One Night Charmer. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
time helping with menus, and wine lists. Decorations... Anyway, I’m just saying this type of planning isn’t hard for me. It’s something I actually know how to do. So if you ever get tired of hanging out in your office until three in the morning, I’m on hand.”
“You have experience with all of that?”
“Yes, I do. And you can pay me minimum wage to help.”
“But you won’t make tips like you do here.”
She didn’t even have to weigh that. She would take less money to do something that made better use of her skills. She was willing to do her best at waitressing, but managing a project like this and helping with decor sounded much more appealing than spending all night on her feet. “That’s okay.”
He shook his head. “No, it isn’t. I’ll pay you more than minimum wage to help.”
She eyed him skeptically. “And why exactly would you do that?”
“Because it would save me having to hire someone, and I guarantee you that it would be more expensive to hire a professional than to pay you minimum wage plus whatever tips you make in an evening.”
“My tips are pretty good. I don’t know if you can afford me.”
“I have a feeling I can swing it. So, what hours are you interested in working? Do you want to trade shifts?”
“Honestly? I don’t really have anything else going on right now. So, if you want to tackle this tomorrow, and I can still come in to work...”
“I don’t want to work you to death.”
She snorted. “I’m not as delicate as you seem to think I am. I already told you, I’m a barrel racer. Not just some pansy-ass rich girl.”
“If you’re sure. Why don’t you meet me out at my place tomorrow.”
She ignored the little thrill that went through her at the thought of being at his place with him, alone. It seemed so much more intimate than being here with him. A lot more dangerous. “Directions?”
He reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and producing a business card. Then he took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled something on the back of the card. “Why don’t you put this in your smartphone?”
“Do I look like someone who has a smartphone?” she asked, paraphrasing their earlier conversation from the night he’d driven her home.
“Absolutely.”
“Fair enough. Because I do.” She took the card from his hand and looked at the back, where he had written his address. “Well, should be easy enough to find. What time do you want me to come over?”
“How about noon? I’m not really human before then. Sometimes I’m not even awake.”
It struck her then, what strange hours a bartender must keep. She was slowly acclimating to the later nights, but she wondered what it must be like to live the way Ace did. He wasn’t really beholden to anybody. He could stay in the office until three in the morning if he wanted to, and then get up at noon, because why not? His entire life centered around what happened after 5:00 p.m.
She wondered what that must be like. To answer to no one, not even the clock in the way regular people did. No wonder he was kind of an ass. He wasn’t used to making concessions for anyone or anything.
She wasn’t sure if she envied him or not. Mostly because she wasn’t sure if she lived by someone else’s rules or her own. Which was really stupid, when she thought about it. But it all went back to what she had been saying to Madison earlier. She just didn’t know what she wanted.
She felt like she was floating. She was just going to blame that on how late it was.
“Okay,” she said, tapping the edge of the doorjamb. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
It was strange, how familiar those words were becoming. How familiar it was to hear them back.
She blinked, released her hold on the doorjamb and waved faintly while she turned and began to walk out of the bar.
Tomorrow would present a new opportunity to show him that she could do this job. This job, and more. And that was the only reason her stomach turned over when she thought about it. The only reason.
SIERRA WASN’T ENTIRELY certain what she had been anticipating when she pulled up to Ace’s house. But it wasn’t what she saw. The large, craftsman-style house with the expansive porch and the red door was absolutely not what she expected from someone like Ace.
She wasn’t sure what a taciturn house would look like, but she had imagined his was taciturn. Not...homey. Certainly not immaculate and well kept. Which was silly, because for all that his bar wasn’t fancy, it was clean. So she should have expected his home to be the same.
She parked the truck and got out, walking toward that red front door that made a mockery of everything she’d thought about him. “Or it’s just a door.”
She scuffed her boot through the gravel in the driveway, leaving a pale line in the dust. She glanced around. It looked like there was a barn down the path that led away from the house. She squinted in that direction, wondering what was in there. Horses?
Horses were her weakness.
She shook her head and walked up the steps to the porch. She paused at the front door, swallowing hard before gathering her courage to knock. For some reason, no matter how often she saw him, an encounter with Ace felt like a whole event.
She could hear his footsteps as he approached the door, each one leaching a little more moisture from her throat, leaving it dry as sandpaper by the time the door swung open.
And...oh dear Lord.
He was wearing that typical lumberjack uniform of his. Flannel with well-fitted jeans. But his shirt was tucked in, and he had on a belt with a big buckle. And he was wearing a hat. A cowboy hat.
She was so done. She was a sucker for a cowboy, always had been. But put her favorite-least-favorite bartender in a cowboy hat and all the blood in her body rushed to her extremities.
“Good morning,” she said. “Afternoon, I mean. Noon?”
“Morning to me,” he said, stepping away from the doorway and back into the house. “You want some coffee?”
He disappeared without waiting for her answer. Or maybe he’d seen it in the glint in her eyes at the prospect of caffeine. After he retreated, she continued to stand there on his surprisingly homey porch, unsure of what she was supposed to do.
She poked her head in the doorway and blinked. The rest of the house was not as the porch had her believing. It was...pretty, sure. The natural wood beams and large windows gave the place a rustic charm, but it was...empty.
Well, not empty empty, but it contained little more than a couch and a large, rough-hewn table that looked like he’d straight up carved it out of a log. There were no photographs on the walls, no art, no mirrors.
There were empty beer bottles, standing sentry on every available surface like empty vases waiting for a daisy.
Unsurprisingly there were no daisies anywhere.
Ace returned a moment later, holding two coffee mugs in his hand. They didn’t match. One was black with a chip around the rim, and the other was shaped more like a soup bowl.
“I will take the industrial-sized one.” She reached out, flexing her fingers.
“Ladies’ choice,” he said, extending the mug in her direction.
“The lady chooses to have a tankard.” She wrapped her fingers around her bowl-o’-coffee