Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (8 page)

“Stoli on the rocks with a twist.”

When Bree started punching the order into the register, he waved her away. “I’ve been working behind the bar all my life—first as a bar back and then as a bartender. How do you think I paid for marine architecture school, Breezy? I’m more than capable of ringing up a drink.”

“That’s all fine and good, but I don’t want you in my till.”

“Do you honestly believe that I spent three grand to fly here just so I could steal a few hundred from your till? Give me a break.”

If it had been Logan or Slater helping, she’d be kissing his feet, but this was Storm. It was impossible for her to be grateful for his help. Unfair—definitely, but who the hell said life was fair, and how could she be grateful for his help when his mere presence caused her more pain and stress than she’d had dealing with everything alone? She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Fine, if he wanted blunt, she could do blunt. “This is my bar, and I don’t want you here.”

Storm leaned back against the beer cooler and crossed his arms. “Last I checked, this was Pete’s bar, and he was awfully relieved this morning when he found out I was here to help out, so get over yourself. I’m here. I’m
going to help. If you don’t like it, I’ll be happy to fight about it later—just not in front of the customers.”

He shot a brilliant smile at the walking plastic surgeon’s catalogue, punched in her order, totaled the sale, and counted out her change, slamming the drawer shut with his hip.

“Fine.” Bree stomped into her office and was so angry, she slammed that door too—only it didn’t slam. She looked over her shoulder and found Rocki protecting her face. “Sorry.”

“I guess if you really want to, you can slam the door now. I’m just glad I have great reflexes.” Rocki took a seat on the other side of Bree’s desk.

“I have work to do.”

“No, what you have is a bad case of beard burn. You might want to put some cream on that. Maybe next time you and Storm go at it, he should shave first. Still, that whole scruffy, didn’t-get-the-chance-to-shave-this-morning look really works for him. But then, what wouldn’t?”

“We had a fight.”

“Why make love and not war when you can do both? That must have been one hell of a reunion, huh?”

“I think I preferred the one last night when I clobbered him with a frying pan.”

Rocki laughed. “Oh, to have been a fly on the wall…but knowing you, you would have hit me with the frying pan too.”

“This is not funny. He’s behind my bar.”

“I know—that’s usually what happens when you request help running a bar.”

“He’s supposed to help. Not take over. Not mess with my head. And not look as if he belongs here when he’s just biding his time until he can run away again.”

Rocki slid forward in her seat, “Just think of all the women he’s going to attract. We should publicize it. Of course, Patrice is already on the job, so you’d better be prepared for one hell of a night. Storm Decker is going to be quite the draw. He’s all that with a Brooklyn Kiwi accent—a tantalizing combination.”

“Why do I bother?” Bree sat at her desk and held her aching head in her hands. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. You’re supposed to commiserate with me and give me ‘poor babys.’ Instead, all I get is skin-care advice and the nauseating job of holding your drool cup.”

“I hardly drooled, not that he’s not worthy.” Rocki crossed her legs and did that annoying heel-to-sandal slap with her waggling foot. “I’m not sure what’s more interesting, watching Storm or watching you watch Storm. Girl, you’ve got it bad.”

“I do not. I can’t stand him.”

“Yeah, I can tell by the beard burn.” Rocki reached into her bag and took out a tube of cream. “If you don’t want to advertise what you two were doing upstairs, you’d better use this.” She tossed it across the desk, stood, and headed for the door. “It’s about time you let a man close enough to scrape some of that fair skin of yours off. The blush works for you too. It really brings out your eyes.”

 * * *

Bree hung up the phone after her daily call from Slater asking about Pete’s condition and ran up the back stairs to her apartment. If she was going to have to deal with Storm Decker and loaded questions all night, she was going to do it looking as good as she could, and preferably without noticeable beard burn.

She piled her hair on the top of her head and jumped into a hot shower, doing her best to wash the scent of Storm off her body.

As if it weren’t bad enough that he rubbed all the skin off her face with that coarse bristle, she’d spent the afternoon squirming in her chair. Instead of doing a beer order, she relived every second of that kiss—or whatever the hell it was. Remembering the way he’d picked her up, how her thighs cradled his erection, the taste of his anger and the second it had changed to need, want, and pent-up frustration.

