Page 24 of Dark Horse

Or maybe a hyphenate? Sugar-daddy Cowboy?

THE DEVIL:

Jesus Christ, Hartfield.

Do not under any circumstances call me Daddy or Cowboy. Sugar or otherwise.

No cutesy nicknames. Period.

I break out into laughter, and Gemma eyes me from down the bar, raising a brow in question, and I just shake my head.

Is that rule number one?

Apparently, it needs to be.

What’s number two, Cutesy Cowboy?

I can imagine him now, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back, dressed to perfection in one of his expensive suits, to give me that deadpanned look of disappointment. I can’t help the roll of laughter that escapes as I move to the next customer.

“Okay, you have to tell me what’s so funny.” Gemma sidles up next to me as she grabs some cherry and lime to garnish the drink she’s mixing.

“Just a guy I’m talking to. He’s so uptight, and I drive him insane.”

“In a good way or bad way?” Her brows knit together as she secures the slice of lime to the edge of the glass.

“That’s the question. Both, maybe?”

“Hmm. Can’t wait to hear the updates on this one.” She grins and hustles off to deliver the drink.

THE DEVIL:

Stop. Or I’ll put you on your knees and make you call me sir.

I feel the flush of excitement over my skin and the warmth of interest pool low. I don’t hate the idea. Not even a little bit. But I’m not about to let him know. The man has enough aces up his sleeve. I don’t need to give him any more by letting him know he might, on rare occasions, feature in a fantasy or two of mine.

I’d rather be over your knees. You can slap my ass a few times while I recite the names I’m not allowed to call you.

The dots appear and disappear a couple of times, and I give up on getting a reply. Maybe I don’t have to be nervous about any of this; maybe I’ve already ruined it before it ever got started.

An onslaught of customers makes their way in, and I get lost in the shuffle. I’ve almost finished the line when I turn to another customer, one with pretty deep-brown eyes and dimples. This one is much more my speed than the one I’m trading barbs over texts with.

“What can I get you, handsome?”

“Your number for starters.” He grins and then looks up at the draft board. “And then whatever kind of wheat beer you’ve got on draft.”

“I’ve got a Blue Moon or a new one from Breckenridge. Pick your poison.”

“Breckenridge works.”

“Coming right up.”

“And the number?”

“You have to earn that.” I wink at him and then move to start pouring the glass.

I look down, and my phone flashes again with a message. I hand the beer off and take his card for a tab. He compliments the head on my pour and makes a promise to earn his way into my phone before I can look at it again.

THE DEVIL:

---