Must Be Wright (The Wrights 3)

He pressed his hands to the bar, lifted himself halfway, then swung his legs over like a freaking gymnast. No matter how often he did it, the sight always shocked Gypsy.

He landed right next to her, smiling triumphantly, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t have time for this. I’m two bartenders down.” She pulled the bar towel off her shoulder and snapped him with it. “Get out.”

Wyatt grabbed the bar towel midsnap, and Gypsy found herself in a ridiculously childish tug-of-war. The challenge in Wyatt’s eyes hooked into Gypsy’s competitive streak, and his lopsided smile told her he damn well knew it.

The regulars chose sides and started cheering. Wyatt was going to win. She didn’t have the energy to put her all into this game, even if she wanted to. Gypsy let go, and Wyatt flew backward, hitting the floor ass first. A rousing cheer cascaded around the bar.

Wyatt bent his knees and rested his hands behind him, grinning up at Gypsy. “You weaselly little cheater.”

“You can’t cheat if there are no rules. I didn’t hear any rules.” She lifted her hands to the customers sitting around the bar. “Did anyone hear rules?”

A round of shaking heads and negative responses rolled through the regulars.

Gypsy smiled and shrugged. “No rules. No cheating.”

He lifted a hand. “Help me up.”

She laughed and put both hands behind her, stepping back. “I wasn’t born yester—”

He lunged for her. Gypsy squealed and stumbled backward, but Wyatt wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her off the floor, and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Shock stole her breath. “Oh my God.” She laughed and hit his back with her fists. “Wyatt, put me down.”

He carried her out from behind the bar to the whooping approval of customers. Hanging upside down, annoyed and embarrassed, she wasn’t sure how she had time to notice how good he smelled. A little spice, a little lemon, and a lot of masculine Wyatt.

“Dammit,” she said, breathless with her stomach against his shoulder. “I’m trying to run a business here—”

With one arm on her thighs, he planted the other at her waist and finally lifted her from his shoulder, dropping her feet to the floor. Then he pushed her onto a barstool. When he stepped back, he pointed a stern index finger at her, his brows raised in a don’t-challenge-me expression. “You stay put.”

On his way back behind the bar, he lifted his chin at a man waiting to order. “What do you need, brother?”

Before the customer answered, Wyatt pulled a highball glass from the rack, added ice, 7-Up, a splash of grenadine, tossed in a cherry, and slid it in front of Gypsy.

She looked at the drink, still deciding whether she should take a break or take back control of her bar.

“Rest your dogs, sweetheart.” Earl was in his late sixties and had lived in and around Nashville all his life. He was another regular who’d stayed after Gypsy bought the bar. “You know by now he ain’t coming out until he’s damn good and ready.”

Gypsy sighed and got comfortable on the stool. Earl was right. She and Wyatt had been playing this game for years. The regulars had followed the progression of their friendship, and everyone wanted them to stop “pussyfooting around each other” and get together already.

Gypsy told everyone the same lie—that Wyatt Jackson wasn’t getting anywhere near her heart.

“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere in middle America right now,” she asked, “having bras and panties thrown at your feet?”

“I’ll elbow Blacksmith off that stage in a heartbeat,” he said, pouring liquor with both hands, “if there is even the slightest chance you’d throw your panties at me.”

She smiled and glanced at the band. “Thanks for hooking me up with them. They’re always a big draw.”

“Glad to hear it. They’re good guys.”

Wyatt had helped Gypsy grow the business over the years by throwing her tips from other successful bars he’d visited, giving her contacts for the hot up-and-comers, and putting a bug in their ear to play at the bar.

Now he took orders and delivered drinks with the speed of two bartenders.

“Let me know if this singing gig ever dries up for you,” she said. “Maybe I’ll find a place for you here.”

His smile heated, and he tipped his head side to side, his gaze on his work. “You as a boss? That’s a sexy idea.”

Now that she was sitting down, Gypsy let herself relax. Her feet throbbed, and she leaned down and slid her hand into her boot to massage her calf.