So Aiden would have to fake it if he wanted to find who he was looking for. She wasn’t going to just fall into his lap without a little effort on his part.
Thankfully the bartender rescued him and made the first move. The guy held out his hand and introduced himself as Johnny Anders. Aiden grasped his hand firmly and pumped it a few times. “Irish.” When Johnny raised his brows in question, he added, “Just Irish.”
No one down here, or anywhere, needed to know his real name. What was the point of leaving the past behind if every time you introduced yourself you invited it right back?
“Okay, then. Just Irish it is.” Flashing the smile that probably earned him plenty of tips, Johnny grabbed the Mason jar he’d just cleaned and filled it with ice and water from the soda gun. “So where you from?”
Behind him, the poker gang exploded in obnoxious complaints. He peered over his shoulder. One man gestured so wildly while shouting suspicions his buddy had cheated that half his beer sloshed onto the floor a few feet from Aiden. Johnny hollered at them to settle down and mumbled to himself about another mess he’d have to clean up.
Aiden lifted the glass to his parched lips and tipped his head back until he’d drained every last drop of water. He exhaled with heavy relief and pushed it back, nodding a request for a refill.
“Boston,” he said finally. He should probably try to speak more than a couple syllables at a time if the goal was to strike up a conversation for info. But before he could give it a shot, he heard footsteps coming from the back hallway marked with a sign that read offices.
Pulling her long red hair into a ponytail, a waitress entered the main room and used a mirrored Miller sign hanging on the wall to finish the style.
She was…stunning.
The tightening in his gut, like he’d just been sucker punched in the solar plexus, caught him off guard. Aiden couldn’t think of the last time a female had made his body sit up and beg at first glance. Apparently his dick had no such problem remembering and wanted to prove it.
Hoping he appeared casual, he placed his left boot on the metal footrest running the length of the bar so she couldn’t see how tight the crotch of his jeans had gotten.
She wasn’t classically beautiful. She didn’t bring to mind formal dresses, stiff up-dos, and dry champagne. More like sundresses, hair blowing in the summer breeze, and the sugary bite of a refreshing lemon—
Fuck. Aiden rubbed his fingers over his forehead. He must have heat stroke from the last few hours of his ride. Yeah, heat stroke sounded good. He’d go with that. The alternative—comparing a woman to something like lemonade—would mean the demise of his virility, and he could kiss his Man Card good-bye.
The living, breathing threat to his recent apathy regarding sex met his gaze in the mirror. She assessed him with a flick of her cool eyes. Something he thought might be mutual interest flared for a moment like a struck match before she doused the flame and looked away. She couldn’t have sent a more clear message than if she’d tattooed Not Interested on her forehead.
Feigning his own disinterest, he turned his attention back to his water, but he continued to study her from the corner of his eye. She turned and reached over the bar counter for the open beer Johnny must have set there in anticipation of her arrival. Lifting the neck of the bottle to her lips, she took several long pulls. Lucky fucking bottle.
Her body willowy and defined, she couldn’t have been taller than five-seven at most. She wore a logoed shirt just like Johnny, but hers had a plunging neckline that revealed the inner swells of her breasts. A stiff black skirt didn’t just hug her ass, it promoted it. The uniform was tight and meant to draw attention.
The wrong kind.
Images of drunken assholes pawing at her as she served them drinks flooded the space behind his eyes. Something he’d thought dead for years stirred in Aiden’s gut. His misguided sense to protect and defend where he had no right. Where this woman worked and the attention she attracted was no concern of his.
Actually, that’s exactly what she might be, dumbass. Your concern.
He recalled the description his friend had given him. Red hair, small, and covered in freckles. Looks like he might not need to make conversation with Johnny after all. She wasn’t close enough for him to see any freckles, but red hair stuck out like a domestic beer in an Irish pub.
“Hey, Johnny,” she said, “think we can claim a measles outbreak or something and shut down for the night?”
The man snorted. “Are you kidding? Lou would probably tell us to wear gloves and paper masks and keep on serving.”
Tying a small black serving apron with pockets around her waist, she sighed and said, “Then I guess we’ll just have to hope time goes fast and nothing gets broken tonight.”
“Your constant optimism is what I love best about you, Sydney,” Johnny said.
Damn. Wrong name.