Chaser (Dive Bar #3)(2)

“I’ve got this, Lydia. You should take a break,” I said. “Get off your feet for a while.”

She gave me a knowing smile before smacking me hard in the chest with the menu. All that stuff about women being soft and sweet was such bullshit.

“Sure, Eric,” she said. “Just don’t scare her away.”

“When have I ever scared a customer away? Hell, my personal magnetism is the only thing that keeps this bar afloat.”

No answer. Instead, after a long look, Lydia turn on her heel and headed out back. Probably off to discuss my inadequacies with Nell. Where to bury my body in the woods and things like that. This was the problem with co-owning a business with two women. Being the only one with a dick, I got blamed for everything. A stock delivery arrived late—my fault. The register acted up—also my fault. Someone broke a nail or some shit—me again. All this attitude thrown my way, despite me faithfully keeping my word and not sleeping with any more of our waitresses. Yes, employees were off-limits. Fine with me. Things tended to get awkward when it was time to move on. Didn’t matter that I was always up front with things being about a good time, not a long time.

So no messing around with the staff. Female customers, however, were another matter entirely.

“Hey there,” I said to the curvy brunette.

The woman gave a slight smile, not even meeting my eyes. Her features were strong yet stunning, a long straight nose and a heavy jaw. Not pretty, exactly. But striking, despite the shadows under her hazel eyes. Probably midtwenties.

“I’m Eric.” I handed over the menu with an easy smile. “Welcome to the Dive Bar.”

“Hi,” she murmured, immediately checking out the menu while I continued to check out her. No wedding ring. Lots of curves. A blue sweater stretched beautifully across her tits. Definitely more than a handful there, thank you God.

“Let me guess.” I braced my hands on the back of the empty seat opposite her.

“Let you guess what?” she asked without looking up, disinterested.

“Your drink.”

“What makes you think I’m drinking?”

“Why else would you be in a bar?” I countered, waiting for her, pleading with her to look at me. It was hard to dazzle her with my winning smile if she wouldn’t even face me.

“Well, you also serve food and I happen to be hungry.”

“Good point. So you’d just like some ice water or something?”

Finally, her gaze shifted from the menu to me and stuck. Blue eyes took me in, looking over every inch with interest. The faintest trace of color lit her cheeks. Excellent.

“All right, go for it,” she eventually invited. “What’s my drink?”

“Well … you’ve got an understated kind of style,” I said, flexing the muscles in my arms just enough to catch her attention. It was pretty much the main reason I rolled back my button-down shirt’s sleeves. A subtle, yet important part of the show. “So first off, I’m thinking you’re into the classics. A martini or an old-fashioned, maybe?”

“No.”

“No?” I let my gaze wander over her, trying to take in every detail and not get stuck staring at her breasts. It wasn’t easy, but fortunately I’m big into self-discipline. Eyes up. “Maybe you’re more of a straight down the line kind of girl. How about a beer?”

A hint of a smile crossed her lips. “I don’t mind beer. But that’s not what I was going to order.”

“Mm, a challenge. I like a challenge.”

“God. I’m really not a challenge.” She exhaled. “I take it this is your trick, guessing what people drink?”

“Usually I’m pretty good at it.”

“Sorry to ruin your winning streak.”

“Nah, that’s okay.” I grinned. “Mom always said I needed to be put in my place pretty often or my ego got out of hand.”

Something strange passed across her face. “Sounds like a good mom.”

“She’s a great mom. But let’s get back to talking about you,” I said, following my script. Women usually ate this smooth shit right up. Yet something in her gaze made me hesitate. “If you’d rather I just took your ord—”

“Absolutely not.” She gave me a teasing smile. “You promised me a magic trick, now you need to deliver. What did you say your name was?”

“Eric Collins.”

“Eric. Hi.”

“I’m the owner here.” It was only partly a lie and it made me look good. Successful.

“You are?” Her brows arched in surprise and she gave the place a looking over, taking it all in. I waited patiently. We’d worked damn hard to turn the dump into the cool bar and restaurant it was today. Raw brick walls and shining dark wood. Mirrors lined the wall behind the bar along with neat rows of bottles. Big windows to let in the light and some metal industrial touches.

“It’s a great place,” she said. “You must be very proud.”

“That I am.” I offered my hand and she slipped her slender, warm fingers into my palm. “Nice to meet you…”

“Jean Antal.”

“Jean. What a lovely name.”

Still holding onto my hand, she shrugged. “My mom was a David Bowie fan.”