Of course, it would be the worst weather in months on the one night she wants to get home early.
And, of course again, she would be stuck with the one employee who always makes her feel as though black is white, up is down, bad is good. Especially that last one, she thinks with faint despair as she watches him leaning on the polished wooden bar. Killian Jones, professional bartender and flirt (she suspects he has a degree in the second as well as the first), is one of the biggest drawcards of her bar, and he knows it. Dark messy hair, perpetual five o'clock shadow, and bright blue eyes that seem to be blessed with x-ray vision, because picturing you nakeddoesn't begin to describe it. She's seen grown women literally go weak at the knees on the other side of the bar when he turns those baby blues on them, and she should be delighted (it's as good as money in the bank) and usually she is but there are times when she's tempted to accidentally spill an icy Long Island Iced Tea down a cleavage or two.
So sue her. She's only human.
Sighing, she hangs up on yet another apologetic call from one of her staff. "Michael's not coming in either," she mutters. "Car trouble." She suspects the kid has no snow tires on his beat-up car, but it doesn't matter, because it's not as though they're going to be slammed tonight anyway. The damned storm had turned to shit just after the afternoon crowd had cleared out but before the evening drinkers had started wandering in.
"Looks like it's just you and me, Swan."
Her bartender sounds absurdly pleased, and for some reason that makes her want to lock herself in the small manager's office out the back. He's been working for her for five months now, and every single time she shares a shift with him, she comes away from it feeling as though she's gone twenty rounds in the ring with her own head. She's finally gotten to a point where she can (reluctantly) admit that she's (very) attracted to him, but that's as far as she's allowed herself to go, because reconciling the fact that she's paying him to be here and the fact she wants him to bend her over the bar and do unspeakable things to her is proving beyond impossible.
And now she's stuck in an empty bar with both him and an ingrained work ethic that won't let her close early until she knows for sure she's not throwing away a night's takings.
Well, crap.
She does take refuge in her office, but she's going over the monthly inventory, not hiding from her bartender. That's her story, at least, and she's sticking to it. She can still hear the music through the closed door and, an hour or so later, the mood of it abruptly changes from college rock to something older, something slower. Despite her earlier resolve not to let herself be distracted, she grins. 1970's David Bowie? Really? Shutting the inventory book, she heads back out into the bar.
"Been a while since I heard this one," she remarks as she hovers at the end of the bar, suddenly unsure she wants to slide into such a confined place with him.
He shrugs, polishing a highball glass that's already gleaming as the music wafts over their heads. "Thought I may as well put on something I like." He flashes her a mischievous look from beneath dark lashes. "Not as though anyone is here to complain."
She folds her arms across her chest. "What about me?"
His smile is an indulgent one, and it makes her feel as though she's the employee and he's the boss. Upside freaking down as usual. "Oh, Swan. You don't count."
She feels absurdly like he's slapped her. "Thanks very much."
"You know what I mean." He puts down the glass and puts his hands on the bar, palms against the wood as he leans towards her. "You're not like the pernickety young lasses who come in here and spend all night complaining about everything from the colour of their Cosmopolitan to the wind chill factor of the air-conditioning messing up their hair."
She stares at him. "I'm sorry, did you just saypernickety?"
He smirks. "Pays to increase your word power, Swan."
"You seem to enjoy those pernickety young lasses despite their complaints," she shoots back, thinking of all the times she's seen him leave with a customer after his shift, and immediately wants to bite her tongue, because she sounds like a jealous girlfriend and God, is it too early to start drinking her own stock?
He gives her a sharp look. "That's what you pay me for, isn't it? To charm the customers?"
She gives him her most saccharine smile, suddenly glad she'd worn her higher boots today, the extra three inches making them almost the same height. "To a certain point, of course."
"Ah." He flips the bar towel over his shoulder as he leans back against the till, his lilting accent making his words sound faintly mocking. "So what I'm hearing is charm them, but don't fuck them. Would that be right, love?"
Her smile freezes on her lips, her face growing warm with a combination of anger and what feels a lot like embarrassment. Damn him. He's watching her carefully, his blue eyes dark with something she can't begin to name, and she wants nothing more than to get the hell out of here. Without answering his question, she studies her watch pointedly, then looks up at the muted television in the corner of the room. It's on the weather channel, of course, and it only takes a few seconds (a few very tense seconds) to learn that the storm has set in and people are being urged to stay off the roads. It's not a very dignified escape route, but she's taking it. "Right, that's it." His eyes widen, and she perversely hopes he thinks she's about to fire him for speaking to her so bluntly. "I'm calling it. We're not going to get anyone coming in during this."
