Page 7 of Boss Daddy

His smile says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“What can I get for you, sir?” I ask, putting on the show of a bartender eager to satisfy her newest customer.

“Something good.”

I meet his eyes, ignoring the heat running under my skin. I smile confidently, even if my insides are a mess. “What’re you in the mood for?”

Before he can answer, Ben’s voice cuts in from down the bar. “She made a killer Manhattan earlier.”

Samuel’s eyes flicker with interest, the corners crinkling slightly. He leans in just enough to say, “Surprise me.”

A challenge. The heat in his eyes dares me to impress him, to show him I’m not just some girl who got lucky with a single drink. Determination settles in my gut, grounding me.

I give a small nod. My pulse is doing somersaults as I walk slowly around the bar, scoping out my options while hyper-aware of his eyes following my every movement. There’s no creepy leering causing a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like with Misha. Sam’s attention doesn’t feel dirty or dangerous. It feels exhilarating.

Ilikethe way he watches me.

God help me, that’s dangerous.

My rule about bosses flashes through my mind—don’t get involved, don’t get burned—but that rule feels flimsy when his eyes are on me like this.

“Surprise you,” I mutter under my breath.

Challenge accepted.

My fingers reach for bottles and tools with practiced ease. The sound of clinking glass and the scent of citrus and bitters ground me, reminding me that here, behind the bar, I’m in control.

Samuel’s eyes stay on me. His stillness is unnerving, and it makes my pulse trip over itself, but I continue my task and stay focused.

“Something classic, right? You seem like the type of man who appreciates the basics done perfectly.”

His lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”

I smirk, pouring a measure of bourbon into the mixing glass. “Somewhat. You seem like you don’t tolerate any bullshit. I can respect that.”

I stir the drink, my movements fluid and precise. “Respect is important. Especially when you’re surrounded by drunk idiots five nights a week.” I pause, meeting his gaze head-on. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. “And who do you think you’re dealing with?”

My heart thuds hard. “That’s what I’m still figuring out.”

“Fair enough.”

I lift the strainer and pour the amber liquid into a crystal glass. I pluck an orange peel, twist it over the drink, and drop it in with a flourish. I slide the glass across the bar to him, my fingertips lingering on the edge.

“One Old Fashioned. No bullshit.”

He picks up the glass, his fingers brushing mine for just a second. The contact is brief, but it might as well have been a lightning strike. His eyes never leave mine as he lifts the drink to his lips. He takes a slow sip, his throat working, his jawtightening just a little.

He sets the glass down. “Perfect.”

My smile is small and restrained as I confidently reply, “Glad to hear it, boss.”

His eyes narrow slightly at the wordboss, like it doesn’t sit right with him. He leans in a fraction, his voice dropping low. “You won’t have much time for smooth talk when the place is packed.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I’m good under pressure.”

“I have no doubt.”

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