Tattered (Lark Cove Book 1)

“What can I get for you?” I asked the man across the bar.

He flashed me a straight, white smile. “Macallan 18, if you’ve got it. Double. Neat.”

I nodded and turned to the shelves at my back, glad for the task. I needed a distraction from the heat. He’d turned the hotel bar where I worked into a sauna.

For the last three years, I would have argued that this room was always cold, even at the peak of summer. Even with the heat blasting through the vents, like it was now. But here I stood, sweating like I’d just run to catch the late train.

From the moment this handsome stranger had walked through the door, my heartrate had spiked. Not because of the way his dark hair fell in a soft wave around a part above his left eyebrow. Not because of the expensive suit that hugged his broad shoulders and draped down his long legs.

My heart was thundering because of the air.

He charged the atmosphere with his confident stride. His deep-brown eyes had taken me in with no more than a blink. He exuded class and power and heat.

He’d walked into my bar and claimed it as his.

And I was drawn to him, like shivering bones to a warm blanket.

I guess that was natural. People always wanted what was out of their reach. And this man was so far out of my reach, he might as well be standing on the moon.

He drank whisky that cost twice my hourly wage, while I splurged on cab rides every Saturday night instead of walking home at two in the morning. If my tip jar allowed it, I ate lunch on Wednesdays at the corner diner instead of nuking ramen noodles in my cramped apartment. I was just a bartender, surviving life one lick at a time.

He was probably a corporate raider with the world at his feet.

Still, I couldn’t resist pulling in a deep breath of his Armani cologne as I reached for his whisky on the top shelf.

Even in my mandated heels, it was a stretch to grab the bottle that I’d just cleaned yesterday. It wasn’t uncommon for rich men to stroll in and order our most expensive whisky, but it didn’t happen often enough to avoid a weekly dusting.

“Quiet night?” he asked as I came back to the bar with the bottle.

“Mondays are always slow.” I set out a glass on a black square napkin, then poured him two jiggers.

“Lucky me.” He took the glass. “I get your undivided attention.”

“Yes, you do.” I set the bottle aside, doing my best not to blush. Hopefully I wasn’t sweating through my cheap shirt.

Everything about this man was smooth. Sexy. Even his voice. Definitely the way he licked his lips after taking a sip.

But despite him being my only customer, I stayed quiet as he swirled the amber liquid in its glass. I’d been bartending since I turned twenty-one, and I’d learned these last three years to let the patrons do the talking. No one wanted a bartender who couldn’t shut her mouth—especially in a classy hotel like this. Especially when I was as far from classy as you could get.

My black slacks and white button-up shirt didn’t have a stitch of natural fiber—just a synthetic blend that was uncomfortably affordable. My tattered heels had gotten a new scuff tonight, one I’d have to cover with a Sharpie later.

He swirled his whisky a few more times, his gold cufflink peeking out from underneath his suit jacket. “I’m sure you get this question a lot in your line of work. What’s your drink of choice?”

I smiled. “I do get that question a lot. Normally, I answer with whatever was the first drink I served that day.”

The corner of his mouth curved up. “And today’s?”

“A local IPA.”

His mouth split into a full-blown grin. “What’s the real answer?”

That smile made my heart beat wildly again, sending my temperature up another notch.

“It depends.” I pushed off the bar and walked down to my gun, filling a glass with mostly ice, then water. “I’ve always believed in pairing drinks with the occasion.”

“I’m intrigued.”

I took a sip of my water. “Weddings, obviously champagne.”

“Obviously.” He nodded. “What else?”

“Bachelorette parties require anything fruity. Beer always goes with pizza—it’s one of my drinking laws. Margaritas on Tuesday nights because I don’t work on Wednesdays. And tequila shots if anyone says, ‘We need to talk.’ ”

He chuckled. “What about whisky?”

“I don’t drink whisky.”

“Hmm.” He took a long, slow sip from his glass, then set it down. “That’s a shame. A beautiful woman drinking whisky is my weakness.”

The water glass in my hand bobbled and I nearly spilled it on my apron. I’d heard a lot of pickup lines standing behind this bar, and I’d mastered the art of turning down a man without bruising his ego—or losing his tip. But I’d be a fool to dodge that line.

“Then maybe I’ll give it another try.”

“I’d like that.” He smiled wider as he reached across the bar, his long fingers leading the way. “I’m Logan.”

I placed my hand in his, already lost in the fairy tale. “Thea.”