Page 25 of Hemlock

"I followed you home the other night," he answers without hesitation.

I should probably feel a little worried that a stranger followed me home, and even more so when I realize that I know for a fact that there wasn't a headlight in my rearview mirror because I was looking for one, hoping he would've changed his mind.

"How did my car get to my house?"

I left with him on the bike and he took me home. I was worried about a ride to work when I looked outside and found my car sitting in the driveway.

"Had it towed," he responds, lifting his beer to his lips.

"What do I owe you for the tow?"

"Nothing you didn't pay me for last night."

"If I fucked you for a tow, then I should get your change out of the tip jar."

Instead of backpedaling or growing indignant, that dimple deepens once again, making me want to trace it with the tip of one finger.

I glare at him, but the front door opens, and a group of rowdy women I've never seen before enter with a whoop.

They gather around a pub table, forcing me out from behind the bar like a waitress rather than one of them coming to get the entire table's order.

"Merry Christmas," I tell them as I approach.

Several of them smile in my direction, their eyes already glassy, telling me this isn't going to be their first drink tonight.

"You gals have twenty minutes left to order," I say. "We close a little early tonight for the holiday."

"We're doing a bar crawl," the most sober one says. "They'll all have margaritas. I'll take a bottle of water."

"On the rocks okay?"

She dips her head, and I feel grateful that I don't have to fish the blender out of the back. It's a huge pain in the ass to clean, and I’d rather spend my night doing something else instead.

I'm aware of Owen's eyes on me the entire time I make the drinks. I carry them to the table, smiling when the woman who asked for water urges all of them to drink quickly, because "it's time for you bitches to go to bed."

Laughter from the table swarms around me, but it's only a few minutes later that the women leave, a huge tip for the trouble left behind on the table with the empty margarita glasses.

"I want you again," Owen growls when I'm standing back in front of him.

I can't help the way my skin heats, a flush inching its way onto my cheeks.

"On one condition," I say, watching with alarm when he sits up straighter on his barstool as if this will be the moment he begins to argue with me. "It has to be indoors. I'm pretty certain I have a mild case of frostbite on my nipples from last night."

My eyes widen when laughter erupts from his lips, a sound I would've lost the bet that I'd ever hear it.

Just as I suspected, his dimple is devastating, his eyes alight with humor.

The laughter stops as quickly as it started, but the glint of happiness in his eyes lingers for a few seconds longer, making me feel special.

Instead of arguing, he simply dips his head as if he's agreeing to something a little more basic than another sexual encounter with me.

"I have to clean up some before I leave. You can hang out here or you can wait for me outside."

His eyes dart to the top of the bar where my hand is resting, and I can see the way his mind is working.

"Nope," I tell him before the thought can even take root. "I'm not letting you fuck me on the bar."

"Are you fucking him?"

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