Page 25 of The Barkeep and the Bro

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. Frustration and embarrassment darkened his face.

I hadn’t even thought about him not being able to reach. I should’ve had a stepstool on hand.

“Let me help.”

“No, I can get it.”

“Are you sure?” I reached alongside him.

“Boss, it’s all right. I can get it.”

But he couldn’t. His fingers touched the glass but couldn’t grab on. The last thing we needed in this chaos was shattered glass. My arm craned over his. Charlie pushed it away.

“I got it,” he said firmly.

“You don’t. They’re high up.” I didn’t want him to cause the glass to come toppling down, bringing others with it.

“I. Have. It.” Charlie got on his tiptoes and strained every vein in his arm and neck.

I reached over him and grabbed the glass with no problem. Charlie slipped off his toes and fell into me. More heat. More friction. More inhaling his masculine mix of scents. More bubble butt making contact with hardening dick. We stumbled back, two bodies pressed together. I held onto the glass and caught my balance, stopping us from careening into the shelf of liquor.

This time, I was the one with a skeleton made of rubber bands. I snapped away from Charlie, regaining my composure and silently cursing myself for sprouting wood. I slammed the glass on the bar.

“I’ll get a footstool for the future. You could’ve broken a shit ton of glasses,” I growled. “Next time, don’t try to be the hero.”

9

MITCH

From then on, I made sure there was a bar between Charlie and me at all times. For him to get better, he needed to man the bar by himself. True to his word, he was a fast learner and a hard worker, and he enjoyed what he was doing. It was rare to find quality, loyal employees in my industry. Turnover was high. I didn’t want to lose Charlie.

And if he felt his boss’s erection against his ass one more time, I was certain he’d be out the door. So that meant I needed to keep a fucking bar between us.

“Mitch, go home,” Natasha said to me when I descended from my loft office on a gray Tuesday afternoon. It was cold outside but hot and stuffy between my ears.

“I’m fine,” I said with a deep sniffle.

“You’re sick.”

I waved her off. She took a step backward when I reached the main floor like I was radioactive or something. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Natasha held her ground, providing a buffer between the staff and me. She was a skinny thing, but I pitied anyone who tried to get in a fight with her. “You’ve been sneezing and coughing all morning.”

“I’m fine.” When did we become so fragile about a little head cold?

“Boss.” Charlie stepped from behind the bar, looking fucking dreamy as always in a fitted flannel shirt. He approached tentatively. “You’re a tank. An ox. A Suburu. You’re built strong.” He made a fist.

“What’s your point?”

“Even tanks can break down every once in a while.” He squeezed his lips tight as he continued through his minefield. “You’re sick. Sick happens.”

“Thanks for the bumper sticker wisdom.” I grabbed a cocktail napkin and wiped my nose, which was sore and sensitive from all the sneezing and sniffling. “I’ve gotten sick before. It sounds worse than it is. But I’m staying upstairs, not interacting with customers or food and drink.”

“Mitch, go home,” Natasha said. “Unlike Charlie, I won’t resort to similes.”

“Actually, it’s a metaphor because I didn’t use like or as.”

She held up a commanding hand to silence him, then whipped her head to me. “Mitch, you look and sound like shit. Take a sick day, go home, and rest.”

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