One Night Charmer

by Maisey Yates

  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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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 and lifted it to her lips, looking around the sparse room. “I see what you mean about not being very big into decorating.”

  “It’s serviceable.” His gaze followed her own, clearly taking stock of his surroundings.

  “Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway. You have swatches and samples and things?”

  “You sound way too excited about that.”

  “I am. Fabric choices get me hot under the collar.”

  He laughed. “Excellent. This is my new strategy with women. Come back to my place and look at my flannel.”

  “That would...” She looked him over and tried not to let her mind go to very bad places. Like what it might be like to look beneath his flannel. “Work. That would probably work.”

  “Okay,” he said, walking across the room and heading over toward the couch, toward that big, striking table. “This is what I have.”

  There was a stack of fabric samples on the table. Little square pieces of different material attached to cardboard. She walked over to them, crossing her arms and studying all the options. “Okay, what vibe are you going for?”

  “Is there a particular fabric that says I want to spend my money on the most expe
nsive alcohol in this place?”

  She laughed, looking down. “I’ll tell you right now,” she said, reaching for one of the samples, “it isn’t this.” She ran a finger along the red-and-white checked fabric. “Unless you’re going for overpriced picnic by the sea.”

  “Not so much. Look, I’m not a frilly guy. So this is all kind of beyond me. I sort of know what I want it to be.”

  She looked around the room again. “Simple.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like your coffee table,” she said. “I don’t see why you can’t go with something like that. Handmade furniture with some softer details.”

  “What do you mean by softer details?”

  “Lace. Lace with natural wood would actually be really nice.”

  “I’m not... Lace?”

  “Yes, lace. Unless you’re serving no one but lumberjacks you’re going to have to have something pretty. But I do think that we should do something with the rest of things that you like.”

  He snorted, sitting down on the couch, propping his foot up on the coffee table they were currently discussing. “There’s only one way I like lace.”

  “And that is?”

  “As women’s panties.”

  Heat shot down her spine like a lightning bolt. “Well, you are not using my panties for your curtains. But I assure you that lace has other uses. Picture it. We can do tables made with natural wood, I bet we can coordinate with some people in town. Who all have you helped out, Ace?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” He rubbed his chin, the sound of his palm scraping over his stubble making her shiver a little. She held more tightly to her coffee, hoping that its warmth would erase the chill, or whatever it was, that had just raced through her.

  “I know we don’t know each other that well, but I see you at a lot of different functions. And even when you aren’t there, your drinks are there. I know that you donated beer and soda for Connor Garrett’s barn raising. You also provide drinks every year for the Fourth of July barbecue. I think there are a lot of people who’d be willing to return the favor, people whose skills you could make use of. Your brewery would be a showcase for local talent. And I’m not suggesting you go around asking people to give things to you, but I think you could probably get some handcrafted furniture for decent pricing.”

  He clasped his hands and raised his arms, placing them behind his head. “That isn’t a terrible idea.”

  “Please, you have to be more careful, Ace. You’re going to inflate my ego beyond all recognition.”

  “Then you’ll be insufferable.”

  “Absolutely.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’m already planning on the best method to make your life a living nightmare.”

  “Suggesting I use lace curtains in my brewery is actually a good place to start.”

  “Don’t be a drama queen, Ace. Nobody likes that. Or so I’m told. Frequently.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. But I actually like the idea about using local furniture, art, whenever we can. Because if the point is to give tourists a great place to get a sense of Copper Ridge, then that’s what we need to do.”

  “I imagine you’re not going to have any trouble getting local distribution for your beer, either.”

  He straightened, then stood, making a very male noise that seemed...gratuitous. Like he was just stretching noisily to remind her that he was a man and she was...vulnerable to his powers of testosterone. “I imagine not.”

  “Your excitement is catching,” she said, treating him to her fakest smile.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not your sorority sister.”

  “I was not in a sorority.”

  “Well, there you go. Busting stereotypes all over the place.”

  She lifted the coffee mug to her lips, taking another sip. “Absolutely to change the subject, because the one we are currently on basically amounts to you being an ass... What’s in your barn?”

  “Is that a double entendre?”

  She made a face. “No, what could that even mean?”

  “Well—”

  “No. Please don’t tell me what it could mean.”

  “I didn’t take you for a prude, Sierra,” he said, his voice suddenly getting warm, thick. Certainly not the sort of tone he should be using with her, since he didn’t like her, and she was a waitress. His waitress. His waitress that he didn’t like.

