“I understand you want to wear your Spider-Man light-up sandals, buddy, but it’s cold outside. Your toes will freeze off.”
I’m crouched on one knee and having a standoff with my five-year-old son about fucking light-up sandals at the ass crack of dawn.
Noah scowls at me. “I don’t care. I don’t need all my toes.” He holds up his tiny hand and separates his fingers, wiggling them. “I got ten of ’em.”
I scrub a hand over my cheek. I’m functioning on three hours of sleep, and I still need to make breakfast and drop Noah off at school on time. “How about this? I’ll buy you Spider-Man boots if you put those boots on. Neither one of us is getting our way here, bud.”
He tilts his head to the side, thinking. “If I listen, you are getting your way.”
Schooled by a kindergartener.
I stare at him, searching for my next move, but he sighs as if annoyed with me.
“Fine,” he groans. “I’ll wear the boots if you put an extra pudding cup in my lunchbox.”
“Sold!” I high-five him and stand. “Put on your boots, and let’s get moving.”
Noah pulls the bright red boots up each foot and stomps into the bathroom. I spike his hair with gel and spritz cologne on his wrist, and we head into the kitchen, the smell of his cologne filling the hallway when he sprints down it. I bought him the cheap shit last month in hopes that he’d stop stealing mine.
He dances in his seat at the kitchen table while I heat his oatmeal—the kind where the dinosaurs hatch from their eggs after it’s warm—and I make his lunch while he eats. Normally, I have everything ready the night before, but the fiasco with Polly and Mohawk fucked up my schedule. I was exhausted and crashed into bed as soon as Jamie left.
After Noah scarfs down his oatmeal, he jumps from his chair, and we load into my Jeep. The drive to school isn’t a quiet one while he talks about how pretty his babysitter is and then complains that I’m not bumping Kidz Bop.
After I drop him off, I head to the bar for another day of work.
“Hey, big brother.”
I glance up, drying off a glass, and set it to the side as Georgia skips over to me.
She plops down on a stool, sets her salad container on the bar, and opens it. “How’d last night go?”
I grab another glass. “You were with me last night. Remember?”
“How’d your night go with Jamie?” She stabs a piece of lettuce and shoves it in her mouth.
That’s where she was going with that.
Not surprising.
“I went home. She went home. That’s it,” I lie with a shrug.
That’s it.
That’s definitely not it.
We talked. We laughed. We joked.
We brought up secrets.
Even though I had been tired as fuck, ready to collapse into my bed when I walked into the house, I could’ve sat at that table and talked to her all night.
Then we started talking about our kiss.
The kiss we’d shared years ago that was anything but hot.
My chest expanded, and my dick stirred at the thought of kissing her again—better this time.
Hotter this time.
Me not pulling away this time.
I prayed she didn’t notice me staring at her plump lips as I wondered how it’d feel to brush mine against them.
“Lame,” Georgia groans, breaking me out of my thoughts before dropping her fork and staring at me, a shit-eating grin on her face. “I have a great idea.”
“Keep that idea to yourself,” I grumble.
“Ask her out.”
Georgia liking Jamie surprises me. When Noah was a baby, Georgia sided with me about Heather’s family—including Jamie—not seeing Noah. Like me, she saw them as a threat.
“Mind your business.”
“She doesn’t know how to do that,” Archer says, strolling behind me to grab a cocktail shaker.
“And just like that, my appetite is ruined,” Georgia snaps, her cold glare pinned on Archer as she slams the lid back onto her salad.
I gear up, ready to block it because her face suggests she’s about to throw it at him. As annoying as it is to hear them argue like fucking children, it at least takes the attention away from Jamie and me.
I signal back and forth between them. “You two need to quit acting like you’re Noah’s age and get along.”
Archer walks away without replying and helps a customer.
Sadness crosses Georgia’s face as she scoops up her hardly eaten salad. “I’m out of here. I’ll finish my food somewhere that’s asshole-free.”
“You don’t have to go.” I set down the glass and then scrub a hand over my forehead.
She and Archer have been arguing for years, and no one knows why. Eventually, it has to end because it’s giving me a goddamn headache.
Just as I’m about to lock them in a room to work on whatever the fuck their issue is, Silas’s voice rings through the bar. “Hey, yo! We have that new vodka everyone is talking about!”
Silas comes into view with a heavy box in his hands. He groans as he drops it onto the bar next to Georgia.
“You mean, the vodka Lola told you to buy?” I ask.
“Obvi,” Georgia replies for him with a snort. “He’d pierce his dick if Lola told him to.”
Lola is one of Georgia’s best friends who works for one of our liquor distributors. She tends to sucker Silas into purchasing whatever alcohol she’s promoting.
“Bullshit,” Silas says, shooting Georgia a glare before plucking the box cutter sticking out of his pocket and slicing the box open. He pulls out a bottle with a label I don’t recognize and holds it up. “Now, who’s up for testing this bad boy?”
“Hard pass. Lola already made me try it, and it’s potent,” Georgia says before wiggling her fingers in a wave, scooping up her things, and scurrying out of the bar.
“Over here!” a customer yells, swinging his arms in the air. “I’m up for taste testing anything!”
Silas hops over the bar and spins the bottle in his hand. “Any takers from someone who works here?”
The taste tester won’t be Silas. He works in a bar yet doesn’t drink.
Silas points at me with the bottle.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m about to head home.”
He snags a shot glass and pours a shot. “Archer, my man! Looks like you’re the winner!”
Archer grumbles curses under his breath, captures the glass, and swallows down the shot. “It’s okay. Nothing to orgasm about.” He hands the shot glass back to Silas with a shrug and walks away.
“That dude needs to get laid,” Silas says, shaking his head.
“Lack of pussy isn’t his problem,” I comment.
Archer has his fair share of women. He comes from money, and even though he tries to hide it, women fawn over him as if it bleeds off him. The difference between Archer and other guys is that he doesn’t broadcast his hookups. He’s quiet and private, but given the shit that happened to his family, I don’t blame him. He’s rough around the edges, bulky, and broad-shouldered. He’s a better fit for a bouncer than Finn, but Archer laughed in our faces and threatened to kick our asses when we suggested it.
Finn raises a brow.
“It’s Archer being Archer,” is my only explanation.
“Georgia probably put him in a bad mood. Anytime they’re around each other, it’s a negative-ass vibe. They need to bang and get it over with.”
“Dude, what the fuck?” I seethe, shooting him a look of warning. “That’s my sister.”
He holds his hands up, palms facing me. “Oh shit, forgot about that.”
I flip him off and smack him upside the head.
He jerks back. “Dude, what the fuck to you?”
“Oh shit, forgot it’s painful when someone hits you.” I signal to everyone behind the bar. “All of you assholes know my sister is off-limits.”
That’s been my rule since day one. Whenever a friend meets her, I make it clear he stays away from her. Georgia is grown and going to date, but I’ve worked with my friends long enough to know they’re not the guys for her. They hook up with women, women throw themselves at them, and none of them can hold a relationship without fucking it up.
Not happening on my watch.
They all know that, and they respect that.
We’ve never had an issue.
If that changes, that person will no longer be my friend.
And I’ll kick the bastard’s ass.