Читать книгу Kiss Me, I'm Irish - Jill Shalvis - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

WITHOUT KNOCKING, Deuce leaned against the solid wood door that separated a back office from the storage areas piled high with empty computer hardware boxes. He’d done as much as he could for the past two days from Diana’s home. He’d stopped into Monroe’s a few times, perused the small kitchen and made a few changes around the bar. But he hadn’t yet entered what he still thought of as Dad’s office. Which was always occupied by Kendra Locke.

He eased the door open without any hesitation over the latch. Because there was no latch. There’d never been a working latch as long as he could remember. But, were the employees of Monroe’s still as trustworthy today as in the past? He might have to get that old lock fixed after all.

Despite the unfamiliar high-tech logos and the aroma of a Colombian countryside surrounding him, the solid mass of wood under his shoulder felt very much like home. As the door creaked open, he half expected his father to look up from the scarred oak desk, his broad shoulders dropping, his eyes softening at the sight of his son—right before he launched into a speech about how Deuce could do something better.

Instead of his father’s Irish eyes, he met a blue gaze as chilly as the glycol cooling block he’d just assembled on the long-dormant beer tap behind the bar.

“It’s five-thirty,” he announced to Kendra. “Time for coffee drinking Internet surfers to pack up and go home. Monroe’s is open for business.”

She lowered the lid of her laptop an inch as she lifted her brows in surprise. “Today? Tonight? You’ve only been in town for two days. Don’t you have to unpack, get settled and give me a week or two or three to prepare for these temporary changes in my business?”

“I’m ready for business. Tonight.”

He stepped into the tiny space, noting that the old green walls were now…pinkish. The window that was really a two-way mirror over the bar was covered with wooden shutters that belonged on a Southern plantation. “And there’s nothing temporary about…” He closed the door and peeked at the space behind it. Aw, hell. “What happened to the plaques commemorating Monroe’s sponsorship of Rockingham’s state champion Little League team?”

Her gaze followed his to yet another of those black-and-white nature still-life shots that he’d seen in about six places now. He could have sworn her lips fought a smile.

“Diana Lynn took that photograph,” she said simply. “She was inside a sequoia in California. Pretty, huh?”

He didn’t comment. He’d find the Little League plaques. Dad must have stored them somewhere. “There are two freaks left on the computers out there,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “And they are both immersed not in the new millennium, but in the middle ages from what I can see.”

“Runescape,” she answered with a nod. “That’s a very popular online medieval strategy game. And they are not freaks. That’s Jerry and Larry Gibbons. Those brothers spend hours in here, every day.”

“Do they drink beer?”

She shrugged. “It might impair their ability to trade jewels for farming equipment.”

“They have to—”

“Stay,” she interrupted, jerking her chin up to meet his gaze, even though he towered over her desk. “You can’t kick out my customers at night. If they want to sit on those computers until 2:00 a.m., there’s no reason for them not to.”

“Suit yourself,” he said affably. “But the TV monitors are about to be tuned into Sports Center, and the jukebox will be on all night. Loud.”

She flipped the laptop open again and looked at the screen. “The jukebox hasn’t worked for a year. My customers prefer quiet.”

“It works now.”

She gave him a sharp look. Did she have her head so deep in the books that she hadn’t noticed him out there yesterday morning, installing a CD system in the box?

“No one is going to show up for a drink tonight,” she said, turning her attention back to the computer.

“You don’t know that.” He resisted the urge to reach out and raise that sweet chin, just to see those mesmerizing eyes again. Regardless of how chilly they were. “With the front door open, anyone who passes by could stop in. Walk-in business is the heart of a bar.” The fact that he’d worked the phone and called every familiar name in a fifty-mile radius wouldn’t hurt either.

She shook her head slightly, her smile pure condescension. “Deuce, I hate to break it to you, but Monroe’s pretty much shuts down around the dinner hour. We might have a few stragglers come in after seven or so, and Jerry and Larry usually stay until they realize they’re hungry, but there’s no business done here at night.”

“And you just accept that? Don’t you want to build nighttime revenue? I thought you were an entrepreneur. A capitalist.” He almost made a Harvard joke, but something stopped him.

“I’m a realist,” she said. “People pop into an Internet café during the day, when they need access to cyber space or a break in their schedule. At night, at home, they have computers.”

“So change that,” he countered.