What was it about him that had her thoughts making a right-hand turn toward eroticaland? And what the hell was she going to do with him? He could piss her off and turn her on just by breathing. How could she fight something like that, especially with her Irish temper?

Bree tore the ponytail holder from her hair and soaked her head. It was no use; nothing helped. She was beyond horny, edgy, and exasperated with herself and with him. She’d never been one to fall all over a man. No one had ever left her wanting; no one had ever affected her to the point of madness; no one had ever made her fall in love. Except for Storm.

Storm stood behind the bar, sipping a club soda and studying the menu. It contained a hell of a lot more than the burgers and fries Pete had always offered. The new menu had appetizers, soups, salads, entrées, and desserts.

The bar had been busy since he’d come down and relieved Rocki—something else that hadn’t happened when Pete was running the place, but not everything had changed. The menu still had everything he’d craved when he was away from the States: Red Hook’s famous lobster rolls, Key lime pie, and, most of all, beer from Sixpoint Brewery—all in all the perfect meal as far as he was concerned.

The two servers working lunch were well trained, and by three o’clock, the bar service had picked up and there was still a busy late-lunch crowd at the booths and tables.

Bree hid out in her office. If she was waiting for him to fall on his face and beg for help, she’d have a long wait.

Storm had already introduced himself to the kitchen staff and asked about the specials. He’d even received a
quick lesson on how to place an order on the bar computer from one of the servers. It was an easy-enough program to pick up. Sure, he had to figure out some of the intricacies and get an employee code of his own, but for now he was using Bree’s—which must have really chapped her ass. And what a fine ass it was.

“What’s that smile all about?” Rocki pulled up a stool and leaned toward him across the bar. “And what the hell did you do to piss off Bree so badly?”

“Which time?”

“Touché.”

He leaned back, held her gaze, and waited for it.

Rocki, instead of peppering him with questions, settled for a stare off. Her eyes held questions, warnings, along with a good bit of humor. Storm had a feeling that once he got to know her, he’d like her as much as Breezy seemed to, even if the girl couldn’t tend bar to save her own life. It had taken him an hour to clean up the mess she’d made in a quarter of that time.

Storm wasn’t sure how long they’d stared at each other before she finally nodded and slipped off the stool. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Storm gave her a mock salute. “Perfectly.”

She stepped behind the bar, turned off the music, and flipped another switch before sitting down at the piano to take requests for the next hour from the regulars who came in with briefcases and loosened ties for a mixture of standards and Brahms. Yeah, Storm was pretty sure he was going to like Rocki a whole lot.

He fell back into the routine of tending bar as if he’d never stopped. By five, the place was hopping—delivering Storm directly into the weeds. He was just about to send one of the servers to find Breezy, when a big guy
wearing a black polo and khaki pants came around the bar and logged onto the computer, switching out the cash drawer.

“I’m Simon. Who are you, and where’s Breanna?”

Storm didn’t like his tone but couldn’t really blame him. “Storm Decker, Pete’s son. I came to take some of the pressure off Bree.”

Simon relaxed and shook his hand. “Good to see one of you finally showed up.”

“I just found out the day before yesterday—and it’s a twenty-four-hour flight. Pop’s not much of a communicator.”

Simon blew out a breath. “I’ve been worried about both Bree and Pete. I’m glad you’re here. Bree’s been running herself ragged.”

“Yeah, well, my presence here won’t make much of a difference if she won’t let me help.”

Simon stopped midswipe. “She’s got a real stubborn streak, and from what I gathered, you’re not her favorite of Pete’s kids.”

“Thanks for the news flash.”

“Hey, Breanna—looking good.”

Storm looked up from the order he was pouring. Bree walked toward the bar, wearing black trousers paired with sex-on-stilts, pointy-toed shoes that made her legs look a mile longer than usual. She topped it with a black tank under some kind of long, formfitting blouse that shimmered—seemingly changing color from fuchsia to purple every time she moved. She’d done something to her hair. It still had that just-got-out-of-bed tousle, but it didn’t look accidental. It looked as if some man had just spent the last twenty minutes running his hands through it—and he hadn’t been that man.

