Page 45 of On The Rocks

Was that what he was doing to me?

Quietly, he hung out there at the end of the bar. Watchful and charming, but never pushy. I’d happily fill his glass, chat when things were slow, but I didn’t want to let him in. Didn’t want to let anyone in.

And yet, here I was—in his place.

Overnight.

I could have left last night, and I’d chosen not to.

Chosenbeing the very important word.

And I’d slept.

I always loved my own space. When I did a bit of naked entertainment, I was quick to bounce after the main event.

Not only had I slept here—not completely without some very effective persuasion—but I requested breakfast.

And this guy was plating up a damn gourmet omelette—at least gourmet to me. I was lucky I had a Pop Tart in the mornings. Hell, when I wasn’t in orchard mode, I was lucky to crawl out of bed before one in the afternoon.

Griffin, with those distracting shoulders and stupid hands, returned to the kitchen with the pan and put it right in the damn dishwasher.

Who was this guy?

Was he just showing off for me?

I glanced around the room and decided that was a no. His place was positively tidy, save for a few albums sticking out from his staggering collection. I drifted over, unable to deny my curiosity.

Otis Redding, Myles Davis, and the last one on the actual turntable was Taylor Swift. I laughed and flicked on the player and pulled over the arm to set the needle on the first song.

He was pouring orange juice and looked up, meeting my gaze. “Secret’s out.”

“Secret Swifty?”

He laughed. “Kain brought it over, thinking to insult me. Now I have a complete collection.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as “Willow” drifted out of his impressive surround sound situation. I glanced around, surprised there wasn’t a television in the mix.

Hmm.

I climbed the two steps up to the kitchen and sat across from him. “This looks amazing.”

He grinned. “Growing up in a hotel had some perks.”

I paused with my fork in my hand. “What now?”

He laughed and picked up his silverware, then cut open the steaming, fluffy omelette. “My mom worked for a place called the Kona. Part of the perks were living there instead of a shit place in Honolulu.”

“Wow. Infinite room service sounds good to me.”

“You’d think.” He rested his forearms along the edge of the table and focused on me so intently my stomach jittered. Then his grin returned— easy-peasy Griffin back in control. “However, the chef liked me. Taught me how to fend for myself when my mom was busy.” He forked up a bite.

There was something else under the words. Like a story he was used to telling to downplay the truth. I understood full well what it meant to grow up with a working mother. Daphne Hathaway had worked two jobs, sometimes just to keep us in a rathole apartment.

“My mom taught me how to build a perfect Guinness before I was twelve.”

He laughed. “Solid talent. Not sure a twelve-year-old should have been behind the bar.”

“I usually hid in the back office with my iPad, but I couldn’t resist sneaking out to listen to the patrons. Some were obviously hitting on my mom, but most were just telling stories about their crappy jobs. When my mom torpedoed their incredibly bad pickup lines, they moved on to the single—or not so single,” I said wryly, “women who showed up Thursday through Saturday nights.”

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