“I’m working on it.” She leaned back in the chair—not Dad’s old squeaker, either, this one was sleek, modern and ergonomic. Crossing her arms over the rolling letters spelling Monroe’s on her chest, she peered at him. “Were you paying any attention the other day or were you so wrapped up in resentment that you didn’t even see my presentation? Remember the plans? The theater? The artists’ gallery? The DVD-rental business?”

He’d gotten stuck on one word. “Resentment? Of what?”

“Of the fact that your father has found…love.”

His elbow throbbed, but he ignored it. “I don’t begrudge my dad happiness. You’re imagining things.”

One blond eyebrow arched in disbelief.

“I don’t,” he insisted. “His…lady friend seems…” Perfect. Attractive. Successful. Attentive. Why wouldn’t he want all that for his dad? “Nice.”

“She is that, and more.” She shifted her focus to the keyboard again, and she began typing briskly. “Now, go run your bar, Deuce. I have work to do.”

You’re dismissed.

“I can’t find any wineglasses.”

She gave him a blank look, then resumed typing. “I have no idea where they are anymore. I may have given them away.”

She wanted to play hardball? With him? “Fine. I’ll just serve chardonnay to the ladies in coffee mugs.”

That jerked her chain enough to drop her jaw. But she closed it fast enough. “You do that.” Type, type, type.

“And you don’t mind if I use those coffee stirrers for the cocktails?”

She narrowed her eyes and studied the screen as though she were writing War and Peace. “Whatever.”

“And until I have time to place some orders for garnishes, I’ll be dipping into your supply of fresh fruit for some cherries and orange slices. Will that be a problem?”

Her fingers paused, but then blasted over the keys at lightning speed. Unless she was the world’s fastest typist, she couldn’t possibly be writing anything comprehensible. “I do a tight inventory on every item in stock,” she said over the tapping sound. “Please have anything you use replaced by tomorrow.”

“Will you give me the names of your suppliers?”

She hit the spacebar four times. Hard. “I’m sure you can find your own.”

“Can I borrow your Rolodex?”

Now her fingers stilled—as though she needed all her brain power to come up with a suitably smartass answer. “There’s a Yellow Pages in the storage room.”

She launched into another supersonic attack on the keyboard, her body language as dismissive as she could make it.

Aw, honey. You don’t want to do this. You’ll lose when I start throwing curves.

She typed. He waited. She typed more. He wound up.

“Kendra?”

“Hmmm?” She didn’t look up.

“That window right there. You know it’s a two-way mirror into the bar?”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, still typing. “I don’t need to monitor my patrons’ activities. I have staff for that, and no one is in there getting drunk or stupid. At least not on my watch.”

Low and inside. Strike one.

“That’s true, but…” Slowly, he crept around the side of the desk toward the fancy white shutters. “Aren’t you just a little bit curious about what I’ll be up to out there?”

“Not in the least. I expect it’ll be you and the empty bar for most of the night. Pretty dull stuff.”

A slider. Strike two.

He opened the shutters with one flick, giving a direct shot through the mirror that hung over his newly assembled beer taps. “I’d think a girl who’d spent so many hours with her face pressed to the heat register just to hear the boys in the basement would be naturally voyeuristic.”

He heard the slight intake of breath just as he turned to see a screen full of jibberish. She opened her mouth to speak. Then closed it with the same force with which she snapped down the lid of the laptop. A soft pink rush of color darkened her pretty cheeks.

“Come to think of it, I’ll work at home tonight.”

Steee-rike three.

“That’s not necessary.” He grinned at her, but she was already sliding a handbag over her shoulder.

As she opened the door, she tossed him one last look. There was something in her eyes. Some shadow, some secret. Some hurt. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

“Good luck tonight,” she said, then her pretty lips lifted into a sweet, if totally phony, smile. “Call me if you get hammered with the big nine-o’clock rush.”

When the door closed behind her, the room seemed utterly empty, with only a faint lingering smell of something fresh and floral mixed with the aroma of coffee.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to the California sequoia, ready to remove it for spite. But that would be childish.

Instead, he looked through the two-way mirror in time to see Kendra pause at the bar to check out the newly assembled beer taps. She touched one, yanked it forward, then flinched when it spurted.

She bent down, out of his view for a moment, then arose, a coffee mug in hand. Pulling on the tap again, she tilted the mug and let about six ounces of brew flow in, expertly letting the foam slide down the side.

She lifted the mug to the mirror, offering a silent, mock toast directly at him. Then she brought the rim to her mouth, closed her eyes, and took one long, slow chug. Her eyes closed. Her throat pulsed. Her chest rose and fell with each swallow.

