Page 75 of Secret Twins for My Ex's SEAL Best Friend

“What does the drawer usually make on a Wednesday night?” Robert asked, his gaze sweeping across the bar as though he could calculate it himself by sheer force of will.

I hesitated, thrown off by the absurdity of the question. “I don’t know… on a Wednesday…maybe $4,000?”

He nodded, seemingly unfazed, as though that number meant nothing to him.

Slowly, he reached for his wallet and pulled out a sleek black card, heavier than any credit card I’d ever seen. He handed it to me without hesitation. “Run it for $8,000.”

I stared at the card like it might explode. “Robert, are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, climbing up onto one of the tables before I could stop him.

His size and weight made it creak dangerously, but he didn’t seem to care. He turned to me over his shoulder and winked. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Robert, no!” I hissed, but it was too late.

“Excuse me!” he boomed, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The entire bar fell silent. Heads turned, all eyes on him.

Robert had that kind of presence—the kind that commanded attention without even trying. I remembered noticing it when I saw him in class before I recognized him, how he seemed larger than life, someone impossible to ignore.

The quiet murmurs of the crowd turned to nothing but expectant silence as he continued.

“Listen up, folks! I need you all to leave. Now.”

A ripple of annoyed groans and protests ran through the room.

“Hold on,” he added, holding up a hand. “I’ll make it worth your while. Talk it over, and tell me how much you’d want to make it worth your while. Name a price.” Everyone stood silently, no one turning to talk it over. “Go on. You have three minutes. I’ll be the guy on the table.”

The crowd erupted into chattering, people whispering and throwing numbers around.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—Robert Hastings, standing on a table, negotiating with a bar full of strangers. I didn’t know whether to laugh or sink into the floor in embarrassment.

After a moment, a man stepped forward, clearing his throat. “150 each,” he announced, his voice bold and certain.

Robert grinned, satisfied, and began counting heads before stepping down from the table with a grace I wouldn’t have expected.

“That works for me.” He walked over to the ATM near the door and withdrew a thick stack of cash. As he did so, I did the math. I had about 25 customers in the bar. At $150 each, that was $3,750. He waved it and announced, “Everyone will get theirs as they leave. Please close out over at the bar and then come this way when you are leaving.”

I could only stand there, stunned into silence, as patrons came to me to close out and made their way in an orderly line toward the door to eagerly take their cash. Within minutes, the place was empty.

When the last person left and the door shut behind them, I finally found my voice. “You didn’t have to do that,” I muttered, though the words lacked any real fight.

Robert shrugged, his tone softer now. “You needed a break.”

I folded my arms, frustration bubbling up even as a small part of me felt grateful.

“I need the money, Robert. I’m still trying to pay for school. Now that you’ve sent everyone away, I won’t get tips.”

His gaze softened, and something flickered in his expression—guilt, maybe, or regret. “I should have thought of that,” he admitted. “How much do you usually make in tips?”

“Robert, seriously—”

“Humor me,” he said gently, holding my gaze.

I sighed, reluctantly answering, “Around $500.”

Without another word, Robert reached into his wallet and pulled out a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, laying them neatly on the counter.

“What’s this?” I asked, my brows furrowing as I stared at the money.

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