Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy 1)

“I thought your degree was going to be in business, not psychoanalysis,” he said in a droll tone meant to deflect her scrutiny.

The slight furrow of concern between her brows remained. “Just…be careful, Clay.”

I don’t want you to get hurt. He could see the unspoken words in her eyes, and the fact that Tara even thought that was a possibility aggravated him. There was only one woman he’d ever let get close enough to hurt him—his own mother—and the brutal devastation and anger he’d experienced after her heartless actions pretty much ensured that Clay would never give any other female that much power over him ever again.

So, no, Tara had no reason to worry about him doing something as careless and stupid as falling for Samantha, a woman he could pretty much guarantee would be gone in a few days. A week, tops. He’d bet his bar on it.

“Nothing is

going on,” he said in a voice that sounded much steadier than he felt. “I’m just helping her through a tough time in her life. That’s it.”

Tara opened her mouth to respond, but before anything else could spill out, Clay held up a hand and cut her off. “This conversation is over. I’m going to see if Hank needs help in the kitchen before happy hour starts.”

Tara’s lips pursed, but when he turned around and walked away, he heard her mutter distinctly behind him, “Stubborn ass.”

Yeah, whatever. He’d been called much worse.

He went to the small kitchen in the back, where Hank was pulling huge trays of chicken wings from the oven, which he would then throw into the fryer as they were ordered. Elijah, who currently had no dishes to wash, was helping Hank prep the other items—beef sliders, chicken fingers, potato skins, and a few other appetizers.

“Everything good in here?” Clay asked.

Hank gave him his typical, jovial one-sided smile and a thumbs-up as she moved about the kitchen. “Yep, we’re good, boss.”

Clay watched the duo for a few more minutes, glad that he’d taken a chance on them both. They were good, hard workers, but then again, they’d not only needed a job, they’d really wanted the employment. For money, yes, but also to restore their dignity.

Especially Hank. He’d hired the other man a few years ago when he’d come into Kincaid’s looking for a job. Any job. At twenty-eight, he’d been a year out of the military and disabled, having lost one of his legs in an IED explosion that had taken his right eye, as well. The shrapnel had also embedded itself into the right side of his face, damaging the nerves and causing paralysis, which was why Hank was so good at that lopsided grin.

Despite all that, Hank was in amazing physical shape. He’d been fitted with a prosthetic leg, and the patch he wore over his right eye made him look like a rogue pirate, which the girls loved to tease him about. Hank had a great attitude and refused to let his losses define him as a person.

The sound of a current rock song coming out of the speakers in the main area of the bar told Clay that it was just about opening time. The digital entertainment system selected popular songs from a playlist and streamed the matching music videos onto the huge flat-screen TV on the far wall. It was a trendy, crowd-pleasing addition to the bar—something to watch, or you could join the action out on the dance floor, which usually ended up packed on ladies’ night.

At four p.m., customers started arriving at Kincaid’s, a gradual influx of men and women, most of whom arrived in groups of two or more. It started slowly enough that Samantha had the chance to learn the basics as she worked beside Amanda. Clay watched her take drink orders, sometimes asking Amanda a question before returning her attention to the customer. From what he could tell, she was picking up the bar terminology more quickly than he’d anticipated. She put in the orders and delivered the cocktails and bottles of beer on a serving tray with more coordination than he would have given her credit for.

For someone who’d grown up not having to work a day in her life, she appeared to be adapting well. Hell, she even seemed to be enjoying herself as she chatted with a group of women as she jotted down their drinks on a note pad. She moved on to the next table of young guys, who openly flirted with her. Clay’s gut tied up in knots when she smiled back at them and laughed at something one of them said. He had to remind himself numerous times that pickup lines and casual advances were the nature of the beast in a place like this, and that all the bar waitresses got hit on on a regular basis. Hell, they even flirted back to increase their tips. As long as a customer wasn’t crude and didn’t make any physical sexual advances toward his girls, the behavior was tolerated.

But that mental lecture didn’t stop Clay from glaring at some douchebag who was checking out Samantha’s ass as she walked away to place the drink orders.

“Jesus, Clay. That scowl on your face is going to scare away customers,” Katrina said as she slid onto a barstool in front of him.

He’d been so busy staring at Samantha he hadn’t seen Katrina come in.

She followed his line of vision to the woman making him crazy in so many ways. “Or maybe that’s your intention, to intimidate the hell out of every guy in the place so they don’t touch your shiny new toy.”

“She’s not my anything,” he said gruffly, wishing everyone would stop making that assumption. He shifted his gaze back to Katrina, surprised to see her at Kincaid’s on a Monday evening. “What are you doing here, anyway? You never come in for ladies’ night.”

“That’s because it’s like a meat market out there,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she indicated the crowd of men and women mingling. “You know everyone here is looking for a casual hookup, which is why I’m sitting alone at the bar.”

Clay shrugged, though he knew she spoke the truth. “Not my business what they do once they leave the premises. I just serve the drinks while they’re here, and you still didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

“I’m providing moral support.” She flashed him a grin.

“For Samantha?” he guessed as he refilled the garnish caddy with maraschino cherries.

Katrina nodded as she reached over and grabbed a stemmed fruit, then plucked the cherry off with her teeth and ate it. “Thought it might be nice for her to have a familiar face here tonight.”

“I take it you two hit it off today while shopping?”

“Yeah.” Katrina’s expression softened. “She’s actually really nice. For a rich girl.”