“Please,” a female voice pleaded. “It was just a stupid mistake. I’ll pay it back. You can dock my paycheck if you need to.”
“It’s not about the hundred bucks. You broke my fuckin’ trust, Melanie. I can’t have people working for me who steal.”
“I wasn’t stealing,” she balked. “I was borrowing it until payday. My rent was overdue and I was about to get evicted.”
“Taking money out of a cash register is stealing. This ain’t a damn bank, it’s a business.”
“But—”
Kane cut her off. “We’re done here. Come get your paycheck Friday. You can keep the money you took.”
I moved down to the end of the hallway, out of earshot. Less than a minute later, a young blond with a tired expression walked out. She went toward the back of the club, head hung low.
After a deep, reassuring breath, I walked to the door to Kane’s office and rapped lightly on the frame. When I peeked around the corner, he was at the desk, arms folded, looking lost in thought.
“Viv,” he said, his brow furrowing in confusion.
My stomach flipped with excitement at the sound of his deep voice saying my name.
“Hey. Can I come in?”
He stood. “Yeah. Yeah, come on in.”
I gestured at the shirt as I walked across the room to his closet. “Brought this back for you.”
After pulling open the closet door, I hung it on the same hook I’d seen him take it from when he gave it to me. I couldn’t help doing a one-second scan of the closet’s contents. A leather jacket, a pair of dark boots and . . . an American Girl bag? That one was a surprise, but I didn’t let it register. The closet had the same cedar smell his shirt did, mingled with the sweet scent of cigar smoke.
“So how’s it going?” I asked, not wanting to leave.
He shrugged. “Usual. You didn’t have to bring that shirt back.”
“I don’t mind. My friend Cara came with me. I wasn’t trying to name drop, but when I told the guy at the door that I had your shirt, he let us in and we ended up with a table upstairs.”
A hint of a smile danced on Kane’s lips. “Good. You guys should order dinner, we’ve got a great chef.”
“I think Cara wants sushi.”
Kane arched his brows. “Jim makes kickass sushi.”
“Really? Okay then, we’ll—”
“Kane.” A woman in the dark v-neck t-shirt worn by the servers appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but shit just went bad at the bar. A couple customers accused Bryce of shorting them alcohol in their drinks and they really laid into him over it. He started crying and quit.”
“The fuck?” Kane shook his head in disbelief.
“I’d take over, but we’re getting slammed out there. No one else knows how to bartend.”
“Get back out there.” He stood and waved her toward the front of the club. “I’ll be right out.”
He turned to me. “I have the worst fuckin’ luck with bartenders. You don’t know any good ones, do you?”
I swallowed hard and grinned, trying to radiate confidence. “Just one. Me.”
This time he did smile. It was a surprised, no way in hell kind of grin.
We walked to the door at the same time.
“You?” he asked, disbelief in his tone.
“I was a bartender in law school.”
He leaned on the doorframe. “How do you make a Manhattan?”
“Canadian whiskey, sweet vermouth and a dash of bitters. A bit of cherry juice if I’ve got it.”
He gave a slight nod of appreciation.
“I make the best Lemon Drop you’ve ever had,” I said, enjoying the way he was looking at me.
He scowled slightly. “Do I look like I drink those?”
“I guess not,” I conceded, smiling. “But you should try mine. Not a grain of sugar on my hands, either.”
“So when you’re getting your ass kicked and you’ve got a line four deep at your bar, how do you make a Mojito?”
“I tell them to order something else.” I crossed my arms. “Ain’t nobody got time for mint-mashing when you’re that busy.”