Page 39 of Roommate's Guide to Love

Alone.

I have some bills and invoices I need to go through, but it feels weird being able to catch up on paperwork during normal business hours. Also, what am I going to do with a Saturday night off? I haven’t had one of those in…I don’t even know. Maybe I’ll get out of town. Grab a drink at a bar that’s not my own.

Or, more than likely, I’ll sit right here at the end of the bar and pretend not to stare at Quinn.

After last night’s shift, I probably need to give myself some space from her, but I don’t know if I have that in me. When she was pressed against me last night—purely on accident on both our parts—after Jenny made mention of Dad’s wake, I could tell we had both been transported back to that night. I wasthisclose to kissing her in front of everyone and not giving a flying fuck.

Over the past week I had to ball my hands into fists to stop from touching her. But last night? Last night was the closest I’ve come to kicking everyone out of the bar, grabbing her by the waist, and fucking her on a barstool.

The worst part is that she’s not affected in the least bit. Hell, she’s barely looking at me, just going about her shift, smiling and talking to every customer that walks in. And there I am, sitting back, staring at her, and wondering how in the world we got here. I also wonder at least five times a night if she’s trying to kill me with those shorts and fitted tank tops that perfectly hug her chest.

It’s probably a good idea that today’s shift is by myself. It’ll give me time to catch up on paperwork, clear my mind, and have a Quinn-free day.

I grab the old ledger book that my dad used to keep the books and start the painstaking process of balancing the ledger. My dad was old school in everything he did. And for the most part, I'm the same way. There are a few things I’ve modernized since taking over—I’m sure he rolled his eyes from the grave that I’m now taking credit cards.

There are a few other things I’ve upgraded since he passed, but mostly I’ve kept everything just like he had it. I still pay everyone by check. The requesting time off is just a piece of paper thumbtacked to a cork board. And when it comes to balancing the books, I still use the same brand of ledger Pops used for thirty years. In a weird way, it makes me feel still close to him. That he’s still a part of this bar. Which I know is silly. But this was his place. His baby. And I’m going to keep his memory alive here for as long as possible.

I grab a pen, open the ledger, and grab the top invoice off the pile without looking.

So much for having a Quinn-free shift. Because why am I staring at the invoice for the chicken wings that were delivered this week?

Thanksgiving Eve in the bar industry is, without a doubt, anyone’s busiest night of the year. And don’t get me wrong, last night was a good night.

But tonight? Tonight is going to be the start of something big.

For the first time in The Joint’s history, I’ve decided to open the bar on Thanksgiving. I splurged for a DJ—also a first in this bar’s storied history, as every song has only ever been played from the old jukebox that Pops bought when he first opened the place. I even came up with a special drink of the night.

Is this my way of avoiding the fact this is the first holiday without my dad? Without a doubt. But I also think he’d get a kick out of me turning a day that I would’ve been moping around into a night of celebration.

At least, I hope he would.

Thanksgiving was our day. We’d watch football, head over to Aunt Peggy’s for dinner, then all of the guys would head to the backyard for some football of our own. As adults, we still did all of that, save for the football playing. These knees aren’t meant for backyard football.

I knew this day was going to hurt more than others, so I knew I’d need the distraction. And what better distraction than making a few bucks with the slogan, “You’ve been with family all day. I know y’all need a drink.”

And apparently everyone in Rolling Hills does. The place is packed from wall to wall—much busier than it was last night and any other night I can think of. I had to bring in two extra bartenders for the night, and none of us have had a chance to stop for hours. Yet, even in the sea of people packing my bar, I can still see Quinn Banks like she’s the only one here. She’s on the dance floor, having the time of her life, her smile a mile wide, drink in the air and looking fucking gorgeous.

I haven't seen her since the day of Pops’s wake. Or should I say the night of? That night was…fuck. What’s the word to describe it? I feel like a teenage girl if I say it was magical. But it was. I don’t know if it was because we were both in vulnerable states. Or maybe because I was finally getting the chance to be with the person I’d been infatuated with for years.

I’d also be a liar if I said I hadn’t thought about that night more than a few times. I mean, how can I not? I can still feel her soft curves in my hands. See the image of her lips around my cock. And when I made her scream? How she threw her head back and shouted my name? It’s a moment I’ll never forget.

I take a peek back out at the dance floor, and Quinn is now holding court like only she can. She might’ve earned the nickname “Hurricane” over the years, but everyone loves her except the ones who didn’t, but that was usually because they were jealous of her or she called them out on their bullshit. So it’s no surprise that she’s chatting away, smiling from ear to ear, nearly glowing despite being in a dimly-lit bar.

I smile as I start pouring another round of shots. I’m glad she’s seemingly bounced back from that asshole who cheated on her. I hope she’s happy now. Maybe she started dating again and he’s the reason there’s a smile on her face.

Except that thought shoots a burning rage through me that nearly has me breaking the empty beer bottle I swipe off the bar. I know she’s not mine. We hooked up once, five months ago. We haven’t even spoken since then. Yet, the thought of another man touching her makes me want to punch a hole through the wall.

“Porter!” Quinn's scream snaps me out of my ridiculous jealousy. I take the extra second I need to pull myself together before turning to her.

“Hurricane!” I greet her like I didn’t know she’s been here for exactly two hours and fifty-two minutes. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

"Thanks," she says, her head wobbling a little bit. I’m guessing she’s drunk, but since she hasn’t been up to the bar, I have no idea how many drinks she’s had bought for her.

“How you feeling tonight?”

“I’m feeling grrreat," she says, her words a little slurred.

“That's good. What can I get ya?”

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