Sex & Sours Read online

  I brushed imaginary dust off of my lapel, hoping the movement would encourage him to remove his hand, and was grateful when it did. “Yes, my apologies. We needed to make a quick exit to make it here on time.” I was stalling, wanting to be polite about my opinion of his bar, but not lie outright. “I was impressed. It’s very richly appointed.” Impressed was a stretch, but it had the desired effect on Pierce. “It’s clear that you had a very specific vision for it and must have had a hand in every detail. It’s no wonder you’re considered so highly.” I knew that boosting his ego would defer from the fact that I hadn’t technically praised any part of the business in any way.

  “Absolutely. It was a passion project. I adore France, even if I could do without the French. Fantastic wines, though. I’m glad you had the chance to see a booming business. Quite a bit different than what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

  He wasn’t wrong there, but I suspected he meant it in a wholly different way. “Yes, very.”

  He leaned in then, either ignorant that Tiffany was still there or not caring. “I wouldn’t normally do this,” I could imagine that wasn’t true at all, “but I have a lot of contacts in this town, and if you’re in the market for a new head bartender, I can send you some names. Good ones.”

  In my periphery, I saw Tiffany’s jaw drop, a mirror image of my own reaction, if I had allowed myself to react physically to his completely disgusting suggestion. I spoke before she could. No doubt she could take of herself—and in a far more entertaining way than I would--but I wasn’t in a position to burn bridges here, so my absolute hatred of Stephen Pierce and everything he stood for would have to wait.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Pierce. I’m sure you’re aware that I currently have the most awarded bar staff in the city working for me.”

  Pierce only grinned wider, his snide expression in keeping with his personality. “How about you think about it. Give me a call when you’re sick of playing babysitter to the misfits.”

  My blood boiled. I didn’t need to burn this bridge to let him know I wasn’t going to tolerate his attitude. “I think you’d be better off if you spent more time worrying about your own business than mine, Stephen. Didn’t you recently have to close one of your restaurants because of low sales? Or maybe it was the accusations of abuse from your staff. I forget.”

  “I can see she added another notch to her bedpost, then. You two suit each other.”

  “How about you go fuck yourself, Steve.” Tiffany spat from beside me, and I had to shove my hands into my suit pockets to stop myself from punching him. I couldn’t even remember the last fight I’d been in. Middle school, probably.

  “Delightful as always, Tiffany.” Pierce sneered, then nodded to me. “Cooper. Think about what I said.” He thankfully walked away.

  I wanted to congratulate Tiffany for so quickly disposing of him, or at the very least for saying what I wished I could, but I wasn’t sure how either would be received, so I simply settled for a mumbled, “What an ass.”

  Her snort turned into a groan. “I’m not drunk enough to deal with this.”

  I flagged down a waiter as he passed, took two glasses, and, with a hefty tip slid into his palm, instructed him to bring us the bottle as soon as he could.

  Tiffany wasn’t the only one too sober right now.

  It was only when the bottle was half-drunk that I asked the question I’d wondered all evening.

  “Why haven’t you ever learned to play nice with them?”

  She carded a hand through her hair, the satin strands gliding softly through her fingers. “I think you’ll find I don’t give a shit. But I’m surprised they aren’t kissing your boots.”

  I frowned. “It seems my reputation proceeds me.”

  “Which is exactly why they should be more fucking respectful.”

  “I imagine they’re hoping I’ll go back to where I came from.”

  “Aren’t you originally from here, though?”

  I was surprised she knew that, not that it was a secret. It was easy information to come by, but that would mean that she’d done her research on me. It pleased me to imagine it.

  “Anyway, fuck ‘em,” she said, delightfully succinct, as always. “They should be glad that you’re the one who has to deal with me. God knows most of them wouldn’t hire me if I was a free agent.”

  What a disgusting thought. That someone of Tiffany’s talent and caliber would have a hard time getting work elsewhere for no other reason than the idiocy of the Pierce and the apparent cowardice of everyone else there.

  “They would be lucky to have you, and they know it. You’re worth more than all of them put together.”

  She blinked, speechless, and I was all too aware of the short distance between us. This was dangerous territory I was treading, but oh, it was the most alive I’d felt since I’d come home.

  21

  Tiff

  Now that the bar was closed for half the week, I had more opportunities to see my best friend, which was good because there was a very pressing matter I absolutely needed to tell someone before I imploded.

  “I think I want to fuck Sam.”

  Audrey spluttered on her coffee, taking a minute to cough and right herself on my couch as she placed her mug down and wiped at her skirt before setting her shocked gaze on me. “Want to try that again when I don’t have a lung full of caffeine?”

  I nodded. “Oh, and I’m quitting. But it’s the other thing that’s got me hot and bothered.”

  “Okay. Those are two very different topics. How about we start with the job first.”

  “I’m quitting.”

  “Yes, you said that. When did you decide?”

  “For certain? A few days ago. But I’ve pretty much been thinking about it for weeks now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Without a shadow of a doubt. Honestly, I should have done it a while ago, but I got comfortable.”

