MCKAY’S WAS HOPPING. A playoff baseball game was on television, and the local favorite was losing — which meant most of the patrons were buzzed and angry.
Not a pleasant combination for a waitress.
Especially one forced to wear Daisy Dukes and a tight, mid-drift-baring T-shirt.
Crappy tips and cranky customers.
Add that to her car being vandalized, and Devon going over her head to have the security system installed at her apartment… well, the last was sweet, except for the fact that it made him even more dangerous to her and her heart.
Good-looking. Powerful. Wealthy. And sweet.
It was a devastating combination.
Rough fingers grabbed her arm, jerked her to a halt. “I said, I want a beer.” A man wearing the losing team’s hat and a surly expression glared at her.
Becca forced a smile and tried to free herself, only to have the man’s fingers tighten. She winced, knew she was going to have bruises tomorrow. “I’m going to put this order in. Your beer is next.”
“I want it now.”
“I could be getting it now, if you hadn’t slowed things down by grabbing me.” She yanked, but the guy didn’t release her. “Let go.”
“I—”
The man didn’t finish the thought because he was suddenly on the floor halfway across the bar. The skin on Becca’s arm felt like it had been scoured, but she wasn’t being held captive and knew why even before she turned around.
Devon.
In air thick with the bitter tang of beer, with the not-so-pleasant burn of sweat and man-funk, she could still smell him.
The cinnamon hit her first, a rush of the spicy scent straight into her nostrils. It jolted her system, made her heart race and her nerves fire.
Or maybe that was just Devon.
He came close, near enough that she could smell his deodorant, something indecipherable and utterly masculine. Definitely not floral like hers. And maybe that was an inane thing to think, but with him right there — towering over her, inundating her senses — it was the only thing that came to mind.
“You okay?” he asked. His eyes were wild, the words gritted out through a jaw so tight she was surprised they were clear enough to decipher.
Becca felt shaken but nodded anyway, absently rubbing the sore spot on her arm.
Devon’s gaze latched onto the spot and flared hot. “I’m going to kill the bastard.”
Her own stare trailed down, and she grimaced. Her skin was red, angry-looking, an imprint of four fat fingers on her upper arm. She lifted it and glanced to the back side. Yup. A sausage-sized thumb-shaped bruise was already forming there too.
Cute.
Devon took a step away from her, presumably to kick some as—
And, oh great, now she was as bad as he was. Cursing. Good Lord.
Which was so not the point.
Jumping forward when he took another step, she snagged his hand, held tight, and hoped he wouldn’t drag her with him.
But something amazing happened the moment she laced her fingers with his.
He stopped.
She almost stopped breathing. His jaw was no longer tight. Instead, it hung open.
He felt it too?
The spark, the zing, the… Goldilocks’ sensation of just right.
“Don’t,” she said.
Devon nodded.
“Come with me.” She tugged, and he followed, six feet four inches of suddenly cooperative male.
It was like holding a tiger by the tail. Sooner or later, he’d snap.
Becca made eye contact with Laurie, the other waitress on duty in the bar, silently asking her to cover the section.
The brunette inclined her head, already moving toward the bar to gather the next round. One of the bartenders, Steve, was hustling the drunk and angry patron out the front door of the restaurant. The other, Ben, was quickly filling glasses.
They all knew how close of a call they’d had.
Bar fights meant damage being taken out of paychecks, meant losing tips and dealing with the police.
Bar fights meant getting fired.
And, though they might all have their own reasons, each of them working at McKay’s needed their job.
So Becca decided to take Devon out the back.
Tension filled her limbs, making her steps halting and stiff, especially in three-inch heels.
The hall leading out of the bar was just exactly as someone might expect: terra-cotta tile that had seen better days, a fixture with a scant two bulbs working, dust in the corners, and cleaning equipment propped against the walls.
She pushed out the door and immediately shivered against the bracing cold. Or what felt bracing, considering she was only wearing one-half of the recommended clothing for normal adults.
Her tremor seemed to snap Devon into motion. He unzipped his jacket and wrapped her in it then tugged her close to his chest and began rubbing her back.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“F-for what?” Her teeth chattered, and Becca realized it wasn’t just the cold making her tremble, but the aftereffects of adrenaline.
“Scaring you.”
“You d-didn’t.”
“Then why are you freaking out now?”
She stiffened. His words may as well have had a rod of steel inserted straight into her spine. “I’m not freaking out. I’m cold.”
He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up, studying her eyes. “Ah. There you are.”
She hadn’t gone anywhere.
“You—” She started to lean back, to pull free.
Devon didn’t let her and — for God’s sake — she’d had more than freaking enough of men manhandling her for the day.
“I thought you were cold.” One finger traced her jaw, slid across to outline her lips.
Her thighs quivered, her knees threatened to buckle. His touch was electric.
“I am cold.”
A half-smile curved his mouth. “I’d think you’d want to stay close then.”
She did. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not when he was staring down at her, looking all smug. “You’d think wrong, then.”
“I don’t believe so.”
He bent, closing the distance between them. She wanted him to kiss her. Needed it more than air.
Her lips parted, her breath hitched. Ready. She was so ready for him.
He bypassed her mouth.
A hiss of disappointment slid from her… at least until he touched the tip of his tongue to the rapidly pounding pulse at the base of her neck.
His words were warm puffs of air, sending a shiver down her spine for a whole other reason than before.
“You’re not scared.” His mouth moved up, pressed a kiss to her jaw, behind her ear. “And definitely not cold.”
No. She wasn’t either one of those things. She was turned on as fuc—
He pressed his lips to hers.