Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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"AN OLD FASHIONED."
I wiped a few beads of sweat off my brow with the back of my hand and then turned toward the gruff voice at the end of the bar.
Ah, it was my favorite grumpy, tropical Santa Claus. Given his lack of manners when he'd announced his order like a demand, I should have known it was the innkeeper.
I smiled at Mark. "Hi there."
He grunted in reply, and I wondered if maybe he didn't remember me. But then, after a long pause, he raised a brow. "Makin' yourself at home, huh?"
"Sure am." My grin widened as I wiped off the bartop before him, ridding it of residual spilled beer. "Might as well make myself useful while I'm here."
He gave a succinct nod. "How 'bout you make yourself useful and make me an old fashioned."
Just as lovely as always.
"Be nice to our guest, Mark."
I felt August's presence before I heard him. He hovered behind me, similar to how he'd been hovering the whole day. And while I didn't mind having him close, having his arms brush mine when he reached around me to grab something, it made it awfully hard to form coherent thoughts. Or to pour glasses of beer without spilling.
""Scuse me," Cohen muttered, sliding behind us as he grabbed another glass, forcing August to step even closer. His arms caged around me as he leaned on the countertop, and his hard, broad chest grazed across my back.
"I'll get you your old fashioned," August said to Mark. His lips had to be just above my ear, his breath fanning against my skin as he looked at Mark over my shoulder.
Mark nodded his thanks. Well, I wasn't entirely sure if he was saying thank you, but I decided to pretend he was. It made me dislike him less.
"I can get it," I said to August, facing him.
That had been a mistake.
August still hadn't stepped away, meaning his face was only inches from mine. And God, was it a handsome face. I could see all the little bits of stubble in his five o'clock shadow and had to resist the urge to run my fingers over it, just to see what it felt like against my skin.
And then he spoke in that deep, husky voice of his, and I nearly melted into a puddle on the floor.
"You're good at slinging at beers, I'll give you that, Castle." His lips twitched in what I suspected was amusement. Or at least I hoped it was. He dropped his voice even lower before continuing. "But Mark here is a little...uh, particular."
I could only imagine.
I ducked under August's arm, afraid that if he stood that close to me any longer, I'd simply cease to exist. I grabbed a tumbler from the counter and then searched for the rest of my ingredients: bitters, simple syrup, orange peel, Makers.