  “That’s not a bad thing.”

  “No, I know. But I haven’t been challenged in a while, and now that Sam’s taken all the experimental drinks off the menu, I’m getting bored. Well, bored by the drinks, anyway.” Being around Sam had become anything but boring.

  “Okay. This is where you explain to me the other thing.”

  “Wanting to fuck Sam,” I said, watching Audrey nod with wide eyes and a shocked grin.

  I groaned, “He’s just so … and then, like … Ugh! And he’ll look at me with those beautiful eyes and smile in that sweet crooked way of his, and it’s like fireworks and warm laundry and my mama’s best cooking all at once.”

  “Damn.”

  “I know.” My head thunked against the back of the couch. What I needed right now was pie. “Hold that thought. I made dessert earlier. Come on.”

  “I wondered what smelled so good.”

  Skipping over plates in favor of two forks, Audrey and I dug into my Mimi’s family pecan pie recipe (she always made it with an extra shot of bourbon). It was my ultimate comfort food. Even though it was only mama’s side of the family that came from Texas, and I’d been born and raised right here in Illinois, it tasted like memories, family, and home; and I made it as often as I could justify (and sometimes when I couldn’t).

  “Are you going to miss the bar?”

  “Absolutely, are you kidding? But the idea’s there now, and you know how I get with an idea.”

  “Relentless.”

  “Exactly.” I groaned in pleasure as the sweet nuttiness of the pie filled my mouth. Cinnamon was the second best thing in my life, next to coffee.

  “I wish I could make decisions as easy as you do. Do you ever second guess anything?”

  “Not often. How would I know if something was a bad decision if I didn’t take the chance?”

  Audrey shook her head, amused. “So, what’s next?”

  “Tell Sam, obviously. Then … I’ve been thinking about that video idea Jackson mentioned.”

  “Really? Wow. I don’t know much about it, but w
ill you be okay for money in the meantime?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m not too worried about that. There’s some savings, and if I need to, I’ll get a side gig. No matter what that dickhead Steve thinks, there are bars here that would kill to have me. Even Sam said—” and I stop, remembering how firm he’d been last night about my worth.

  My worth.

  I hadn’t heard anyone talk about me in those terms since I was five years old.

  “Oh? What did Sam say?” Audrey asked, eyes sparkling and an undisguised emphasis on Sam’s name in that tone that reminded me of high school all over again.

  “That they would be lucky to have me.”

  She hummed, smile wide. “Maybe they aren’t the only ones thinking they’d be lucky to have you?”

  And yes, that thought had occurred to me, too.

  “You used to be so innocent.”

  “What do you expect? After years of listening to your exploits,” she said before taking a bite, humming around the taste. “You really like him.” It was a statement.

  “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to work with him like this. It’s distracting.” Which was a massive understatement at best. He had this way of inflecting his tone in ways that buried the words themselves under my skin until my thoughts became a running commentary of SamSamSam.

  “I bet,” she chuckled. “I thought you hated him.”

  “Fuck, it would be so much easier if I did.”

  This was all Sam’s fault.

  * * *

  Sam and his irritating kindness the night he found me drinking by myself at the bar.

  Sam and his defense of me last night at the dinner and to King Asshole himself, Stephen Pierce, no less.

  Sam and his unfairly lovely eyes and kissable mouth that fought with me and said nice things and teased smiles and … Goddammit. I felt my body responding to the thought of those lips. Of shutting him up with my own.

  “So, what changed?” Audrey asked.

  Where did I start? We still fought, but somewhere along the line, it had become charged with something electric. Something physical.

  And maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath all my frustration, or maybe it was a recent thing, but did it really matter? I knew what I wanted now, and I was going to have a tough time either way.

  “I’ve seen a different side of him recently. He’s not as terrible as I first thought.”

  Indecision had never been my thing. Ever. Mama had always said I talked quick and acted quicker. I’d rather deal with the consequences of a bad decision than wallow in the misery of not choosing.

  “Do you think he’s interested?” Audrey asked.

  “Who knows. He’s coiled tighter than a spring. I just wanna …”

  “What?” she asked, curious.

  “Make him fall apart. Give in to him. I can’t decide.”

  “You’ve given this some thought then.”

  “I have. It’s ridiculous. I know it is. And if it were anyone else, I would just tell myself to deal with it and move the hell on. But he’s …” I waved my hands in the air, coming up short. “I don’t even know what he is, but it’s intense and distracting. And sometimes I get the feeling that he wants it, too? I couldn’t sleep last night because all I kept thinking about was the way he looked at me at dinner and how he said I was worth more than everyone else put together.”

  “He said that?” There’s awe in her voice.

  “Exactly! What kind of an asshole says something like that after weeks of constantly disagreeing with me and telling me how wrong I am about the bar? This,” I point to nothing in particular, “is why us working together is a terrible idea.”

  “One nice comment can’t erase that. No matter how nice his ass is.” She said.

  “It is a really great ass, though.” What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on it, so pert, so perfect.

