by Layla Nash
"O-okay," SJ said. She almost wanted to laugh. The words hurt — they'd hurt at the time and they hurt as she said them — but maybe there was something to what Rosie said. "He said Dakota was an ugly baby and I threw the lamp at him."
"Yes, you did," Rosie said, lifting her beer again. "Damn straight. What else?"
"He said I was too dumb to know any better than to chase a guy like him, and that I was wasting my money trying to get a degree, since I'd never learn anything. No one would ever give me a job except where I showed my tits for money." SJ almost smiled as she took a gulp of soda, having to gear up for the last one. "And then he said I was a shitty mother and that some day, Dakota would end up a high school drop-out and a hooker, fucking guys like him."
Rosie picked up the bar stool next to SJ's and threw it at the door with a ferocious yell. It smashed into the wall above the door just as it opened, and the big dude, Tate, ducked as pieces of wood rained down on him. Rosie tried to smile and helped him brush splinters off his shoulders. "Sorry about that, Tate honey. I thought I saw a bee up there."
"So you threw a chair at it?"
"It was a stool, darlin', don't exaggerate." Rosie brushed her hands off and retrieved a broom from the back room, cleaning up the mess as a few more people walked in. "My friend and I were just having a conversation and I got a little emotionally involved."
"No kidding," the big guy said, barely looking at SJ, and her heart sank. He wandered up to the bar and picked up the menu, ignoring everyone else in the entire place.
Rosie hollered at the drunk who'd passed out at a table near the fireplace, and gestured for SJ to get behind the bar and retrieve drinks for a few people. SJ complied, though she avoided looking at the big dude, Tate. She'd almost told Rosie about finding the bag of drugs in Chuck's backpack, and the pistol in the bedside table. She needed to get that off her chest, too, but not when there were so many other people around. And if that guy Tate was a cop or — worse — a thug like Chuck, then it was too dangerous to say all that around him.
So she bit her lip and smiled as a few of the locals came up to introduce themselves and start their tabs for the night, and then there was a flurry of dinner and drink orders until she almost didn't know if she was coming or going. Luckily she'd waitressed before, but learning a new menu and ordering system took a while. But SJ felt herself building to the challenge — after all Rosie had done for her, SJ would work her ass off to pay her back and make a new home for Dakota. Even if it meant dealing with scowly-faced guys at the bar. After how things ended with Chuck, she wouldn't trust a pretty face or a pile of cash ever again. And she wouldn't date anyone for at least a year, until she got her equilibrium back.
Chapter 7
Tate
Tate didn't expect to get a chair thrown at his head the moment he stepped into the bar. It happened occasionally at Rosie's, but not usually on a Tuesday. He was already tired from spending the afternoon with Zoe and helping Simon fix a few things around the Lodge before he headed back, and the roundtrip driving always took a lot out of him. Particularly with the roads still a little dicey from the snow.
So he wasn't in the best mood as he ducked the chair and Rosie looked at him with a hint of exasperation, even though she smelled like rage. He didn't argue with her, not wanting to piss off the cougar even more, and headed for the bar so he could eat dinner and go to bed. He stopped short, though, when he saw the strange girl standing behind the bar as Rosie strode off to deal with one of the local drunks. He really didn't want to make small talk with someone new.
Just as he considered ordering at the bar and taking a table for one elsewhere, the door blew open again and the townie girl who'd been hitting on him for the last two weeks tumbled in with a few of her girlfriends. Tate swallowed a groan. He didn't want to deal with that, either. If he took a table, they'd invite themselves over and then he'd be obligated to buy them dinner or drinks or — worse — talk to them all night. He knew Sarah Jane watched him debate, though he couldn't tell what she was thinking by her expression, and he finally sat at the bar and ordered a beer.