And a couple of gallons of blood drained from his head and traveled to the lower half of his body.

When she finished the drink, she dabbed the foam at the corner of her mouth, looked right into the mirror and winked at him.

THE TASTE OF THE bitter brew still remained in Kendra’s mouth several hours later. She’d walked Newman, made dinner, reviewed her inventory numbers, puttered around her bungalow, and even sunk into a long, hot bath.

But no distraction took her mind off Deuce Monroe. Her brain, normally chock-full of facts, figures and ideas, reeled with unanswered questions.

How could she get through six weeks of this? Where would she get the fortitude to keep up the cavalier, devil-may-care, I-don’t-give-a-hoot acting job she was digging out of her depths? What could she do to make him go away? What if he discovered the truth about what happened nine years ago?

There were no answers, only more questions. The last one she asked out loud as she opened Diana’s door for a third time to gather up Newman. “Why does that man still get to me after all these years?” The dog looked up, surprised.

“I’m lonely, Newman,” she admitted. “Let’s take another walk.”

Newman never said no. He trotted over to the hook where Diana hung his leash.

Sighing, Kendra closed the slider and wrapped the strap around her wrist letting Newman scamper ahead while her gaze traveled over the wide beach. In the moonlight, the white froth sparkled against the sand, each rhythmic crest rising over the next in an unending tempo.

It had been a night much like this one, on a beach not three miles away, that Kendra Locke had given her love, loyalty and virginity to a boy she’d adored since first grade. And now, so many years later, that boy was at her café, driving away her customers, changing her plans and upsetting her peaceful existence.

“And he probably doesn’t have a clue how to close the place,” she told Newman, who barked in hearty agreement. “What if he screws up?” she asked, picking up her pace across the stone walkway to her beach house. “He doesn’t know how to cash out or power down the computers.”

Newman barked twice.

“I agree,” she whispered, tugging his leash toward her beach house. “We better do what we can to save the place.”

In ten minutes, she’d stripped off her sweats and slipped into khaki pants, an old T-shirt, sandals and, oh heck, just a dash of makeup. She rushed through the process, not wanting to change her mind, but definitely not wanting to arrive too late and find the café abandoned, the back door open, the computers still humming.

Kendra navigated the streets of Rockingham, mindful of the ever-growing population of tourists and locals. Something huge must be going on because even the tiny parking lot behind Monroe’s was full. She finally nailed a parallel parking space a block away, and it was already ten-fifteen when she and Newman hustled down High Castle Boulevard toward Monroe’s. He’d probably bailed by the time the Gibbons brothers left, around eight-thirty.

She expected the front door to be locked when she tugged at the brass handle. But the door whipped open from the other side, propelled by a laughing couple who almost mowed her down in their enthusiasm to get to their car. Kendra stood in the doorway, stunned as they brushed by her and mumbled excuses.

One step into Monroe’s and she froze again. From speakers she didn’t know she still had, Bruce Springsteen wailed. A stock-car race flashed on one TV monitor, a baseball game on another. Glasses and mugs clanged and loud voices of fifty or sixty people echoed with toasts and laughter, and somewhere, in the distance, she smelled…barbecued chicken.

Kendra ventured a few steps through the door. Had she fallen asleep in the bathtub and got stuck in a really vivid dream?

A total stranger tended the bar. A woman she’d never seen waltzed through a cluster of tables and chairs carrying an old brown drink tray laden with glasses. And, as though her eyes weren’t playing enough tricks on her, Jerry and Larry Gibbons were over in the corner, flirting with some girls, sipping ice-cold brews from the brand-new tap.

Kendra tried to breathe, tried to think. How had he done this? How had he—

“Well look what the…” Deuce’s chocolate gaze traveled over her, pausing at the floor. “…dog dragged in.”

Newman skittered across the hardwood toward him, but Kendra tugged his leash. She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, Deuce was next to her, sliding one solid, strong arm around her waist. His face dipped close enough for his lips to touch her hair.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, the musky scent of him mixed with beer and barbecue filling her head. “You were worried I couldn’t handle the nine o’clock rush?”

The only rush she felt was a bolt of electricity charging from her head, down her body and leaving a thousand goose bumps in its wake. “I was worried you had no clue how to close up.”

“We’re not closing for hours, Ken-doll. And I hope you’ll stay for the duration.”

She looked up at him, her razor-sharp brain taking an unexpected vacation. Words, praise, criticism—anything intelligent—eluded her. Everything except the heart-stopping desire to kiss him. And that was not intelligent.

