’s wrong?”
Seth’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced over, frowning. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You just groaned. A weary, life-sucks-ass type of groan.”
She blinked. “I did?” When he nodded in confirmation, she let out a sigh. “I was just thinking how I have to be at the studio at ten in the morning tomorrow and how much my feet are going to hate me for it. Tending bar all night and then standing en pointe all day is no piece of cake.”
“No, I imagine it isn’t.”
He sounded genuine, not a hint of condescension in his voice, and Miranda’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You’re not going to roll your eyes and tell me I know nothing about real pain? You know, ’cause I’m not a badass SEAL like you?”