"How bad could it be?" Leaning down to where the sound system lives beneath the bar, he lowers the volume of the music, and the howling of the wind outside instantly fills the room. "Ah. That's not good."
"No shit, Sherlock."
Tossing her a long-suffering look, he makes his way to the main door that leads onto the street. With an obvious effort, he wrenches open the door. Emma jumps behind him as the elements rush into the bar with a wild shriek, bringing wind and sleet and snow into their sanctuary. Swearing under his breath, he manages to close the door, pushing it shut with his shoulder. Smoothing back his windswept hair (dislodging a few snowflakes in the process), he gives her a wry smile. "I don't wish to upset you, Emma, but I think we're here for the long haul."
This is not what she wants to hear, and for more reasons than she's prepared to admit. "Damn it."
"Ah, well." He shrugs, then strolls back towards the bar. "May as well make the best of a bad situation."
Behind her, she hears the clinking of glasses, and if it's possible for a heart to sink and skip a beat at the time, she's just experienced it. "Meaning?" She's almost afraid to turn around, but of course she does, because apparently she's a magnet and he's freaking true North, and she turns around to find him smiling at her, a bottle of their top-shelf rum in one hand and two shot glasses in the other.
"Care for a drink, Swan?"
Three shots later, and he's cheerfully telling her about his brother 'back home' and how he's planning a visit before Easter. "Oh, that reminds me, Swan." He beams at her, his earlier irritation apparently forgotten. "I need to have two weeks off in April."
She shakes her head, unable to repress her smile. "You're still planning on working here in April?" She reaches for the bottle, more to distract herself from the thought of him leaving rather than wanting another drink. Although, to be honest, she also wants another drink. "I thought you didn't stay too long in one place." This wasn't an idle observation – she'd seen his resume, after all.
He lets her refill his shot glass, then lifts it to her in a toast. "Ah, but some places are worth lingering in, Swan."
Her breath snags in her throat, and the next shot seems to burn a lot more than the others. After a moment, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, glad she hadn't bothered with anything other than lip balm today. It's way past time to break up the intimate vibe, because she is one shot away from climbing off her bar stool and onto his lap and kissing the hell out of him. "You up for a game of pool?"
"You know me, Swan." He leans closer, close enough for her to feel the warm puff of his breath against her cheek. "I'm up for anything."
A million lurid images flash in her head, fuelled by booze and proximity, and a hot twist of awareness slides through her belly. She can smell the tang of his aftershave, mingled with the scent of bay rum and the limes he'd been slicing earlier, and she knows that she might just be in big trouble here.
And so, they play pool. At first, it's a good distraction from her increasingly futile attempts to lock down her attraction to him. And then all of a sudden it's not, and much later she'll have to admit that she's not entirely blameless.
In her defence, when she got dressed this morning, she wasn't expecting to be bent over the pool table with her butt in the air and her cleavage on display. Her scoop-necked sweater and short black flared skirt were fine while she was sitting in the office, but now she feels like she may as well be wearing a pole-dancing outfit, because he's watching her with those bright blue eyes that seem to burn through every layer she's wearing, right down to her flushed skin.
She's not faring much better. He's still wearing his short black apron over his jeans, but that does nothing to hide the fact that he's not just the best bartender in Boston, he might also have the best ass. She tries and fails not to stare at the way his plaid shirt rides up at the back as he bends to study the lay of the game, showing a few inches of leanly muscled back, and she's fighting a losing battle when it comes to staring at the way his Celtic silver pendant slides across the tanned skin of his chest every time he leans down to take a shot.
To add insult to injury, she's losing the damned game.
Finally, buzzing with yet another drink (they'd branched out into tequila shots, complete with lime and salt, because they are in a fully equipped bar and she hates skimping) and tired of losing control of the situation (in more ways than one) she leans one hip against the pool table as he lines up for his shot, making sure she's in his line of sight. He quirks one dark eyebrow at her. "You alright there, Swan?"
Her innocent smile is one that used to send shivers down the spines of her elementary teachers. "Don't mind me."
Of course, he does the exact opposite (he always does) and when his eyes lift from the table to her, she casually strokes one hand up and down her pool cue. His eyes darken, contrasting with the white of his knuckles as he grips his own cue a little tighter. Still watching him, she lets her fingertips toy with the tip of the stick. She gets chalk dust underneath her fingernails, but it's totally worth it when he promptly makes one of the worst shots in known history. "Bloody hell."
