Page 6 of Corrupting Cupid

Where on earth was everyone coming from?

The door slammed as another patron came in, shaking off his wet coat and taking one of the few empty seats. Between Scout and I, we were only just keeping up.

I stacked the glasses on my tray as Scout served behind the bar, dodging between seats laden with dripping coats from the evening rainstorm.

Shimming around Scout, I made my way into the small kitchen area off the bar and loaded the dirty glasses into the industrial dishwasher. Resting against the wall for a moment, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

How had Pop kept up at his age? I’d only been there a few weeks, and my whole body ached with exhaustion. Serving every evening whilst having to do paperwork, stock-taking, shopping for supplies, and more, left me drained. It differed completely from my desk job in London. I’d taken two months of compassionate leave and used all of my savings to pay my rent until I could sort out Pop’s things and go home.

Scout swore from beyond the doorway, and I pulled myself back together, heading out.

He was grabbing a mop while at least three men tried to catch his attention from the other side of the bar.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Someone knocked over a beer. Floor’s covered.’ Scout looked as harassed as I felt, his hair dishevelled and a pink tinge to his upper cheeks from rushing about.

‘I’ve got it,’ I said, taking the mop from him and heading out to the sodden floor.

When the door opened again behind me, I could have cried. I’d reached maximum capacity and was a whisker away from telling everyone to get out so I could just breathe for a minute.

I turned too quickly, my foot sliding in a patch of beer and sending my legs skidding out from under me. With a loud yelp, I tumbled over, closing my eyes as I readied for the crash.

A set of firm hands caught me from behind and pushed me back up onto my feet.

Glancing over my shoulder, the face that greeted me only increased my embarrassment tenfold. The man looked down at me with a dimpled grin on his tanned face. He didn’t look like any man I’d ever seen in Coal’s Lake before. He stood tall and broad, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest. His broad, delicious chest. Black whorls were visible through the damp material, and I followed their delightful path up over his neck and to his face.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked. I couldn’t place his accent other than one hundred percentnotCanadian.

‘No. I’m fine.’ God damn, he had the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. ‘Uh, thanks.’

Dragging my eyes away from the man, I finished my mopping and headed back toward the bar, only to find him trailing behind me.

‘Why’s it so cold outside?’

‘What?’ It was a ridiculous question.

‘It’s so cold. My fingers feel like ice.’ He clenched and stretched his hands, drawing my attention to his long fingers.

Fuck me.

‘It’s February, and you are out in the rain without a coat. Of course, it’s bloody cold.’ Replacing the mop, I watched the odd man fill the stool next to Jack–the one the other patrons gave a wide berth. The one most people gave a wide berth.

‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes, please. Do you have any ambrosia?’ The smile he gave me was the sort of panty-melting one that always spelled trouble.

‘The custard? This is a bar. I’ve got beer, whisky, and wine. Spirits.’

The man turned to Jack with a smile. ‘What would you recommend?’

Good. God.

‘Beer’s beer. It always does the trick,’ Jack said with a shrug.

‘One beer will suffice, please.’ He sounded like he was trying to badly act in a college play.

I popped the cap off the bottle, and handed it over.

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