  “I hide my Puritanical streak underneath my short shorts.”

  “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  Her throat tightened, her whole body getting tingly. “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “What?”

  He looked innocent. Which really wasn’t a great or authentic look on him. “We shouldn’t banter.”

  “A little banter isn’t going to hurt.”

  “Banter is dangerous. Especially good banter.”

  “Maybe. But it won’t go anywhere, because you’re the one who has to beg.”

  She nearly choked on her tongue. “Well, I’m not going to. I was trying to change the subject. A gentleman wouldn’t stop me from doing so.”

  “I never said I was a gentleman.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And we actually did change the subject.”

  “But you commandeered my subject change. You didn’t answer my question.”

  He sighed. “I have a few horses.”

  “Okay. How do you keep horses and sleep until noon?” she asked.

  “Well, I pay a couple of kids to come by and feed them in the morning before school. Seriously. I stay up too late to get up in time to take care of them. But, I do like to ride when I have days off.”

  He had a cowboy hat. And horses. He was quickly becoming Sierra brand kryptonite.

  Except for the part where he was a giant jerk, and her boss.

  “Like, do you trail ride or...”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Does your family own horses?” Her own behavior mystified her. She shouldn’t be trying to get to know him. She should be sticking to the script. If she was going to be here, then they needed to be menu planning, or discussing wall sconces, or something. They did not need to be discussing his horses, or his background in horsemanship.

  “No. They don’t. I got into riding when I took a job at a ranch mucking stalls. One of the guys was an old, retired rodeo cowboy. And, since I was sixteen, I thought riding bucking broncos sounded like a great idea.”

  “You didn’t, did you?”

  He nodded slowly, touching the end of his hat. “Yes ma’am. Once upon a time, I was a rodeo cowboy.”

  * * *

  ACE HAD NO IDEA why he was telling Sierra all of this. He didn’t like to talk about his past. Didn’t like to talk about the decade he’d spent away from Copper Ridge. Because it led into dangerous, murky territory that he barely allowed himself to think about, much less have a conversation about.

  “I didn’t know that. I guess, I thought you’d been running the bar forever. Or maybe that you worked at the bar. But, I would’ve been, you know, not legal drinking age when the bar actually changed its name to Ace’s.”

  “Are you calling me old?”

  “Well, you’re older than me.”

  “Not that much,” he said, sounding slightly perturbed.

  “How long have you had the bar?”

  “About seven years.”

  “Yeah,” she said, scrunching her nose. “I was only eighteen when you took over then.”

  “Ouch.”

  He was suddenly very conscious of the decade that stood between his and Sierra’s ages. Of course, he had always known that he was older than her, he didn’t need to tally up the years to figure that out. She was shiny. Sparkly. Regardless of whatev
er was going on with her father, she retained the kind of innocence that was difficult to keep into your thirties.

  “Oh, come on. Men get better with age. Women just start shedding their sequins.”

  “Bullshit. Fashion magazines might want you to believe that, but trust me when I tell you I’ve had some of the best nights of my life with women over the age of forty.”

  He had said that to get a response out of her. What he hadn’t anticipated was the response it would elicit in him when her cheeks turned a deeper shade of rose. “I only wanted to know about your horse riding, Ace, not about the other kinds of riding you do.” Her tone was biting, dry. She was not as unaffected as she was trying to pretend.

  Which was good, because he wasn’t unaffected at all.

  She had to beg. Thank God for that edict. Because it was the only thing stopping him from grabbing her and pulling her flush against his body, backing her up against a wall, bending her over some furniture.

  He’d made a rule, and he would damn well stick to it. He wasn’t completely beyond the pale. He wasn’t unable to control himself. He was not that far gone.

  You are.

  Maybe he was. But in this, he wouldn’t be. He would stand strong.

  Yeah, that’s a real moral high ground, Thompson. You won’t touch her unless she begs you for it. And if she does, you know you will.

  “It’s been said I have no shame,” he said. “It’s probably true.”

  “Oh, I would say more than probably.”

  “Do you want to see the horses?” He wasn’t really sure what either of them was doing. They could act as irritated with each other as they wanted, and they probably were that irritated with each other, but they were also coming up with excuses to stay in each other’s company.

  Probably because she had the nicest rack he’d seen in a while, and he really liked looking at her ass when she walked. He was that basic.

  “Yes,” she said, a wealth of subtext beneath the agreement.

  Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe she just wanted to see the horses. Maybe he was a pervert.