“Around,” she answered, toying with him.
A blond guy leaned in over Midwestern hottie’s shoulder. “Can I get another gin and tonic, please?”
She took his glass and turned away to mix the cocktail.
“She’s so fucking hot,” the tall blond said. Stella hoped to hell he wasn’t talking about her. She’d heard enough about her ass, her tits, and her fuckable mouth for one night.
She handed him his glass and he shoved a ten across the bar with a wink. A fifty-cent tip. Jesus Christ. She used to earn six figures, and now she was schlepping drinks in a bar for peanuts.
The familiar mantra played in her head like a broken record, giving her strength and perspective.
At least I’m alive.
I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.
***
LOGAN WILD COULD watch the sassy bartender all night long. He was a regular at NightCaps, his buddy Dylan’s bar and his go-to place after a long week of tracking down cheating spouses, embezzlers, and thieves. He hadn’t been interested in getting laid when he’d come into the bar. Two busty blondes had satisfied that urge earlier in the week when he’d been in Memphis working on a case, but now he was reconsidering his evening plans. There was something about the sharp-tongued brunette with plump lips he’d like to see wrapped around his thick cock and eyes that said “fuck me” and “don’t touch me” all at once.
She moved at record speed as the night wore on, dodging offers of sexual escapades with married men like bullets and always with a smart-ass retort. But she wasn’t hardened, not like most of the sharp-witted women around New York City. She held her head high, like she wouldn’t take shit from anyone. But as soon as those big talkers turned their backs, he swore he saw her exhale and her body become less rigid, more feminine. Not that she wasn’t feminine when she was talking smack. With a body meant for loving, a mouth made for kissing, and hands that gripped a glass with surety, she was a fine mix of strength and delicacy.
He didn’t know why he was assessing her so intimately. Usually Logan was a one-hit wonder kind of guy. Meet ’em, bang ’em, leave ’em behind. The pattern worked well for him over the past thirty-two years, and he was in no hurry to change it. He’d seen too many guys fall into marriage only to hire men like him a few years later to catch their wives with the gardener or the UPS guy. Monogamy was for the birds, and he didn’t fucking care to tweet.
One of the drunken douche bags from the bachelor party was at her again. He’d heard her shut him down earlier, but the guy had had plenty more to drink, and he was leaning across the bar, reaching for her.
She stepped back, lowered her adorably pointed chin, and as she’d done earlier, purred another effective slap. “Hands off, hot stuff. I don’t think your wife wants you coming home with fingerprints.”
“It’s not your fingers I’m interested in.” He leaned both forearms on the bar.
She tossed the hand towel she was using to wipe the bar over her shoulder and walked away. Asshole followed her as she moved to the far side of the bar.
Logan sat up a little straighter, his eyes tracking the guy step for step. Years as a Navy SEAL had taught him how to smell trouble a mile away, and this guy smelled rotten. He didn’t like the look in the guy’s eyes. Logan gripped the edge of the bar and set one foot on the floor.
She called to the bartender at the other end of the bar. “JJ.”
JJ looked over. She nodded her head to the side.
Logan had seen her do that earlier, right before she headed to the ladies’ room. Apparently so had the asshole who wasn’t interested in her fingers. Logan’s hands fisted as he rose to his feet. At six foot three, he had a clear view of the dark-haired guy who was still watching her out of the corner of his eye as she headed for the stairs that led down to the bathroom. He felt a strong hand on his wrist and turned, his muscles taut and ready for a fight.
His buddy Dylan Bad narrowed his dark eyes and leaned across the bar. Where the hell had he come from? Logan’s eyes slid to the swinging door to the stockroom, still moving from Dylan’s entrance.
“Careful with that one, Logan.”
He didn’t need or want the warning. For a second he wondered if Dylan wanted that sexy little bartender for himself, before remembering that Dylan didn’t dip the pen in the company ink, which meant there was something he knew that Logan didn’t. Not for long. He’d deal with that later.