She didn't say anything, just pulled the pint and slid it in front of him before moving on to fill a couple more orders shouted over the noise of the suddenly ear-shattering music. He took up as much room as he could at the bar, not wanting even the local drunks to elbow their way up and invade his personal space, and luckily no one dared. He stared at the menu, knowing he would order the same thing he always did. He didn't even really see the print anymore. He remembered instead a small cafe on the left bank in Paris, with intricate hand-lettered menus. Tiny entrees of fantastic imagination, arranged aesthetically, but so small he had to order half a dozen to feed his appetite. Monique always found it hilarious. Until she didn't.
He sighed, then froze as the girl paused in front of his part of the bar. "You ordering food?"
"Yeah." He didn't want to be rude, but Tate didn't want a conversation. She seemed nice, and cute for a kid who looked barely old enough to drink, but she had too much baggage. A baby and connections to drug dealers were just too much to handle. The girl looked like a walking collection of bad life choices. Even if the lion thought she smelled amazing.
"What's good here?" Sarah Jane's forehead wrinkled as she frowned, trying to read the menu upside down.
"You tell me. I haven't seen the kitchen."
She snorted, then glanced over her shoulder before taking the menu. "You should probably err on the deep-fried side of things."
"Burger and fries, then." Tate watched her scribble it down and swirl off, calling something to Rosie as she headed to the back room and the kitchen. He'd ordered the same thing every night for the last month. Maybe he needed to branch out. There was a pizza joint down the road, though they didn't serve alcohol.
He stared at the line of bottles behind the bar, wondering when he'd get a chance to talk to Rosie, and tried to catch her as the bar owner rode herd over the dozen customers in the bar. But there was never a good time — too many ears, or Sarah Jane standing too close, or the phone ringing off the hook at the end of the bar.
She brought the burger and fries back, looking harried, and something small squalled in the back room. Sarah Jane rushed to get more beers and mixed drinks, her hair flying out of her ponytail in wispy red strands. She didn't seem like the kind of girl who wanted a lot of help, not with the determined set of her mouth and the glint in her eyes when one of the locals made an unwise comment about the loveliness of her bosom. Tate also resisted the urge to punch the asshole right in the face, and waited until the girl's back was turned to growl at the old man to back the fuck off.
But the noise continued in the back room and Tate's superior hearing picked it out easily — high-pitched, maybe distressed, but not a full cry. The kid. Had to be the baby. He wondered what the hell she was thinking, leaving the kid in the bar, but guessed she didn't have a babysitter yet, not after less than a day in town. Another bad choice, although he wouldn't have trusted any of the locals with his kid, if he had one. And she sure as hell couldn't run the bar by herself and leave Rosie upstairs. Rosie could hardly manage, most nights, and the only reason she did was because the regulars expected slow service and a heap of attitude to go along with it. That was the charm of drinking at Rosie's.
Tate got a few bites into his burger before he couldn't take it anymore and the baby's chatter turned into a cry and pushed the lion to the breaking point. He didn't want to be a nice guy. He really didn't. He didn't want a connection to the girl with the drugs. But he didn't want that baby to be afraid, in a new place and a strange room filled with loud noises and strangers. The kid didn't have a choice who her mother was, and if Sarah Jane made some terrible life choices, well, that was on her. The baby shouldn't have suffered because of Sarah Jane's shitty decisions.
So he pushed off the stool and headed around the bar, waving when Rosie asked where he was going. He went into the storeroom and found the little girl in a car seat, snugly wrapped up and
with her pacifier fallen out of her reach. Her eyes got wide when he reached for her, and as the baby drew a deep breath to really scream, he hummed to her. Made some of the lion's comforting noises — a chirp and chortle, a bit of a purr. Tate picked her up and held her against his shoulder, bouncing a little, and headed back into the bar. He paused long enough to turn the music down, glaring over his shoulder when one of the drunk farmers yelled at him not to fuck with the playlist, and when Tate scowled, the man shut up and sat down.
He held the baby with one arm as he returned to his stool and sat, maneuvering the burger with his free hand as the baby stared over his shoulder at everyone in the bar. Sarah Jane rushed up, wiping her hands on a bar towel and reaching for the kid. "You don't need to —"
"She's fine," Tate said, not putting down the burger or letting her take the kid. "You're busy. I'm just sitting here. She didn't want to be back there on her own. So we're fine right here."
