Page 10 of Fallen Dove
I didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle.Chicago had taught me to keep it light, keep it smooth.“Drinks first, tips after,” I said cheerfully, and slid the pad back into my apron.“I’ll be right back.”
They laughed, and it was easy enough to step away without pissing them off.
My tray was empty, and my stomach dropped when I glanced toward the bar, Thorn wasn’t there.Just Mason.
Shit.
I slowed, and flipped through my notepad praying Thorn would pop out of the back with a stack of glasses or a bottle in hand.No such luck.Mason was wiping down the bar, big shoulders stretching the fabric of his black tee under his cut, and moved with that calm control that made everything else in the room feel too loud and frantic.
Double shit.
I went to the end of the bar, and kept my face neutral.Mason pulled two beers for a pair of girls sitting a few stools down before heading my way.He wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned in just enough for his voice to cut through the noise.
“What do you need?”he asked.
Loaded question.Way too loaded.But I kept my eyes on my pad.“Three old fashioneds, and four shots of tequila.”
He nodded, and already reached for the brandy.His movements were smooth and efficient, like he’d done this a thousand times, which he probably had.I forced myself to look anywhere but his hands.
“How’s your second night going?”he asked, his voice even.
I knew he meant it as the boss.That was the kind of question a manager should ask.But something in the way he said it, low, steady, like it mattered, made my heart pick up speed.
“Uh, well, it’s pretty busy,” I said, and shifted my weight from foot to foot.“But I think I’m doing okay.”
“League nights are always like this,” Mason said.He dropped an orange peel into the glass, stirred, then slid the finished old fashioned to the side.“Friday and Saturday nights are twice as busy.”
My jaw dropped.“Whoa.”
“Yeah, kid.”He didn’t even look up as he said it, just reached for the next glass, his hands working with quiet precision.
Kid.
That word sank like a stone in my stomach.I wasn’t a kid.Far from it.Thirty-one years old, fresh out of a city that had chewed me up and spit me out.I’d lived on my own, paid my own bills, fought my own battles.And Mason still saw me like I was a teenager.
“I’m not a kid,” I said low and firm daring him to argue.
He stilled for half a second before grabbing the tequila bottle.He lined up the shot glasses with practiced ease and filled each one to the brim.
Then he set them carefully on my tray, wiped his hands on the towel again, and finally looked at me.
“Did you hear me?”I asked.
His eyes locked on mine, steady and unreadable.“Yeah, I heard you, Adley.”
“And?”
“And I know you’re not a kid.I’d have to be blind to think that.”
The way he said it, measured, quiet, with his gaze still locked on mine, made the air thicken around us.My pulse thundered in my ears, and for a second, the noise of the bar faded into nothing.
Then someone shouted his name from down the bar, and just like that, he broke the spell.Mason turned, towel slung over his shoulder, and moved toward the call without another word.
I stood frozen for a heartbeat, tray balanced in my hands, and wondered what the hell had just happened.
For one second, it hadn’t felt like he was my boss.Or Slayer’s brother.Or someone I was supposed to keep my distance from.For one second, it had felt like he’d stripped all of that away and just seen me.
I blinked hard, turned on my heel, and made myself focus.Drinks.Four shots, three cocktails.
