Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

She scanned the crowd and spotted a group of locals, men and women she recognized from high school, seated at an empty table. Withdrawing her notepad, she forced a smile and headed over. Travis had been right about one thing—­word of her homecoming had spread. After she took their orders, politely avoiding their curious questions, she headed back to the bar.

“I bet your other new hires don’t bring in this much business on their first shift,” she said. “You should give me a cut of the profits from tonight.”

Noah snorted. “Overreaching for someone who is auditioning for a full-­time job.”

She leaned over the bar, elbows resting on the wood. Her arms pushed her cleavage up and threatened to land her dress squarely in the indecent column. But she was still a long way from Hooters—­and, hopefully, The Lost Kitten.

He glanced at her chest and she swore she saw a flash of heat in his eyes before he looked away.

Oh no. If he still wanted her, if that was his reason for pushing her away, for limiting her to a trial shift, and for kicking Travis out the door . . .

She straightened and smoothed her hands over her dress. One look at his supersized muscles and she wished she could explore beneath his shirt. She wanted to know what had changed—­aside from his attitude—­but she couldn’t go there.

She needed a job and enough cash to break free from the past. Though one look at the gawking locals and she wondered if that was possible. Noah might have kicked Travis out, but it seemed as if the ghosts from Forever were hell-­bent on haunting her.

Chapter Three

BY NINE THIRTY, the university students had replaced the old-­timers and locals. Noah kept an eye on the crowd as he worked. The bouncers had arrived at eight just before the crowd began to fill in for the DJ. An outside company handled the booking, and his rep there had assured him that the guy spinning tonight would appeal to the barely twenty-­one crowd. Noah thought it sounded like the loud, repetitive stuff the guys he’d served with overseas played to pump up before heading out on patrol.

Damn war follows me everywhere.

He suspected the noise was part of the reason Chad and Lena had headed out to their truck. Lena, a West Point grad, had served two tours in Afghanistan, and now she relied on her ser­vice dog to navigate her PTSD. A bar overflowing with college kids and house music was too much for her. But Josh still hadn’t turned up and they were determined to wait for the youngest Summers brother.

Noah handed over a beer with a forced smile and scanned the room for Josie. She’d looked ready to crumble after taking Travis’s order. One glance at her pale face and Noah had been tempted to start a fight in his own bar. He’d told himself not to bother. He didn’t need to play the hero. Not here. Not for her.

But he’d abandoned his post behind the bar and found himself at Travis’s table by the time he’d finished telling himself to stay away. He’d threatened to break the other man’s nose a second time if the lazy, unemployed ass didn’t leave. Travis must have heard the rumors about Noah returning home unhinged and mad as hell, because Josie’s ex had left. Sure, Travis had called him crazy. But the words had bounced off Noah as he’d headed for the back room.

Eyes on the busy bar, he caught sight of Josie. She was fighting her way through the mass of ­people with a tray of drinks for the corner booth. The crowd parted for her, the women offering a friendly smile and the guys—­shit, they moved out of the way to get a better look at her curves. Even that black dress, better suited for an office than a bar, couldn’t hide the fact that her breasts were fit for a fantasy.

Or maybe that was just his wicked imagination wanting something he couldn’t have now that she was wearing a Big Buck’s apron. Hell, these kids probably smiled at her just to be freaking nice to the woman distributing the drinks. He was the one who took one look at her chest and daydreamed about her breasts stripped free from that dress. And yeah, he was also the one who’d abandoned “nice” when he’d walked away from the marines.

He’d tried those first few months back. He’d smiled at every damn person in The Three Sisters. Most of the time. Once he’d walked away before getting his lunch. He’d bit his lip when men like Frank, who’d fought long before him, offered a simple thank you. Hell, he’d even tried flirting while volunteering at the Willamette Valley Gun Club. He’d dusted off his charm for Lena, pissing off both Chad and her ser­vice dog.

Now he didn’t give a damn if everyone thought he was an ass. The things he’d done, the ­people he’d fought for, and the ones he’d been forced to call enemy had smashed his idea of good and bad. He lived in the grey area. Aside from keeping this bar running, a blow and a beer topped his list of wants.

Josie tapped a tipsy fool on the shoulder as she fought her way to her customers. Hell, he didn’t want his best friend’s little sister serving him a beer . . .

“Hey, man, I need three light beers. Whatever’s cheap,” a freckle-­faced kid called.

Noah turned and retrieved the drinks. He set the bottles on the bar. And then it happened. One quick glance at Josie—­because damn, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her—­and he saw a tall, built guy stumble right into Josie’s filled tray. She fought to keep the cups balanced and failed. Three vodka tonics spilled down the front of her dress.

Noah moved to the side of the bar and lifted the slab of wood that separated his domain from the rest of the room.

“Hey, you didn’t open these!” the guys who’d ordered the beers called out.

He didn’t answer. He headed straight for Josie, pushing his way through the crowd. The jackass who’d pushed her had stumbled away. And she’d bent down to collect the cups on the ground.

“Leave it,” he growled when he arrived at her side. “I’ll send someone to pick it up.”

“I can do it.” She set the tray on the floor and reached for a plastic cup. As a rule, he stopped using the glassware after eight to avoid broken glasses everywhere. Also, he didn’t have a dishwasher at the moment, which was starting to look like a damn good thing. If she’d been carrying glass . . . hell, he could picture broken pieces nestled between her breasts, cutting into her skin . . .

He took her arm and drew her up from the ground. “You’re wet.”

“And I smell like a vodka,” she said with a laugh, holding the tray covered in empty cups. “Can you make new ones? Without charging them? I can cover the cost of the ones I spilled.”

“They can wait for new drinks or go to the bar,” he said as he led her through the crowd, toward the door to the back room. He pushed his way into the quiet storage area.

“Might lose them as customers,” she said, her tone serious and easy to hear now with a wall between them and the music.