“Of course!” I lean across the bar and give LAU’s starting goalie an awkward half-hug. The guy’s adorable. Seriously. He’s like a big, sarcastic teddy bear. We’ve known each other for a few years but were especially close when I was dating his friend and hockey teammate, Shorty, aka Bradley Ackerman.
It’s too bad Shorty wound up being an abusive asshole who still enjoys making my life a living hell despite having graduated from LAU and signing with an NHL team a few states away.
If only I’d dated Tukani instead. If I had, I might’ve actually had a chance at getting a nursing job. After breaking up with Shorty, I created an OnlyFans account in hopes of earning some extra cash. It would’ve been fine if my ex hadn’t stumbled upon my indecent photos. When he realized it was me, he tweeted my true identity, putting a massive target on my back for creepers. Afterward, he went on his merry little way to play for the Tumblers with zero consequences for his actions. Meanwhile, I’m still dealing with shady men who want to see my boobs in person.
Asshole.
“How’ve you been?” Tukani asks, bringing me back to the present. He squeezes me tightly but quickly lets me go.
Once my feet are back on solid ground, I answer, “Good, you?”
“Not bad. Trying to find a new place to live since Mama and Papa Taylor are selling the Taylor House,” Tukani informs me.
The Taylor House is basically a bachelor pad where most of LAU’s hockey team lives. Or lived, considering it’s being sold, and they’re all looking for new places now.
“Well, you’re not the only one who’s gonna be homeless if they can’t find a new place,” I tell him.
“Ah, you’re moving too?” he asks.
“Yup. My lease is up, and my landlord is kicking me out in a few weeks.”
“That’s a shame. Maybe we can find a place together, yeah?” His eyebrows bounce up and down as his gaze shamelessly slides down my body.
With a laugh, I shake my head. “Pretty sure all of your one-night stands would hate me if we lived together.”
“Come on, living with a bartender would be dope.”
“For you, maybe.” I grab his usual order of the cheapest beer SeaBird offers, popping the cap off and setting the opened beverage onto the lacquered counter in front of him. “Bottom’s up.”
“That’s my girl.” He lifts the bottle in a silent cheers motion. “You should let me buy you a drink tonight so I can convince you to move in with me.”
The idea alone is laughable. Tukani might be a sweetheart, but he’s also a total player and loves the bachelor life more than almost anything.
“I’m working,” I remind him.
With a wry grin, he offers, “Okay. How ‘bout after?”
My mouth opens to answer him, but I hesitate at the last second, distracted by the same familiar but annoying presence to my left.
I swear I can feel him. Henry Buchanan. Despite already knowing he was here, a small part of me hoped he’d found whatever he was looking for and decided to book it home. Too bad I’ve never been a lucky kind of girl.
The guy has serious don’t fuck with me vibes on a good day, and right now? He looks ready to strangle someone as he approaches the bar, causing the sorority girls to scatter and head to the dance floor.
“So, what do you say?” Tukani prods. “You’ll let me take you out?”
“Maybe some other time,” I tell Tukani, tapping my knuckles against the counter separating us. “Enjoy your drink. This one’s on me.”
He clutches at his chest. “Stealin’ my heart, Mia. Stealin’ my heart.” He grins shamelessly, turns, and ambles toward a table in the back, slipping into the booth beside Gwyn, his on-again, off-again fuck buddy.
Wanted to take me out, my ass.
Suppressing my laugh, I turn to Buchanan, doing my best to appear unaffected by his presence. “Hello again, Professor. Don’t you have a dinner to attend tonight?”
“Do you always flirt with the customers?”
With a frown, I glance at Tukani and back to Buchanan. “Who? Tukani?”
“Can I get a drink, please?” he grits out.
“Someone’s testy today.”
He unclasps the buttons on his navy suit jacket and sits on the barstool across from me. “I said please,” he points out.
Without waiting for his order, I reach for the top shelf, ignoring the hit of deja vu as I fill a glass tumbler with Pappy Van Winkle and set it in front of him.
He doesn’t notice the glass. He’s too busy looking at the tattoo along the inside of my wrist. The word, Pixie, is etched in a soft feminine but blocky font. It’s mine. My handwriting. In honor of my dog, Pixie.
He wants to ask me about it. Everyone does. Whether it’s my Pixie tattoo or one of my others, everyone always asks, and I always tell them to fuck off. Okay, not always. I actually don’t mind talking about my tattoos. But when guys bring them up in hopes of acting like they’re genuinely interested in me as a person instead of only wanting to get in my pants? Yeah, not so much.
Thankfully, I doubt it’s an issue with Buchanan. I’ve seen the women he dates. To say I’m not exactly his type would be a massive understatement. He’s used to primped and polished women who have their shit together. Me? Well, I’m lucky to even take my makeup off before I climb into bed at three o’clock in the morning.
“You gonna leave me another four hundred dollar tip this time?” I ask.
His gaze flicks to mine. “Do I need to?”
I snort. “No, but my credit card bill would thank you for it.”
“You carry a balance on your credit card?” he demands as if the idea alone is ludicrous.
“You don’t?” I challenge. I wipe down the counter with a white dishrag but hesitate when I catch one of the sorority girls stumbling near the exit with her nose in her purse.
“Mia?” Buchanan questions.
I lift my forefinger. “Give me a second.”
Despite the other customers yelling their orders at me, I round the edge of the bar and head toward the girl. Her dress is silver and shimmery and leaves little to the imagination. When I reach her, I fix the fallen strap back into place on her shoulder and ask, “Hey, can I help you find something?”
“Looking for my keys.” Her words are slurred and messy, like her makeup.
Yeah, this girl has had way too much to drink.
“Let me find you an Uber.”
“It’s fine,” she slurs, nearly stumbling into me as she looks up from her clutch. “I can’t afford an Uber anyway.”
“It’s SeaBird’s treat,” I lie. I pull my phone out and confirm her address, telling our bouncer, Rhodes, to keep an eye out for a black sedan along with the correct license plate number. Satisfied the big, burly dude can take care of the girl until her Uber arrives, I head back to the bar while ignoring Buchanan altogether. I shouldn’t. It’s rude. But I’m pretty sure the stick up his toned ass can keep him company until he needs another drink. I can feel him watching me. His judgmental eyes follow my every move as I pour a few more drinks for a couple of customers.
Then, I get to work tapping a keg and filling two mugs, setting them on top of the waitress’s tray so she can deliver them to table three.