Sarah Jane stared at him, speechless, until Rosie strode over and poured him another beer. "Tate, you son of a gun. I think my ovaries just exploded, looking at a fine piece of man as yourself holding a baby. Kiss her head and I might have to excuse myself to change my pants."
He laughed, bouncing the baby as she stood on his thigh, and turned his attention back to his French fries. "Can't have that, Rosie."
She hustled into the back to retrieve more orders, but Sarah Jane just stared at him until Tate turned to look at her as well. "What?"
"Why are you holding my baby?" With her hands on her hips, she looked almost as fierce as Zoe in mama bear mode.
Tate didn't smile, not wanting to antagonize her. She didn't smell like a shifter, but there were ways to hide it. He'd hidden his nature from Simon for a long time. "Because she was crying and you were distracted and I asked you for a beer four times and you still haven't gotten it. I figured if anyone was going to get their drinks tonight, someone had better look after your kid. So go work. We're fine."
She didn't want to. She really wanted to punch him, from the look in her eyes, and Tate braced himself to fall backwards so the baby would land on his chest. But instead Sarah Jane turned on her heel and stormed off to help Rosie carry a new keg in from the back. So Tate worked on his French fries and didn't say anything when Sarah Jane finally got around to pouring him a new beer, even though it was mostly head and not particularly cold. She needed practice to be even a mediocre bartender. Hopefully she didn't stick around long enough to learn at Rosie's.
She was a much better mother — she stopped every ten minutes, it seemed, to say something to the baby or check her temperature or adjust the tiny pink socks she wore, and Tate might as well not have existed. He was just a stand for the baby. He didn't mind. Every time Sarah Jane whirled past, a little more of her scent drifted into his senses, latched into his brain, and the lion got more and more interested. She was familiar, all right, and maybe more than familiar. The baby, too, started moving from 'small helpless thing to protect' closer into 'family,' as far as the lion was concerned.
That made him the tiniest bit nervous, particularly when the baby cooed and wrapped her little fingers in his beard and nearly tore half his face off. He hadn't cried in years, but those tiny fists full of facial hair almost killed him. Rosie must have seen his face, because she started laughing so hard she tripped over the pool table and fell flat on her face — but she didn't do a damn thing to help him as Tate hopped up and tried to pry the baby off without dropping her.
She got away with a few of his whiskers. Tate held her facing the bar so she couldn't get at his face at all, though that meant he had to protect his French fries from her little grabby fists. Normally he'd kill anyone who went for his food, particularly when the lion was irritated about something else, but he didn't mind the baby knocking half his food on the bar and sucking on a French fry despite his efforts to keep her from getting anything. At least she left his burger alone.
Rosie whirled past and left a small jar of pureed baby food on the bar, giving him a sideways look. "You're a hell of a man, Tathan, and don't think I haven't noticed."
"Keep moving, Rosie," he muttered, not wanting any more attention over it. And when he looked at the rest of the bar, he realized his mistake — the townie girl and her friends practically had stars in their eyes as they gazed at him, and Tate wanted to retreat to the back room for the rest of the night. Shit and double shit. That was the last thing he needed.
The baby squealed suddenly, her little voice deafening his one ear, and Tate replaced the soggy French fry she'd dropped in his lap with a fresh one as he eyed the jar that Rosie left. Strained peas. Well, that was some bullshit. No one wanted to eat that. He lifted the little girl so she stood on his thigh again, and muttered, "I'd want fries, too, sugar bean."
One of the drunks hanging out at the end of the bar gave him a sideways look, and Tate scowled until the asshole looked away. Just because he liked kids didn't make him a softie. He squared his shoulders and figured he'd have to get into a few fights later that week, just to make it clear he wasn't a pushover. Well, he wasn't a pushover for anyone except that baby in her tiny pink socks. God help him if Simon and the guys ever heard.
