shouted.
Lille saw Max out of the corner of her eye, but she kept her focus on the kid who clearly thought he was the shiznitz. She took the hundreds, didn’t even look at them, before laughing and pulling a tray to start the bombs. Max had already lined up the shot glasses.
Carl arrived, waving at Lille and Max as she was pouring the thick green liquid across all twelve shots. Max shouted at him.
“Carl, get your ass back here.”
Carl nodded, rolling his eyes in Lille’s direction and gently pulling a woman’s arm away. She’d run into him and had been sliding her hand down his chest.
Lille wasn’t surprised by the attention she was getting—she enjoyed it, but she wasn’t stupid enough to think it meant anything. The college kid wasn’t the first person to ask for her number. Several older men, all of them fit and weathered in a way that spoke of money, golf, and fishing on the open seas, had indicated that they would love to share her company. She’d taken their cards instead. Charlie had declared at the top of his lungs that he was in love and that a goddess had broken his heart; a beautiful dark-haired woman in a low-cut red top had suggested that Lille join her in a threesome; and a dude wearing a cream-colored suit, with curly hair and braces, had stood in the corner of the room and stared at her most of the night.
She absorbed, deflected, or outright refused propositions with an expertise gained from long experience. Mary was also working the audience, entering the orders on the touch screen near the waitress station. Every time she returned to the bar, she delivered more requests for Lille’s number. Max was handling that side of the bar, so he saw the cards and pieces of paper torn from the flyers on the walls pile up near the waitress station. He threw a handful away under Mary’s amused gaze.
He hated to admit it, but Lille was an excellent bartender. She was efficient, capable in a way that was almost scary. She worked with a focused intensity that once again reminded him of John and the way he behaved around crowds of people—hyperaware and quick to react. It wasn’t that she didn’t interact with the customers, or she kept a stone face or anything. She talked and laughed and danced along with the music as she poured, her long legs lovingly encased in those black leggings, her blond hair in a messy ponytail along the back of her neck; he wanted to push it away and kiss her neck, maybe bite it a little. But for all her charm, she seemed watchful, and distant, as if she saw something else beneath the surface of the crowd and the lights and the music.
An hour after last call, the only people left in the bar were the band members, who were drinking and smoking on the patio with a couple of their diehards, while Mary and Lille helped Luis gather glasses and clean the bar area. Max had taken Bambi out and now she was investigating the floor of the tavern. The Chieftains were singing “The Long Black Veil” on the jukebox and the room reeked of spilled beer and vaguely, in one corner, of puke.
Mary picked up the remains of several Irish car bombs with a grimace.
“Ugh. These are gross,” she muttered.
Lille concurred; that’s why she’d ignored them in favor of gathering up martini glasses and shots from a corner table. She kept herself in shape, but her legs and shoulders ached from the constant motion.
She felt good, though, working next to Max, watching the muscles in his arms flex, hearing him laugh, catching the faint whiff of cigarette smoke and Bulgari cologne. She hadn’t spoken more than five words to the man all evening, but she’d felt him watching her. She’d also seen all the female glances sent his way. He was gorgeous, with his rough stubble and corded muscles and surly sneer. She slid him a glance and caught his bold appraisal of her ass as she bent to wipe down a table. He wanted her, but he didn’t pretend to like her or worship her. She looked forward to
Lille saw Max out of the corner of her eye, but she kept her focus on the kid who clearly thought he was the shiznitz. She took the hundreds, didn’t even look at them, before laughing and pulling a tray to start the bombs. Max had already lined up the shot glasses.
Carl arrived, waving at Lille and Max as she was pouring the thick green liquid across all twelve shots. Max shouted at him.
“Carl, get your ass back here.”
Carl nodded, rolling his eyes in Lille’s direction and gently pulling a woman’s arm away. She’d run into him and had been sliding her hand down his chest.
Lille wasn’t surprised by the attention she was getting—she enjoyed it, but she wasn’t stupid enough to think it meant anything. The college kid wasn’t the first person to ask for her number. Several older men, all of them fit and weathered in a way that spoke of money, golf, and fishing on the open seas, had indicated that they would love to share her company. She’d taken their cards instead. Charlie had declared at the top of his lungs that he was in love and that a goddess had broken his heart; a beautiful dark-haired woman in a low-cut red top had suggested that Lille join her in a threesome; and a dude wearing a cream-colored suit, with curly hair and braces, had stood in the corner of the room and stared at her most of the night.
She absorbed, deflected, or outright refused propositions with an expertise gained from long experience. Mary was also working the audience, entering the orders on the touch screen near the waitress station. Every time she returned to the bar, she delivered more requests for Lille’s number. Max was handling that side of the bar, so he saw the cards and pieces of paper torn from the flyers on the walls pile up near the waitress station. He threw a handful away under Mary’s amused gaze.
He hated to admit it, but Lille was an excellent bartender. She was efficient, capable in a way that was almost scary. She worked with a focused intensity that once again reminded him of John and the way he behaved around crowds of people—hyperaware and quick to react. It wasn’t that she didn’t interact with the customers, or she kept a stone face or anything. She talked and laughed and danced along with the music as she poured, her long legs lovingly encased in those black leggings, her blond hair in a messy ponytail along the back of her neck; he wanted to push it away and kiss her neck, maybe bite it a little. But for all her charm, she seemed watchful, and distant, as if she saw something else beneath the surface of the crowd and the lights and the music.
An hour after last call, the only people left in the bar were the band members, who were drinking and smoking on the patio with a couple of their diehards, while Mary and Lille helped Luis gather glasses and clean the bar area. Max had taken Bambi out and now she was investigating the floor of the tavern. The Chieftains were singing “The Long Black Veil” on the jukebox and the room reeked of spilled beer and vaguely, in one corner, of puke.
Mary picked up the remains of several Irish car bombs with a grimace.
“Ugh. These are gross,” she muttered.
Lille concurred; that’s why she’d ignored them in favor of gathering up martini glasses and shots from a corner table. She kept herself in shape, but her legs and shoulders ached from the constant motion.
She felt good, though, working next to Max, watching the muscles in his arms flex, hearing him laugh, catching the faint whiff of cigarette smoke and Bulgari cologne. She hadn’t spoken more than five words to the man all evening, but she’d felt him watching her. She’d also seen all the female glances sent his way. He was gorgeous, with his rough stubble and corded muscles and surly sneer. She slid him a glance and caught his bold appraisal of her ass as she bent to wipe down a table. He wanted her, but he didn’t pretend to like her or worship her. She looked forward to
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