Page 11 of The Bartender's Baby

Then he relaxed against the door, his arms across his chest, ankles crossed like he had all the time in the world. A silent threat to follow through. He really wouldn’t let me out of here.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He lifted one shoulder. “The truth.”

THREE

NATE

Tabby’s face drained of color at my suggestion that she tell me the truth. Whatever she’d been hiding must have been eating at her, and I wasn’t a monster. I wouldn’t force her to talk about anything she didn’t want to, but she had to give me something.

“How about you tell me about your family? Do they know?” She rarely talked about her family, though I’d learned she’d never really known her mother and that her dad had passed from a stroke when she was in high school. She’d told me after I’d bugged her about why she always volunteered to work holidays. There had never been a Thanksgiving, New Year’s, Father’s Day, or anything in between she didn’t work.

“Um, no,” she said, shutting down any more conversation on that topic with a raised brow.

I tunneled my fingers through my hair, amazed I hadn’t pulled out any clumps this past week for how often I’d been yanking on it. “What about your boyfriend? You told him yet?”

“Boyfriend is a gracious term.”

“So, what? You’re not together?” I asked because I couldn’t pretend I didn’t care anymore. Not when I could recall each and every thing she’d ever said about him, which hadn’t been a wholehell of a lot. It was casual. They’d split up and get back together every few months, about when I’d happen to find some young thing to occupy my attention.

“You know it’s more of a friends-with-benefits situationship.”

That’s right. I did know. “You don’t want to tie him down.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “I very much doubt he wants to be tied down.”

“What about you?”

She shrugged. This girl. Maddening. Offered only enough to make me more curious.

“What do you even like about him?”

She answered that easily enough. “He’s tall.”

I slapped my hand to my chest. “I’m tall.”

“He’s six-fivetall.”

“I’m six-one.”

“I know math’s not your strong suit, but that’s a four-inch difference.”

I shot her a look. “So, his height? That’s what you like about him?”

“And he’s got blue eyes.”

I pointed at my eyes, and as if she knew I’d argue the point, she said, “He’s in finance.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“He’s got money and a secure future.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” I circled my hand above my head to encompass the bar. “But we’re doing pretty well here. I’ve made good investments, and I’m opening up another location.”

Then I promptly shut the fuck up, realizing I was showing my hand. I had to stop talking, stop trying to prove I was the better choice.

Though, she didn’t seem to notice anyway, too busy arguing with me. “You don’t have security. This could all go up in smoke tomorrow.”

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