  “It’s a good thing you’re quitting. The way you’re talking about him, I’d be worried about a harassment claim.” She squawked when I swatted her arm with my fork. “When will you hand in your notice?”

  “No time like the present.”

  Every step towards the bar steeled my resolve. The facts were simple: even if this was just a weird horny crush, it was time to move on from the bar and start the next chapter of my life.

  No doubt he’d be glad to see me go. Sam and I had never worked particularly well together, and whatever changes he made to the bar were just that—his changes. To his bar.

  To stay would mean giving up my creative freedom to fit his vision of the bar and stifling my instincts just to be what someone else wanted me to be, which went against my every molecule.

  And if he really still needed help understanding the scene here (which I honestly doubted, I mean, I’d seen him be polite to Stephen jackoff Pierce. If he wanted to, he could charm the panties off every person in town. He hardly needed my help there).

  So, if he still wanted my help, then I would stand by my word and help him.

  I just couldn’t work under him anymore.

  If he wanted me under him in any other capacity. Well …

  That could easily be arranged.

  So, yes. By the time I was at the bar, up the stairs, knocking on his apartment door, I was resolved. Resolute. Convinced.

  I would quit.

  Whether he liked it or not.

  He opened the door, looking like he was about to step out, wrapped up to shield himself from the strong wind chill that had swept through town this morning.

  “Tiffany. This is a surprise.”

  Damn those ethereal silver eyes and plush cupid’s bow and clipped beard. Damn him in that thick woolen coat and scarf, looking like he stepped out of a damn catalog. I bet he even smelled amazing, the bastard.

  He didn’t even have the guts to look smug anymore. These days when he smiled, it was too genuine. Jesus, I wanted to hate him for making me feel this way.

  I never thought I’d want Harry back, but fuck. At least I never wanted to screw Harry.

  Pushing past him, I walked into his apartment, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer. “We need to talk.”

  I would have laughed if I wasn’t so keyed up. The first time in my life that I utter that phrase, and it’s to a boss who made me so mad I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to throw a drink in his face or tie him down and ride him until he forgot his own damn name.

  Both. Either. All of the above.

  Fuck.

  “Ok. Please come inside.” I could hear the dry humor in his voice. That uniquely Sam way of telling a joke that I’d always taken as cold disdain.

  Hell, it could still be. I was so hopped up on horniness I wasn’t thinking straight.

  A loud meow startled me, and within seconds, I saw a black and white cat slink around the corner to sit at Sam’s feet. Another loud meow was aimed at him.

  Sam leaned down to scratch behind her ears. “Hello, Luna.” I’m too stunned to think much of anything. Sam had a cat?

  When he straightened, there was another loud meow, the cat clearly unsatisfied.

  Sam used the same tone I often found directed at me. “Luna, you’ve already been fed.”

  Then, I found her attentions redirected towards me, as if only now noticing my presence. After a sweep past my legs, she came to a stop by my feet.

  I leaned down to scratch at the soft fur of her neck, surprised at her pliant nature. Sam wasn’t saying anything (which, ok, wasn’t unusual for him), but he was oddly still. Without pausing in my attention to the cat, I looked up. There was an odd look on his face.

  “What? I can’t pet your cat?”

  A small shake of his head seemed to free his strange expression. “Sorry. She’s just not usually friendly.”

  I snorted. “Gets that from you, I ‘spose.”

  This earned me an uptick in his mouth. I was getting better at coaxing humor out of him.

  Just as he corralled her out of the room, I could have sworn I heard him whisper
“traitor” in the cat’s direction.

  He then turned back to me, his coat and scarf removed and neatly tucked over the back of a chair. “So, care to tell me what this is about?”

  22

  Sam

  She stood in my kitchen, as real and imposing as ever. Her cheeks were flushed from the chill outside, and I imagined a heat beneath the skin, that ever-present fire that I’d come to associate with all things Tiffany.

  I barely knew what to expect from her words or her sudden appearance at my door.

  There was a sense of purpose, not uncommon for her, but one tinged with something heated, something …

  I stopped myself. Best to see what this was before I ran off half-cocked.

  “Drink?” I asked, aware of the spark in the air between us. It was different tonight. Intoxicating. I’d been avoiding it for weeks now, although not very well. My only consolation was that she hadn’t appeared to have noticed my struggle or shown any returned interest—something I was now beginning to question.

  Hell.

  I crossed over to the bar and poured us both a measure of whiskey.

  I’d barely finished pouring when she spoke. “Sam.” Turning, I discovered she’d moved closer, now only an arm's length away. Much closer than I had been expecting.

  When she licked her lips, I fought to maintain eye contact. Her arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t work for you anymore.”

  I abandoned the drinks, facing her. “What? Why?”

  “It’s just time for me to move on. Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters.”

  “I thought you’d be happy. It’s not like we get along.”

  Yes. For a very valid, very inappropriate reason that was entirely my own fault. “I’m your boss. We’re not meant to get along.”

  “Well, that’s just bullshit.”