Page 21 of The Lair

“One drink, and I’ll stop pestering you,” I tell him. “Sounds like a great deal to me, considering I’m planning to keep pestering you if you don’t agree.”

He isn’t amused, which only makes this even more fun for me. So what if I enjoy poking the bear? It’s not like he’ll fire me over this—he’s had enough reasons to before today, yet here I am.

When he still doesn’t answer, I circle the bar until I get to the other side, open the cooler, and take out a cold beer. Then I shove it into Travis’s giant hand as his eyes scan every inch of my face, probably looking for the audacity.

“You touched it, so now it’s yours.”

A beat passes. Travis only blinks.

“Go, boss man. Charlie and I got this.”

And then I make a mistake.

In an effort to convince Travis that the world won’t end if he has a drink with his friends, I wrap my hand around his forearm to guide him to their table. But when I touch his bare, hairy, firm skin, something weird happens.

Something weird andbad.

A sudden jolt of electricity climbs up all the way from my hand and lands in the pit of my stomach—and that traitorous jolt of electricity flutters. Just once, but it’s enough for me to recognize what is going on.

A butterfly.

A stupid butterfly has taken flight in my stomach, bumping into every corner of it.

I let go of his arm as if he were on fire. Travis hasn’t moved an inch from his original spot.

Wearing what I’m pretty sure is a nervous smile, I say, “I need to go back to my tables, but think about it. Even if it’s only for ten minutes, you deserve a break. We’ll be fine, and it’s not like you’ll be leaving the bar anyway. If we mess up, feel free to yell at me.”

His body still hasn’t moved. Those eyes travel from the hand that just touched him to my face in one slow, agonizing swipe that makes the single butterfly in my stomach flap its wings a little faster.

And then he says, “I would never yell at you.”

My heart jumps.

Yes, someone not yelling at me should be the bare minimum, but I’m not focusing on that. Travis never yells at anyone.

It’s the way he says it that makes the butterfly in my stomach start getting ideas. It’s the subtle change in his voice, from gruff and annoyed to gruff and almost soft. Softer, at least. As if the mere idea of yelling at me made him sick to his stomach.

Or maybe I’m just seeing things.

The small smile I give him is genuine and maybe a little freaked out becausewhat the hell is happening to me, and can it stop?“I know. It’s just a figure of speech.”

“I don’t like it.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Okay.”

We stare at each other, neither of us brave enough to end the safety of this silence. It takes one of his friends calling his name for him to break our impromptu stare off contest.

“Go with them.” I nudge him one last time. If he insists on being a workaholic grump, at least I tried.

But the planets or stars must be aligned because Travis lets out a deep breath—one that tells me he’s already tired of dealing with me—and says the last thing I expected. “Fine. Ten minutes.”

Because I’m a little shit, I say, “Make it twenty.”

I don’t imagine that growl. “You won’t drop this, will you?”

“Nope.”

And if my playful smirk bothers him, he doesn’t say.

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