Chapter 8
The night became overwhelming faster than Sarah Jane planned, and then Dakota started crying and carrying on in the back room. She tried to ignore her for just a few seconds, until she got some drink orders dealt with and some breathing room, but it took her longer and longer to get back to the bar until she almost dropped everything just to make sure her baby was okay. And when she looked up and saw that the huge dude at the bar, the intimidating thug with the beard and scary tattoos, held Dakota in one arm, she nearly lost her mind.
SJ almost attacked him. No one had ever just offered to watch Dakota for her, even Chuck, even for long enough for SJ to take a shower in peace. Maybe Rosie. But no man had ever done that. And she didn't even know this guy. He looked terrifying. Dakota just stood there on his leg as he sat on the stool and ate his burger, the baby staring over his shoulder at all the people and movement and flashing lights — happy as a clam. She even smiled and cooed when SJ walked up.
The guy hardly even looked at her as he told her they were fine and he was going to eat his dinner, and SJ felt completely helpless. She didn't want to rely on him. She really didn't. But there was no way in hell she could watch Dakota and actually help Rosie serve drinks and food. Especially now that Dakota was awake and bouncing and wanting to be engaged. She wouldn't just hang out quietly in the back room. So SJ took a deep breath, told herself she would keep a hawk eye on that guy, and if he even looked impatient with Dakota for half a second, Rosie would lose another chair that night, because SJ would beat him over the head with it.
After she got Dakota away.
And as the night wore on and she could hardly think through the chaos of orders and small talk and chatting and her aching feet and back, SJ found herself circling back to Tate and Dakota over and over. Not always because she wanted to check on Dakota, but sometimes because Tate felt safe. He felt steady and solid when everything else seemed to be going crazy. When SJ felt overwhelmed, just standing next to him made her feel like everything would be fine. Like she could breathe again.
She held her breath a little bit when she heard a strangled sound from across the bar, and looked up in time to see Dakota shrieking with joy and both fists anchored in Tate's beard. The man looked white as a ghost and a few seconds from fainting dead away, but he didn't drop the baby. He didn't even yell. He just uttered a few choice words from between clenched teeth and untangled her fingers from his beard. SJ bit her thumbnail, her stomach in knots, and started blushing when she noticed Rosie watching her watch him. There wasn't any reason to think that man might be a good father. No reason at all.
SJ went over to help, but by the time she dropped off the empty bottles behind the bar, Tate had detached Dakota's exuberant fists and turned her to face away from him, so she wasn't quite as likely to help herself to his
beard. SJ swallowed a giddy laugh and struggled to keep a straight face as she pulled another beer for him. "Thanks. I think this one is on me."
"I might need something stronger," he said, clearing his throat, and SJ could have died when she saw a hint of red rimming his eyes. No doubt having his beard nearly torn out took the wind out of a man's sails.
SJ couldn't help it; a laugh escaped as she reached for the whiskey bottle, and her cheeks burned more. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't laugh. It's just — she's gotten me a couple of times, so I know how that hurts. Thank you again, for holding her. You really don't have to."
"She's doing me a favor," Tate said, blinking rapidly and shaking his head a little before reaching for the whiskey. "Keeps everyone else away."
"Oh. Well, yeah. She's good at that, too. Normally she's the man repellent." SJ spun and strode away again, not wanting to continue that conversation when he clearly didn't want anything to do with anyone. Even if the look in his eyes made her stomach squirm, and the easy strength in his hands as he held the baby made her think he could probably fix anything in the world.
Dakota had fallen asleep on his shoulder by the time everyone else left the bar, and it was only Tate, Rosie, and SJ still there. One of the regulars had passed out at a table near the back, but Rosie called his son to pick him up, and then it was only the three of them. Rosie groaned and collapsed on a stool next to Tate, motioning to take the baby. "I can take her so you can go home, Tate. Thanks for keeping an eye on the peanut."
"It's fine." He didn't budge or give Dakota up, even though his eyes looked tired. "You've still got a lot of shit to do. I can hold her. She doesn't weigh anything."
"She's peed down your shirt," Rosie said, gesturing at a wet spot that had migrated from his flannel shirt down to his jeans, and SJ wanted to die of embarrassment.
