if he was telling himself.
On the other hand, he wouldn’t have to say a word for her to understand that she sucked. She didn’t seem like the oblivious type.
Catherine came in a little before six. She was in the same outfit she’d had on earlier, but her makeup was darker, her lips fully crimson and her eyes lined like an Egyptian pharaoh. The effect was striking.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low and a little hard. Maybe she was still pissed off about him being a jerk earlier. “So you want to show me where everything is?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Blaine gave her a quick tour of the shelves of liquor and mixers behind the bar, pointed out how to operate everything and took her into the storage room to see where all the extra supplies were kept. She seemed attentive enough, asking occasional questions. Then, back at the bar, he watched as she plugged a pourer into a new bottle of vodka and upended it for a four-count into a 12-ounce tumbler. When he took the glass and emptied the contents into a shot jigger, the liquid came right up to the top and was held there by surface tension.
“Impressive,” he said.
“Told you.”
Despite his earlier protestations, he probably wouldn’t have been able to manage on his own. Even if all she could do was pour shots and beer it would help. He should focus on that rather than how badly she was going to fail.
Within an hour, Catherine proved Blaine wrong. She was a fantastic bartender. She knew dozens of recipes, and men loved her—well, the way she looked at least.
The bar had more men than usual. They all hung around, watching her work. Her slim hands moved quickly to fill orders, but she never forgot to smile and flirt with customers either.
And she raked in unbelievable tips.
How odd that two hours could shatter Blaine’s perception of her. He hadn’t thought she could do anything more strenuous than apply lipstick to her mouth. She just seemed so soft and delicate and fragile. He wasn’t even sure why she was doing this. She didn’t have to, and if she was slumming, this was going too far. Bartending wasn’t easy. Of course if you were hot, the male customers would forgive you a lot, but you’d be on your feet for a long while. And she was in a pair of torturous stilettos instead of something more sensible.
Then there was the problem of sharing the space behind the bar. It wasn’t designed to be spacious, but Blaine had never noticed how small it was until she kept brushing past him to reach for extra glasses or liquor she needed. She smelled great—and felt amazing—and his balls tightened, throbbing with want. He might have thought she was doing it on purpose, but she was too brisk and business-like to be flirting with him. Besides, she acted like she was still annoyed about his earlier crack.
That didn’t mean his body could pretend she was just like Rick. Every time she came near him, the little head perked up. Good thing nobody could see him below the waist.
Dusty leaned over the counter on Catherine’s side with a smile. He was with a coworker from his warehouse job. “Hey Catherine, make me that Bond drink. You know the one.”
“The Vesper?” she said.
“Is that what it’s called? Shaken, not stirred?”
Her lips curved into a sexy grin, and a searing jealousy pierced into Blaine’s gut. He wanted that smile for himself, not for Dusty or the other customers. “You got it, secret agent.”
Dusty poked his friend in the ribs. “Told ya she’d know. She drives one of them Bond cars. An Aston Marlin.”
She pushed the drink to Dusty, and he took a sip. She held his eyes and gave him a million watt smile, while waiting for his verdict.
“It’s great!” he said, his eyes drifting down to her generous chest, which her top displayed to its best advantage.
Blaine had an urge to put a couple of fishhooks in Dusty’s pupils and jerk them up, so he’d stop staring at Catherine’s breasts. It was ungentlemanly of him, and Blaine’s mother
On the other hand, he wouldn’t have to say a word for her to understand that she sucked. She didn’t seem like the oblivious type.
Catherine came in a little before six. She was in the same outfit she’d had on earlier, but her makeup was darker, her lips fully crimson and her eyes lined like an Egyptian pharaoh. The effect was striking.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low and a little hard. Maybe she was still pissed off about him being a jerk earlier. “So you want to show me where everything is?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Blaine gave her a quick tour of the shelves of liquor and mixers behind the bar, pointed out how to operate everything and took her into the storage room to see where all the extra supplies were kept. She seemed attentive enough, asking occasional questions. Then, back at the bar, he watched as she plugged a pourer into a new bottle of vodka and upended it for a four-count into a 12-ounce tumbler. When he took the glass and emptied the contents into a shot jigger, the liquid came right up to the top and was held there by surface tension.
“Impressive,” he said.
“Told you.”
Despite his earlier protestations, he probably wouldn’t have been able to manage on his own. Even if all she could do was pour shots and beer it would help. He should focus on that rather than how badly she was going to fail.
Within an hour, Catherine proved Blaine wrong. She was a fantastic bartender. She knew dozens of recipes, and men loved her—well, the way she looked at least.
The bar had more men than usual. They all hung around, watching her work. Her slim hands moved quickly to fill orders, but she never forgot to smile and flirt with customers either.
And she raked in unbelievable tips.
How odd that two hours could shatter Blaine’s perception of her. He hadn’t thought she could do anything more strenuous than apply lipstick to her mouth. She just seemed so soft and delicate and fragile. He wasn’t even sure why she was doing this. She didn’t have to, and if she was slumming, this was going too far. Bartending wasn’t easy. Of course if you were hot, the male customers would forgive you a lot, but you’d be on your feet for a long while. And she was in a pair of torturous stilettos instead of something more sensible.
Then there was the problem of sharing the space behind the bar. It wasn’t designed to be spacious, but Blaine had never noticed how small it was until she kept brushing past him to reach for extra glasses or liquor she needed. She smelled great—and felt amazing—and his balls tightened, throbbing with want. He might have thought she was doing it on purpose, but she was too brisk and business-like to be flirting with him. Besides, she acted like she was still annoyed about his earlier crack.
That didn’t mean his body could pretend she was just like Rick. Every time she came near him, the little head perked up. Good thing nobody could see him below the waist.
Dusty leaned over the counter on Catherine’s side with a smile. He was with a coworker from his warehouse job. “Hey Catherine, make me that Bond drink. You know the one.”
“The Vesper?” she said.
“Is that what it’s called? Shaken, not stirred?”
Her lips curved into a sexy grin, and a searing jealousy pierced into Blaine’s gut. He wanted that smile for himself, not for Dusty or the other customers. “You got it, secret agent.”
Dusty poked his friend in the ribs. “Told ya she’d know. She drives one of them Bond cars. An Aston Marlin.”
She pushed the drink to Dusty, and he took a sip. She held his eyes and gave him a million watt smile, while waiting for his verdict.
“It’s great!” he said, his eyes drifting down to her generous chest, which her top displayed to its best advantage.
Blaine had an urge to put a couple of fishhooks in Dusty’s pupils and jerk them up, so he’d stop staring at Catherine’s breasts. It was ungentlemanly of him, and Blaine’s mother
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