Page 8 of Beneath Your Beautiful
“Are you offering me a job?” I asked, gripping my lower lip between my teeth to keep from smiling. His gaze dropped to my mouth and lingered there before he shook his head and looked away.
“I’m offering you a chance. Not everyone is cut out for bartending. So?”
“I don’t lie, steal, or do drugs.” The two times I’d smoked pot with Trevor didn’t seem worth mentioning.
I held Killian’s gaze until he nodded, satisfied I was telling the truth. My face broke into a smile, but he held up his hand to stop me from getting too excited. “You’ll have guys hassling you. When they get drunk, they say and do stupid shit. I’m not saying it’s right,” he shrugged one shoulder, “but you’re not unattractive, so you’ll need to deal with that.”
“I’m notunattractive? Are you always this charming?”
“If you’re looking for Prince Charming, it ain’t me, Sunshine.”
Sunshine?At least he didn’t make any empty promises or pretend to be something he wasn’t. “I don’t believe in fairytales. Or happily ever after. Prince Charming was an evil villain in disguise, and Cinderella was the doormat he wiped his feet on.” His brows went up a notch. “So, don’t worry. I’m not looking for Prince Charming. I’m not looking for a guy to sweep me off my feet either. I’m just looking for a job. And I can handle guys hassling me. My dad and two older brothers taught me how to fend for myself.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Did they?”
“Yes, they did. My dad and brother are state police officers and my other brother is a Marine. I grew up in a testosterone-fueled house with enough badassery to rub off on little old me.”
His lips curved into a smile, showing off his straight white teeth…and—oh God, dimples.He had dimples. But the smile faded all too quickly, as if he’d caught himself doing something he shouldn’t, and the mask slipped firmly into place again.
“Any questions?”
I had a million questions, but I refrained from asking anything too personal. Now that I’d secured a job, I didn’t want to blow it with my unfiltered mouth. “Why did you name it Trinity Bar?”
“I didn’t. My partner did. His mother is from Trinidad.”
“You have a partner? Does he need to interview me?”
“He’s away. If you’re still here at the end of the week, you’ll meet him.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence.“I’ll still be here.”
He gave me awe’ll seelook and said he needed to get me an application. When he disappeared around the corner, I removed the ice pack. Standing, I put weight on my left foot, testing it out. It still hurt, but not white-hot pain. If I taped it up nice and tight, I’d be good to go. I sat back down and pulled the first aid kit into my lap.
When Killian returned, I’d finished taping my ankle. I pulled on my sock and nudged my foot into my boot. It felt like it was two sizes too small now. On the inside, I was screaming in pain, but I schooled my expression.
“You need to rest your ankle,” he said.
“I need to walk on it.” I took a few tentative steps. This had always been Sawyer’s method for dealing with an injury, so I should have known it would hurt like hell. I’d seen him tape up cracked ribs and busted knees, hiding them from the coach, and he always got back on that football field, pretending he was fighting fit. “I’m good to go.”
He gave me a skeptical look and handed me the application. “Fill it out at home and bring it back.”
I stuffed the application in my backpack. “Do you want me to start tonight?”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I thought, maybe, I had. I hadn’t felt like myself since I set eyes on him. “No. Come back tomorrow at five. Bartenders spend a lot of hours on their feet. If your ankle’s not better—”
“My ankle will be fine.”
He handed me a black T-shirt with white lettering that said Trinity Bar. I checked the label on the collar—men’s medium—and held it up in front of me. It would fit me like a mini-dress.
“Just wear it for now,” he said. “I’ll call you a taxi.” He motioned for me to sit back down, and I collapsed on the sofa, acknowledging defeat. Fighting him on this would just be stupid pride on my part. The fifteen-minute walk to my apartment would take me twice as long, and it wouldn’t help my ankle.
“Where do you live?” he asked, his phone pressed to his ear.
I gave him my address and the cross streets, and he relayed the information before hanging up. “Five minutes.”
Someone knocked on the door, and Killian opened it wide.
“What up, man?” the guy in the doorway asked, bumping fists with Killian. He pulled a pen from behind his ear and handed it to Killian, along with a clipboard.