“How did you do this?” she managed to ask.

“Word spreads. It seems Rockingham is still a very small town,” he said, his eyes glinting in a tease.

She glanced at the patrons, two deep at the bar. “And, apparently, a thirsty one.”

She was enough of a professional to appreciate the revenue flow. And enough of a competitor to be more than a little bit jealous.

She sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“Profits,” he whispered, that mighty arm squeezing her waist even tighter. “You smell revenue on the rise.”

“I smell barbecue chicken.”

“Oh that,” he laughed, guiding her closer to the bar. “You know JC Myers owns The Wingman now?”

She assumed the ownership of Rockingham’s favorite barbecue joint was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.

“He agreed to provide some emergency assistance.”

“What emergency?”

“A munchie emergency. You can’t serve gallons of alcohol and no food.” He waved a hand toward the crowd. “We’ve got to keep these people happy.”

“There’s food in the back,” she said defensively.

He rolled his eyes. “Granola bars and cupcakes.”

“Muffins,” she corrected.

“Not exactly sports-bar food.”

Newman pattered around her and she scooped him up protectively, before she wandered farther into the fray. She saw some familiar faces from around town, and plenty of new ones. Who were all these people and why had they suddenly shown up?

“Who’s tending bar?” she asked.

“You don’t remember Dec Clifford? My old first baseman?”

As if she’d ever noticed anyone on any team he played on besides…the pitcher. “Vaguely. I didn’t realize he was still in Rockingham.”

“He’s a lawyer in Boston now,” Deuce told her, his hand firmly planted on the small of her back, making sure those goose bumps had no chance of disappearing. “And over there is Eric Fleming, outfielder. But now he’s in commercial real estate in New Hampshire. That’s Ginger Alouette serving drinks. She was a track star in high school, if you don’t remember. She lives in Provincetown. Most of these people still live on Cape Cod—I just had to dig them up.”

A lawyer from Boston, a developer from New Hampshire and Ginger from P-town. They’d all come to see him—to work for him.

“I’ll get real staff soon,” he promised. “I just wanted to get open as soon as possible and so I had a little help from my friends.”

He was still the draw, not Monroe’s Bar & Grill & Wannabe Cyber Café. Deuce was the main attraction and, suddenly, with sickening clarity, she faced the truth. He could make this work. He could make a raging success out of the bar…and she’d be doing Seamus a disservice by trying to fight it.

“I can’t believe you brought a dog in here,” he said, reaching for a quick pet of Newman, who nuzzled into Kendra.

She’d never dreamed the place would be packed, or Newman would have stayed home. As she would have. “I thought you’d…” Be all alone. “Need some—”

“Company?” he asked with a grin.

“No, just help.” But that had been ridiculous. He had all the assistance he needed. She looked pointedly at the black screens of her computers. “How did you figure out how to get all the systems down?”

“I just installed a glycolic cooling unit, a CD player and a satellite dish, Kendra. It didn’t take a Harvard degree to turn off a bunch of computers.”

The comment jabbed her right in the stomach. She swallowed a hundred retorts and looked away. He had no idea what he’d said, and she could hardly zing him anymore for incompetence. He had it all going on, and more.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, as they reached one empty barstool. “Dec, remember Jack’s little sister? Get the lady whatever she likes. It’s on the house.”

Jack’s little sister. That’s what she’d always be to him. Not the owner of this establishment. Not the woman he’d deflowered a decade ago. Not…anything. Just Jack’s little sister.

“On the house?” She allowed him to ease her onto a barstool. “I am the house.”

He just laughed, leaning so close to her ear she thought he was about to plant a kiss on her neck.

“I believe you’ve already had a sample of our new draft selection, right, Ken-doll?”

She just looked at the bartender, vaguely remembering a younger version of his face that had no doubt spent hours with the baseball boys in the basement. She’d been so blinded to anyone but Deuce. “I’ll just have a soda, please,” she told him.

And then Deuce was gone. A whisper of “Excuse me,” and the warmth of his body disappeared from behind her. She fought the urge to turn and watch him work the crowd. Instead, she cuddled Newman in her lap and gratefully accepted the cold drink for her dry throat.

“He’s absolutely adorable.”

Kendra turned to see the familiar, friendly face of Sophie Swenson, her hostess and right hand at the café. Sophie held a glass of white wine—in a stem glass—and her deep-blue eyes glinted with excitement.

