Andrew shakes his head—all six feet and four inches crouching over his opponent, his messy hair falling over his forehead in tousled waves. His smile is wicked—hard as ice. “No. I’m not. Someone’s gotta teach the children in the room some manners.”
I can’t argue with that.
But if he seriously hurts Reed Hutton, the bar will never recover.
The bad press would be enough to put us out of business.
And so, I do the dumbest thing I can think to do.
I jump in the middle of two men in a fight.
By grabbing one. Cradling his face… And kissing him right on the lips.
It’s a dumb move. I know it is the second my lips touch his.
But it’s even dumber when I can’t stop.
It was only supposed to be a distraction—to get his attention back on me. But the problem is: I don’t pull back from the kiss.
Not right away, anyway.
In fact, I stay lip-locked with Andrew longer than is appropriate for any two people who ream each other’s guts at every opportunity, and when I stay that way—my lips pressed against his offers another second to give in to the temptation to deepen the kiss.
The suppressed lust inside me grows fuller, blossoming inside my belly and holding tight.
Andrew doesn’t move beneath my touch, seemingly frozen with my surprise.
And with the strength of a thousand men and one strong martini, I finally release him, withdrawing my mouth from his.
But when I do, I do not get the reaction I expect.
Those arrogant eyes—eyes that almost went white with rage seconds ago, are now the coolest, sexiest, most hungry shade of blue I’ve ever seen.
And I wet my bottom lip as we separate.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, exhaling the words. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t trying to… All I wanted to do was—”
“I know.” Andrew doesn’t move, blinking once. “Me, too.”
“Um, what do you say we go get some fresh air? Like, now?” I peek over at Reed still in Andrew’s hands. “Like, right-this-second-now?”
Andrew nods stolidly. “Best idea either of us has had all night. Let’s get out of here.”
He lets Reed go.
The room has fallen silent around us, even more silent when Reed Hutton drops to the floor with a thud.
Andrew grabs for my wrist, pulling me towards him, and before I can utter another word, he drags me across the room, my hand in his.
We cut a swath through the gaping crowd as we dash out of the door and into the cold Manhattan mid-winter night, the chilled air shocking my system all at once.
Like a punch to the face.
He inhales the chilled air, before letting me go.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“I know.” I breathe out a puff of frigid air that comes out like smoke. “What—what the hell just happened in there? I think I’m still in shock.”
“What just happened was I just bought myself a ticket to Manhattan Detention Complex. Fucking great,” he mutters more to himself. “Fucking Frank…this whole thing…” His voice lowers. “All his fault…”
Mutter. Mutter. Mutter. And some more muttering.
And I can’t make sense of any of it. So, I don’t even try.
“I should have known better,” he announces louder, before turning. “This is not why I came here tonight. And Jesus, I know that prick—” Andrew points back at the bar, starting to pace, “—and he won’t let it go that easy.”
“Okay, seriously, who is that Reed guy? Everybody seems to know him but me.”
Andrew turns, tossing the words. “He’s a friend of the family—my family. Or he used to before he got chummy with my grandfather’s ex-business partner, Chris.” He stares. “You might know Chris as the guy who tried to burn down your bar last year?”
Chris Jackson.
Even his name gives me chills.
That’s the kind of guy he is.
A ruined finance whiz with a vendetta against every business partner who’d burned him, he'd been systemically ruining the lives of all he knew.
Including my father’s…who once borrowed money from the man to open the bar I inherited…
The Alchemist.
My association with Chris—a Wanted man who was still on the lam, was like a birthmark. Or more like a permanent stain.
The fire Chris Jackson initiated last year had nearly leveled the business, buried us in debt.
In fact…it still was. Every day, we were buried.
And according to Michael Bennett, we still had fifty thousand dollars’ worth of repairs left to rebuild…
And no money solution in sight.
I wrap my arms around myself, holding tight, the February chill not just on my skin but in my bones. “Well, this night just keeps getting better and better.”
The fact that I’m shivering on a fairly empty Manhattan sidewalk outside of my own bar only confirms that it is.
The air is freezing, stinging over my skin. With my coat still inside my office closet, I shudder, staring into the hazy Manhattan sky.
My whole career is flashing before my eyes—the bar. The entire business.
With nothing in writing, technically…I just had an employee hit a guest—a powerful, connected guest—a guest that can sue.
I glance at Andrew.
Angrier than I’ve ever seen, he doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t seem to notice anything outside of himself until I call out his name.
He stops on the cement.
“That was a dumb reaction, Andrew,” I deadpan. “You know that don’t you?”
“I had an inkling, yeah.”
“Not just dumb, but irresponsible. Impulsive. Reckless. Even for you.”
“The thought had occurred to me. But keep going. It’s nice to be kicked when I’m down. Call it a kink.”
I take a step closer, talking slower. “What you just did was dangerous. And thoughtless. And stupid beyond all freaking belief…and I can’t believe I’m even getting ready to say this to you…which shows I probably need my head—or blood-alcohol levels—checked, but…”
I struggle to breathe around the ball of emotion at the back of my throat, glancing at his furrowed face, resisting
