Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(72)

“You wanted to be part of this town. This is the way to become one of us.”

I lean toward her ear. “So it had nothing to do with wanting to see me?”

“Not at all.”

“Hm. Too bad. I kind of wanted to see you.”

“You did?”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing an inch of space between them. “Only a little.”

Another balled-up napkin hits my head.

“All right,” I say, turning to the bar. “Which one of you meatballs threw that one? You get your drink last. And you.” I point toward another guy. “I heard that lewd comment you made about her. Get out of here. You don’t get a drink. Everyone else, back the hell up and pretend you have manners.”





Chapter Twenty-Three


Emily


It was a hell of a night. And Jackson stayed with me the whole time until the last tab was closed out. Even Hank himself didn’t stay that long. He just told us thanks in his gruff way, said we’d get to keep all the tips, and an extra envelope of cash would show up in our mailboxes soon. I would have turned him down, but . . . I’m living on a teacher’s salary, so I think I’ll take that money with a grateful heart.

Now it’s just me and Jack closing the place up.

“You really don’t have to stay and help anymore,” I tell him, as I run a wet soapy rag across the bar top. “You don’t work here, so cleanup is not expected.”

He’s across the room flipping chairs onto tables looking incredibly out of place in his mint short-sleeve button-up, playful tattoos, and navy corduroy trousers—surrounded by a neon glow and dirty floors.

He gives me that smirk. “You don’t work here either.”

“Yeah, but I used to, so I know the routine. You’d never stepped foot in here before tonight.”

“I don’t mind.” His forearms flex as he lifts another chair, flips it upside down, and rests the seat on the table.

“But there’s no construction at your house right now. You sure you don’t want to be home enjoying the quiet instead of here wiping down an old bar?”

He gives a turned-down smile and makes his way over. “Now, Emily, you wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me, would you?”

“I’ve been trying to get rid of you since the day I met you,” I say, a return to an old jab that now feels like a caress. But maybe I am trying to get him rid of him, because I feel nervous around him right now, and I don’t know how to navigate that. If he stays, I have to ask him the question that’s going to put my feelings in front of him on a silver platter.

He rounds the bar. “I could have sworn that we are now . . .” He stops close to me and dips his head to whisper in my ear, “Friends.” He pulls back, eyes widening like he just said the dirtiest word known to humankind.

It is dirty. Because friendship implies a certain vulnerability I don’t give many people. Jack has become someone I like to be around. Look forward to seeing. Can’t get enough of. And tonight when he looked out at the crowd that was overrunning me and told them to shape up, god help me, it swept me off my feet to where I could barely function. Jack would never crack shells into his eggs. It’s only gotten worse as the night has gone on. He hasn’t once asked me what he should do while closing tonight.

Most men jumping into a situation like this would be floundering. Especially when they see me in charge and running the show. They’d be full of “What can I do? Where should I put this? What needs to be done?” Not Jack. Jack immediately got to work busing tables and carrying dishes into the kitchen. He wiped down surfaces. Swept the floor. He saw what needed to be done and did it.

“Friends, huh? Weird—I don’t think friends try to get into other friends’ pants while trapped in a closet.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He playfully tugs my belt loop. “I’ve gotten into plenty of my friends’ pants. But only while trapped in closets.”

“Ahh—so that’s why you haven’t tried it again. Because we haven’t been in a closet?”

His expression shifts from playful to searching. “Have you been hoping I would try it again? I’m sure there’s a closet in here somewhere.”

My heart races. Now is my chance to say yes. To confirm it and launch us into a new realm. But I get cold feet.

“You wish,” I say, walking past him and into the kitchen, where I flick off the lights. He follows. “But that was a good line. Maybe I’ll add it into my next book . . . for the villain to say.”

This answer delights him even more somehow. “The villain is always the true hero in a romance.”

I open the men’s bathroom and cut the light next. Jack is still right behind me, following step for step. “And just how many romances have you read other than mine, Jack?”

“I’ve actually read a lot of romance. Was that not evident in the notes I left on your manuscript?”

I pause at the sink after wiping away the water splotches from the faucet and meet his eye in the mirror. “Do you really?”

“Why does that shock you? I’m a write—” He stops quickly and then continues. “I’m a writer’s son. I grew up in a home that was very pro literacy. My dad was of course primarily a mystery writer, but my mom was an avid romance reader. I started picking her books up in high school and got hooked.”