It didn’t help that the words were accompanied by the most compact little dynamo slipping right in front of him and blocking his path.
Her hands were balled on lush hips, blond hair cascading in curls down her back. The deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen flashed at him, full of outright anger.
Over her shoulder, Finn watched the competition grab the chairs around the table, pull them out and plop their infantile butts down.
This was the most irritating end to a day full of shitty experiences.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The tiny blonde, who tried to compensate for her five-foot-nothing height by wearing the most insanely impractical heels he’d ever seen in his life—even though she was still over half a foot shorter than he was—crowded into his personal space. Her finger landed in the center of his chest and she poked.
Her gaze darted behind him, landing on Duchess. Fear flashed across her expression before she tamped it down.
Great. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Finn encountered people who were afraid of dogs. And while Duchess was one of the sweetest, gentlest animals he’d ever met, there was no getting around the fact that she was big and could be intimidating. That impression wasn’t helped when people learned she was a trained military dog.
Yes, she could take down bad guys, but only on command. Not that this woman wanted to hear that right now.
“You can’t bring a dog into a bar. Get him out of here.”
Finn cocked his head and for several seconds seriously considered picking her up and moving her out of his way. He bench-pressed more than she had to weigh. “Her.”
“What?”
“My dog is a her. Just because she’s big doesn’t mean she’s male.”
Shaking her head, the sprite of a woman said, “She can be male, female or in the process of gender reassignment for all I care. She doesn’t belong in my bar. Get her out of here.”
Her bar?
Finn let his gaze travel down her body again, a little more intrigued this time.
It fit. The impractical shoes were a perfect complement to the armadillo spinning lazily overhead. Her jeans were well worn and molded to her body. She might be small, but it was obvious she had curves in all the right places. And the black T-shirt she wore, emblazoned with the logo of a local craft beer, emphasized that fact.
As she leaned closer, the pressure from her finger increased. That was really beginning to irritate him.
“You have to leave,” she reiterated.
He could argue with her—actually, Duchess was legally allowed to be on the premises. But considering his purpose for being at the Kentucky Rose in the first place, it probably wasn’t a smart idea to piss off the owner. Yet.
So he’d try to cajole.
“I just ordered a beer.”
“Too bad. Your dog isn’t welcome.”
Or maybe not.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Finn stared down at her. “My dog is a highly trained military working dog. She’s a decorated war hero. She’s a hell of a lot better behaved than half the people in this tacky excuse for a bar.”
The minute the words were out of his mouth, Finn realized he’d made a tactical error. She might have been angry before, but now she was downright pissed.
Her skin flushed a deep pink. Her eyes turned glacier, but somehow still had the ability to burn straight through his skin.
“Tucker.” Someone yelled the name out across the crowd. He didn’t realize the voice was addressing the woman in front of him until the brute attached to it appeared behind her. You could’ve fit her inside the man’s clothes twice and had room to spare. But the guy was all frickin’ muscle.
Not that it particularly mattered to Finn. He’d fought guys bigger and badder than this one and come out on top.
“You need help with this guy, Tucker?” he asked, keeping his gaze trained on Finn.