Page 2 of The Lair

“You know what you did.” That rough, deep voice doesn’t need to ask any questions. He knows I messed up, and I don’t have it in me to play coy.

Yet I don’t answer right away. My shift finishes in five minutes, so maybe if I stay really quiet and stand really still, he’ll forget I’m here. And when I make my escape in five—now four—minutes, it’ll be too late for a scolding.

People can say what they want about Travis, but he never makes us stay a minute past our shifts at the bar and is equally as strict with our arrival times. It’s in his ex-Navy SEAL blood, I bet.

But luck hasn’t been on my side for the past twenty-five years, and it’s not going to start now.

“Allie.”

He says my name in a way that sounds more like a grunt.

When he crosses those bulky arms over his chest, I know he’s pissed. Travis isn’t a huge talker, which means I’ve memorized his body language to a T. But even if I hadn’t, the tightness of his jaw and the permanent notch between his brows paint a very clear picture.

“I messed up the stock order, didn’t I?”

He says nothing, as if he were waiting for me to answer my own stupid question.

I’ve endured much worse than this grumpy mountain of a man—ex-military or not—so instead of begging for his oh-so-great forgiveness, I ask, “How can I fix it?”

His answer is, of course, “You can’t.”

Okay, now he’s being pessimistic for no reason.

I square my shoulders and keep my gaze on his unwavering mossy green eyes, barely paying any attention to his massive upper body that belongs in wrestling matches where sweaty, half-naked men beat each other up for fun.

“What are we short on? Rum? Rye whiskey? I can stop by the liquor store and come back in”—I glance at the clock on the wall—“twenty minutes. I’ll pay for them out of my own pocket.”

When he says nothing, I know my attempt at a reconciliation isn’t working. But I don’t give up.

“How many bottles do we need? Just say.”

Travis doesn’t waver. Good thing I’m a master at reading his poker faces, or else we would have much more frustrating one-sided conversations.

“Look,” I start as the clock strikes the end of my shift, “I’m sorry I messed up the stock order. I wish I could say it won’t happen again, but we both know it might because that computer hates me. I can promise I will pay more attention, though.”

Honesty is all I can give him.

And not even that if I’m being technical.

My brain betrays me as our stare off contest continues. Because now isnotthe time to think that his perpetually pissed-off look suits him. In a weird way, it does. That grouchy face makes him look handsome but not approachable, like an awe-inducing wild animal.

I really need to stop thinking about his rugged-in-an-attractive-way face, or his thick, short beard that would cover his lips if it weren’t so carefully trimmed, or how black his hair looks under the lights of the bar even though I know it’s dark brown. I really should.

Travis shifts his stance, only to cross his arms tighter. The deep, frustrated sigh he lets out parts the hairs on my bangs.

“You ordered six bottles of scotch, three bottles of brandy, and four bottles of apple vodka.” A pause. I don’t like this pause. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach drop. “You had to order boxes, not bottles.”

I wince. “I can’t get all of that at the store, right?”

“Right.”

This…is bad. Really bad. Making an honest mistake or two is okay, part of human nature and all that, but this is different. Because I didn’t just mess up one stock order last week—three months ago, I messed up another one, and just yesterday, I tripped over Charlie’s stupid backpack in the changing room, and in a desperate attempt to save my nose from being broken, I broke the door handle instead.

I hate disappointing people who are counting on me. It doesn’t matter that Travis fixed the door handle in two minutes or that a few messed-up stock orders here and there won’t put The Lair out of business. I didn’t get yelled at—not that boss man ever raises his voice to start with—but what difference does it make? I still feel like crap.

I really like this job, damn it. I’m happy here.

I’m happy for the first time in a very, very long time.

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