Big Daddy Wants Me

2: Waverly.

A door clicks shut across the room behind me, the sound nearly lost beneath the music and hum of conversation. I’d never hear it if I weren’t so freaking attuned, my ears constantly straining for him.

My heartbeat trips—then restarts at double-time.

My grip tightens on my pencil.

“Red alert,” Maria breaks off to say, her eyes widening and flicking over my shoulder. “Mayday, mayday.”

Lips pursed, I nod and flick my sketchbook to another page. An innocent page, with a sketch I did earlier of two regulars sharing a smoke just outside the bar doorway, their hands cupped against the wind.

Nothing to see here. No weirdly loving sketches of a man I’ve barely met; a man who must be twenty years older than me, with the fine lines and silver flecks to prove it. No, sir.

“Okay?” Kyle mutters as he slides behind the bar, his dark eyes flicking to me before settling on his employee. Maria nods furiously, scrubbing at the bar top harder than before, the cloth squeezed tight in her hand.

Yeah, turns out Maria can’t lie to save her life. Or mine.

I swallow, shading one of the men’s sleeves in my drawing. They were both wearing those thick flannel shirts that are like a uniform here in the fall.

Be cool, Maria. Be cool.

The boss’s gaze narrows on her as he leans down to open a refrigerator—then there’s a waft of chilled air, and Kyle crouches behind the bar to check on the stock.

“Whiskey’s low too,” Maria says helpfully. “I was gonna get more once you were here to watch the bar.”

Kyle grunts again, and there’s a clink of bottles out of sight. Maria scuttles gratefully out from behind the bar, winking at me as she hurries toward the stock room in the back.

Then I’m left in silence with the star of my sketchbook. My hand sweats around my pencil, and I adjust my grip, trying to act like I’m not holding my breath while I wait for the boss to appear again.

His hand comes first, strong and callused with the faint lines of old scars, gripping the edge of the bar. I stare at it shamelessly, trying to commit the short nails and square knuckles to memory, before the grip tightens and the rest of the man rises into view.

Short dark hair, pushed back from his forehead—not quite black, but the darkest brown.

Tan skin, faintly lined at his forehead, and thick, heavy eyebrows, always pinched together in a scowl.

Then those eyes. Those eyes. Hazel irises, a flecked swirl of brown and green, like a blurred impression of the forested mountainside—surrounded by dark, smoky eyelashes.

My fingertips tingle around my pencil. My pulse flutters in my wrists and throat.

I’m staring right at Kyle.

He’s staring back.

When he finally looks away, it’s to glance at the drink by my elbow. It’s still half full, with condensation sliding down the outside of the glass and a slice of lemon bobbing where two ice cubes used to be. I snatch it up and take a sip.

Kyle watches me swallow, his scowl shifting to my throat. I swear to god, static crackles in the air—like when lightning readies to strike the mountain peak. I fidget on my stool.

Does he feel it too?

Kyle’s chest rises and falls beneath his navy flannel shirt, but he says nothing. Not a single word to me until Maria comes back, heaving a cardboard box onto the bar with a clinking chorus of glass bottles.

“Hoo!” she says, wiping her arm across her forehead. “We need to dust down that stock room, boss. There are enough spiders in there to hold a council meeting.”

A strange expression slides across Kyle’s features—here and gone so fast I can’t read it properly. Then he nods and clips out, “Do it now, then. I’ll watch the bar.”

Maria beams, squeezing behind the bar to gather up dusting supplies. Cloths, spray bottles and a feather duster fill her arms, then she’s off again, calling out a cheerful greeting to a table of regulars.

Kyle watches her go, his expression thoughtful.

Heart racing, I shade in another section of sleeve.

“I cleaned that stock room this morning,” Kyle says after a long while, his deep, gravelly voice making me jump. I blink up at him, my pencil stilling on the paper. “And Maria’s not the type to slack off. So what’s her game here? Do you know, Waverly?”

Kyle knows my name? Since when? How?

“I… I’m not… I don’t…”

Good lord, I’ve forgotten how to speak. Always thought that someone being tongue-tied was a figure of speech, but now it’s like my tongue has been knotted in an actual pretzel. Kill me now.

It’s just so hard to form words when the hot, stern older man I’ve been dreaming about all summer is right there, polishing a glass with a cloth. At least he’s not staring directly at me anymore, because then I can’t speak at all. Can barely even breathe.

Whoo. Okay.

I can do this. I can make casual conversation with the man I’ve pictured laying me across his lap and spanking my ass until it’s pink. I can.

But: “Bathroom,” I blurt, hopping down off my stool and hurrying away on wobbly legs.

Breaking news: I’m going to die a virgin.