He’d already made that particular point last week when he’d paid for his drink then, as well. It was an argument she wasn’t going to win.
She knew it, too, because she picked up the cash with a frustrated sigh. “I see you have your brothers’ obstinate streak.”
“Must be a family trait.” He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh at how cute she looked being miffed with him. Cute and hot, he amended as his gaze focused on those pouty lips of hers . . . which then transitioned to lustful thoughts of her soft mouth and all the ways he’d imagined defiling it.
She turned away to put the money into the cash register, and predictably, his eyes lowered to her perfectly rounded ass. Jesus, he was such a fucking pervert. Not wanting to get caught leering at her again, he made sure he was looking above her chest by the time she faced him again.
“What time do you get out of here tonight?” he asked, then took a drink of his lime-flavored water.
She began washing glasses in a small sink behind the bar. “I’m the only one in the bar closing up. It was so slow I sent the waitresses home. The guys in the kitchen finish with their clean-up around eleven thirty, so that’s when I lock up.”
“Any plans after that?”
“At midnight?” She laughed as she dried a martini glass. “The only plan I have is to crawl into my nice, soft bed with a book and read until I fall asleep.”
And there went his rampant thoughts again as he envisioned her in his bed, stripped naked and legs spread, her creamy skin a stark contrast to his navy blue comforter and all that thick, luxurious black hair spread across his white pillow. No doubt, if he had her anywhere near his bed, reading or sleeping would be the last thing she’d be doing.
Not that they were going to have sex tonight, but it wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought of the possibility of fucking her. Yeah, that was a nightly fantasy that always left him hard and aching. Just like he was beginning to feel now.
He shifted on the barstool in lieu of reaching down to adjust his dick that was pressing against the fly of his jeans. Grateful that she didn’t have a view of his lap and his lack of physical restraint when it came to thoughts of getting down and dirty with her, he shifted the conversation back on track.
“I know I might be cutting into your beauty sleep, but would you like to go and get a coffee at that twenty-four-hour donut shop down the road once you’re off for the night?”
Any other woman he’d gone out with in the past would have scoffed at the suggestion of going to what they’d consider a substandard eatery, let alone accompany him to this run-down neighborhood in Chicago. But Tara’s eyes lit up at the invitation.
She batted her eyes at him in a playful manner. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Stone?”
“Yes.” A part of him was relieved she hadn’t flat out turned him down. She at least looked as though she was considering his offer. “I’d take you somewhere far more impressive, but there’s not much open at this time of the night.”
“Lucky for you, donuts are my weakness and one of the few things I can’t resist,” she said, rearranging a few of the bottles of alcohol that were lined up in a bin. “And oh, my God, Angelo makes the best apple fritters in the entire city, and just thinking about them is making my mouth water.”
Her enthusiasm made him grin. “Is that a yes?”
“That is a hell yeah,” she said, and laughed.
Now that he’d secured more time with Tara, he let her continue with her clean-up of the bar, doing his best not to distract her so she’d finish as soon as possible. At eleven straight up, she locked the main doors and cashed out the register and took the money back to the office. While she was gone, a young kid came out from the back area and began putting chairs up on the tables.
As he swept the floor, he kept one eye on Jackson, and it was clear that the kid had heard about him and couldn’t decide if he was a threat of some sort or not. It all depended on what information had filtered through the gossip mill about his meeting with the Kincaid brothers. If Mason was to be believed, then Jackson was sure he was branded as public enemy number one.
“That’s Elijah,” Tara said when she came back from whatever she was doing in the office and saw him glancing at the boy. “He’s a great kid. Clay found him rummaging through the dumpster for something to eat and gave him a job.”
Before Jackson could reply, a man’s voice spoke.
“Tara, are you about finished up?” the guy asked as he limped into the bar area. “The kitchen is clean and—”
His words abruptly stopped as the man’s one good eye that wasn’t covered with a patch stared at Jackson in that way he was becoming all too familiar with. Perceptive and a whole lot standoffish. Now that the employees at Kincaid’s knew about him, they weren’t so quick to assume he was Clay.
“You must be the twin,” the other man said gruffly.
“That would be me,” he replied in a pleasant tone as he extended his hand toward the man in a friendly gesture since he was standing close enough. “I’m Jackson.”
The guy hesitated, then finally stepped forward and clasped Jackson’s hand in his strong, unrelenting grip, silently sending a message Jackson would have had to be an idiot to miss. This man was clearly Team Kincaid, and if handshakes could talk, this one would say you do anything even remotely sketchy and I will gladly kick your ass.
“Hank,” he said brusquely, introducing himself before he glanced at Tara behind the bar. “You almost done out here?”
“Yes.” She stacked a few racks of clean glasses on top of each other. “If you and Elijah are finished, you can go ahead and leave. I’ll have Jackson walk me out to my car.”
A muscle in Hank’s jaw ticked. “I don’t think Clay would be too happy if he found out—”