“Yeah, he’s adorable,” Kendra assured her, with a disdainful glance back at Deuce. “But he knows it.”

Sophie let out a soft giggle. “I meant the dog.”

“Oh.” Kendra couldn’t help laughing as she pulled Newman higher on her lap. “Well, Newman knows he’s adorable, too.” She narrowed her eyes at Sophie, noticing the flush on her pretty cheeks, the way her gaze darted around the crowd. Would her most senior employee want to slide over to the Dark Side now? “You want to switch to a new evening schedule, Soph?”

Sophie shrugged and settled into the barstool. “If the action stays like this, I might. I mean is Monroe’s going back to being a bar? What about the expansion plans?”

Kendra let out a long, slow sigh. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “I just wish he’d go back to where he came from.”

“He came from…here.” Sophie’s eyes were without humor. “I mean, his dad owns the bar.”

Kendra’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I own half of this bar.”

Sophie raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Internet café,” Kendra corrected, burying her fingers in Newman’s soft fur and scratching him. “And I’m not going to walk away because the mighty Deuce has come home.”

Sophie’s gaze moved from Kendra to Deuce, then back to Kendra. “He’s crazy about you.”

Her heartbeat skidded up to triple time. “I doubt that.”

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in here.”

Why did that fact send yet another shower of goose bumps over her? Kendra closed her eyes until it passed. “No, we’re just in an oddly competitive situation right now.”

Kendra stole one more glance over her shoulder. Ginger the track star-turned cocktail waitress gazed up at Deuce and giggled. Another athletic-looking man slapped him on the back.

But Deuce’s gaze moved over everyone and locked on Kendra. There was that secret smile, that cocky tease in his eyes. And, as it had since before she knew how to write his name in cursive, the old zingy sensation washed over her.

Oh, Lord, not still. Not at thirty years old. That incapacitating girlhood crush had resulted in nothing but sleepless nights and pillows drenched in tears. A lost opportunity to graduate from the finest university in the country. And she wouldn’t even think about the baby. She’d trained herself not to ever, ever do that.

Hadn’t she paid enough for the honor of worshipping at Deuce’s altar?

“Call it competition if you like,” Sophie said, yanking Kendra back to the present. “But that man’s got you front and center on his radar screen.”

“Well then I’ll just have to disappear.”

“That’s kind of difficult since you’re both working in the same place,” Sophie said.

“Not at all,” Kendra said, gathering up Newman with determination. “I work days, he works nights. And never the twain shall meet.”

Sophie tilted her head a centimeter to the right in a secret warning. “The twains are about to meet, honey. Hunky baseball player on your six.”

Clutching Newman, Kendra slid off the stool and took a speed course through the crowd around the bar. The back door was closest, so she focused on it like a beacon for a lost ship. If she could just get into the kitchen before he got to her, she could slip into the back parking lot.

She breezed through the storage area, ignored the surprised looks from the borrowed employees of The Wingman who were plating up chicken in the little kitchen, and flung the back door open into the night.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she whispered to Newman, setting him gently on the concrete.

Newman sniffed at the corner of the Dumpster.

“No time for trash, Newman.” She tugged on his leash and led him along a brick wall through the side alley and to the main road.

Where she walked smack into one six-foot-two-inch former baseball player wearing that triumphant grin that used to melt her in the stands of Rockingham Field.

“The party just started, Ken-doll,” he said softly, placing those incredible hands on her shoulders and pulling her just an inch too close to that solid wall of chest. “You can’t run away yet.”

The definition of stupid, she thought desperately, is making the same mistake twice. And Kendra Locke, who’d scored a coveted scholarship to Harvard and masterminded the makeover of Rockingham’s version of Silicon Valley was not stupid. Was she?

“I’m not running away,” she insisted. “It’s too crowded in there for a dog. And I—” she cleared her throat. “I have to go home.”

“I’d like you to stay.” He dipped his face close to hers. She didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t possibly think.

Deuce was going to kiss her. She opened her mouth to say something, something like “This is a bad idea,” but before she could manage a word, he covered her mouth with his.

She stood stone-still as his fingers tightened his grip and his lips moved imperceptibly over hers. He closed a little bit of space between them, his chest touched hers, his legs touched hers, his tongue touched hers.

Was she really going to do this? She, the former Mensa candidate and Rockingham High valedictorian? Could she be that foolish and wild? Could she dare let history repeat itself?

Opening her mouth, she did the only thing she could possibly think to do.

She kissed him back.