Page 10 of Peaches

Rhett crosses his arms over his chest. “You have a kink for this shit or something?”

I balk, my shoulders rising to my ears. “What?”

“You were with a douchebag last night, which I’d hoped was just a fluke,” he says, uncrossing his arms to lean over the bar. He brings his face within a foot of mine, his glare sharp and biting. “But now I’ve got you parading another one around—inmybar, no less. I don’t have time for this shit, peaches.”

Peaches. What the heck?

“I’m not parading anyone around,” I argue. I’m just . . .dating!”

He has the audacity to smile, though the way his face twists reflects zero humor. “Right,” he says, shaking his head. He backs away from me again, leaving room for me to gulp down a deep breath.

I watch him examine a stack of dirty drinking glasses, tossing their remaining contents into a wide trash can before moving them to the sink behind the bar.

“He was right, by the way,” I mumble. Rhett looks at me, brows dipped in question. I drag my glass back and forth through its puddle of condensation. “This is terrible.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Milk’s ’bout two weeks past old.”

I grimace, looking down at the liquid I thought was supposed to be curdled, and cough to mask my gag.

“I don’t know why you’re wasting time with guys like that,” he grumbles, abandoning the dirty glasses to reach for a bottle of whiskey from the well below.

“Guys like what?” I demand irritably.

He looks me square in the eye, a clear challenge. “You know exactly what I mean.” He pours the whiskey into two water-spotted shot glasses before pushing one toward me.

I stare at it hesitantly. “No, I don’t. And I didn’t order a shot.”

“It’ll kill whatever bacteria’s in your mouth from that milk.”

I frown. “You shouldn’t have served rotten milk to begin with, asshole.”

“Fine.” Rhett shrugs, reaching to pull the shot back toward himself. He sighs before lifting the glass to his lips and tipping the whiskey into his mouth. I watch as his jaw works around a heavy swallow, still in disbelief that this is what the night’s come to. He sets it down on the bar’s counter with a loud thud and immediately picks up the second one, downing that too.

“I don’t think you can do that,” I say.

“Do what?” he snaps, that buzzing frustration on full display.

“Drink on the job.”

“Says who?” He makes a show of looking around, like Sheriff Joe or some suit from the Texas liquor board might suddenly appear out of thin air.

I roll my eyes. “I’m just saying . . . it’s a little unbecoming to watch the bartender down shots faster than his customers. Seems a little messy, don’t you think?”

“Peaches, everything about my life is messy, haven’t you heard?”

That name again. “Look . . . I should go.” I pull the straps of my purse up onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Tony?—”

“Wait,” Rhett interrupts. He reaches to lift his hat off his head before settling it back down, then crosses his arms over his chest again. He seems . . . anxious. Like all that frustrated energy rolling through him has no place to go. “Stay.”

I’m pinned with that heavy focus again, like he’s trying to make sense of me, and I’m not sure what to make of it. “Stay?” I ask.

“Please.” He sighs, scratching at his jaw with the knuckle of his middle finger. “Just . . . stay . . . ’til I’m off. And I’ll take you home after.”

I glance back at the door behind me, knowing it would only take me a half hour to walk home from here. Maybe less. Rhett’s not going to be off for at least another few hours; if the steady buzzing of conversation and riotous laughter is any indication, it’s a busy night at Wild Coyote. Plus, Ijustwatched him down two shots of whiskey, so even if he is done with work soon, I don’t think getting in a car with him is a smart move.

Every logical consideration in my brain tells me it’s time to bail on this whole weird night and find reprieve in the comfort of my little backwoods bungalow.

But when I pause to study Rhett, I find a sincerity in his eyes. Something protective and concerned and . . . tired, I think. It’s the same look he gave me in the hallway at Spurs last night, the one that hooked under my skin and left a mark I don’t know how to describe—exactly what’s happening now. So, against all reason, I lean into the instinct to stay and see this—whatever “this” is—through.

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