Her blush brought out the emerald green of her eyes as they raked over him. Damn, the woman could get him half hard with just a look.

Bree bit her lip, which was still slightly swollen from their earlier escapades. “You can leave, Storm. Simon and I will handle it from here.”

“No, thanks. But you’re welcome to take off if you want some time.”

“It’s my shift.” She came around the bar with eyes flashing, and he had the urge to pick her up and carry her to her office for round two.

“I’ll take that end of the bar,” Simon said as he turned away. “Storm, let me know if you have any questions.”

Storm couldn’t help but smile at Bree as she fumed. There was nothing he liked more than taking Breezy down a peg or two, well, except for kissing her.

“Fine. Do what you want.” Her phone announced a text message, and she checked it, making sure to keep the screen pointed away from him. Whatever.

 * * *

Bree answered Daniel Knickerbocker’s text asking about the Harbor Pier fund-raiser. She’d put him off before, even though her presence was expected, because she didn’t know if Pete would be home. Since she was suddenly free and her easy-escape allies—Rocki and Patrice—were already settled at the bar for the night, she jumped at Daniel’s offer to get out of the uncomfortable situation Storm had put her in.

She stepped aside and tried to avoid the bucket of ice swinging from the bar back’s gangly arm and ran right into Storm. “Excuse me.” She waited for him to move—he didn’t. “With the three of us and Cory running around, it’s too crowded behind the bar.”

“I’m making margaritas. I need the blender. Where do you suggest I go?”

“New Zealand would be good.”

She was being hard on him, she knew it, but when it came to Storm, she had no filter. She just couldn’t control it. He had no right to come here and stir up old feelings and emotions. He had no right to crowd her. He had no right to make her want him.

Storm expertly salted the glasses and poured, shooting a look toward the door. “There are a few people waiting to be seated; maybe you should give the hostess a hand. Simon and I can handle the bar.”

As she turned to glare at him, the too-high heel of her shoe stuck in one of the small holes peppering the floor mat, sending her reeling right into Storm.

He caught her.

Bree wasn’t sure if she was thankful or not. It would be a lot safer to fall on the floor than to fall for Storm Decker—something she swore she’d never do again.

In heels, Bree was almost eye to eye with him. His eyes turned an amazing shade of blue shot with green. She sucked in a breath and got a lungful of Storm-flavored air, which didn’t help matters.

“Hi, Bree.”

Patrice. Bree closed her eyes and willed Storm’s hands off her body.

“Storm. It’s nice the two of you are getting along so well. Picking up where you left off, I see.”

Of course Storm hadn’t let Bree go; if anything, he held her closer. When she opened her eyes, Storm had his good-time-guy grin aimed at Patrice.

“You’re as beautiful as ever, Patrice.” Storm’s hold tightened on Bree, and he lifted her off the offending
mat as if she were an inanimate object. He tugged her closer, wedging her between him and the corner of the bar—leaving her no escape. “It’s great to see you.” He nodded toward Francis. “Glad you could make it.”

Simon came closer. “Cory and I have the bar under control. Why don’t you two take a break with Patrice and Francis before the rush?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Storm’s hand lowered, and he brought his mouth to her ear. “After you, Breezy.”

“Remove your hand from my ass,” she said, speaking through a smile so Patrice wouldn’t be able to read her lips, “or you’ll need a surgeon to reattach it.”

Storm let out an annoying, sexy chuckle, ushered her to an empty booth, and then squeezed in beside her.

Bree had always thought the booths were roomy until she sat in one with Storm Decker. His thigh pressed against hers, heat searing through her thin crepe pants, his broad shoulders straightened and crowded her. She pressed against the wall until his arm came around and pulled her to his side. He grunted when her elbow dug into his ribs.

Patrice settled on the bench across from them and leaned into Francis with a contented sigh. “How’s Pete doing? I haven’t been able to get to the hospital for a visit in a few days.”

“Great,” Bree said.

“He looks like crap,” Storm said at the same time. He glanced at Bree. “I can’t believe the change in him.”

They looked at each other, and Patrice raised an eyebrow.