"I'm disappointed, to be honest." She flashes him a smug smile. "I didn't think you'd be so easily distracted." As she moves to take her shot, he takes two steps, blocking her path. She looks at him, startled into silence as he takes the cue from her hand and walks to the rack, carefully replacing both sticks before coming back to stand in front of her.
"I'm not." He takes a step towards her, effectively trapping her against the pool table. When she puts her hands down on the edge of it to steady herself, he does the same, putting his hands over hers, his body almost but not quite touching hers. "But you, Swan, you are a different kettle of fish altogether."
She wants to roll her eyes, but she can't tear them away from his softly parted lips. "Charming."
"Isn't that what you pay me for?" He dips his head, his face so close she can see the green flecks in his blue eyes. "To be charming?" She closes her eyes, because she's screwed, she is so screwed, exhaling at the butterfly-light brush of his lips at the corner of her mouth. Her voice deserting her, she hooks her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer, then he's pressing her back against the table's edge, the thick ridge of his erection finding the melting heat between her thighs with an accuracy that makes her suck in a sharp breath.
"Did it truly bother you? The other women?" His voice isn't quite steady, and she's glad, because if she can barely think, she wants him to feel it too.
"Yes."
"Good." He rocks against her, making her see stars behind her closed eyelids. "I'm glad." One hand has drifting up under her sweater, gliding across her stomach, across her ribs, fingertips dancing just beneath the curve of her breast, so close but still not giving her what she really craves, and she suddenly wants him so much she can hardly breathe. "God, Emma-"
He hardly ever uses her first name, and it's like a shock to the system, jolting her back to reality. "Wait." Opening her eyes, she puts one hand flat on his chest. His mouth is so close to hers now, her senses filling with the scent of tequila and lime and salt and him. His gaze drops to her mouth, his tongue sliding along his bottom lip, as if he's already tasting hers, and desire spasms like a living, greedy thing between her legs. Holy fuck. His pupils are dilated (she thought that only happened in books, what the hell is happening here) and his breath is coming faster now, almost as fast as hers. Beneath her hand, his heart is pounding, as though it's trying to leap from his chest into her palm. "This is a bad idea. I'm your boss, and this is such a clichéd abuse of power, I can't-"
"Tell you what." He unties his black bartender's apron, pulls it off and tosses it unceremoniously over his shoulder. "I resign."
"What?"
"I resign." He slides his hands under her ass, lifting her up onto the pool table without breaking a sweat. "As of right now, I no longer work for you." Then he's kissing her again, hot and deep and more than a little dirty, and when he pulls her thigh up over his hip and grinds against her, short-circuiting her nervous system, there's really only one thing she can say.
"Lock the front door."
He does.
The sex isn't as good as she's imagined.
It's better.
God, it's so much better.
Her skirt and tights join his apron and shirt on the floor, her sweater and bra finding a new home on the pool table behind her. He produces a condom from his wallet before she pushes down his jeans with her feet, then he's sliding inside her in one long, deep thrust, slippery and tight and God he's stretching her and it's the best burn imaginable, his mouth fused to hers, his hands on her breasts, twisting her nipples into hard, tight points. Her ankles locked at the small of his back, she wraps her arms around his neck and lets pure pleasure sweep her away, holding out until he slides his hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, one finger pressing and rubbing, and everything begins to flutter and unravel, her release swelling and breaking free in hot, rushed waves. He's right behind her, a rough groan shuddering through him as he clutches her hips, pulling her hard against him as his body pulses deep inside hers, his chest heaving.
A moment later, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. Burying his face against her shoulder, he strokes one hand slowly up and down her damp back. "God, I love this weather."
She's still laughing when he kisses her.
Later, still breathless and still sweat-slicked despite the snowstorm raging outside, she rolls him onto his back for a second round, easily ignoring the rough carpet of her office beneath her knees, because he's already thrusting up into her in a thick, lazy slide of heat and flesh, his mouth at her breast, his hand sliding between her legs to coax and cajole her into a state of quivering, shuddering joy.
This time, when he comes, arching beneath her and muttering her name, he kisses her almost tenderly, his hands gentle on her face, and she knows that if this night turns out to be just a one-time thing, it will have been worth it.
The next day, he officially asks for his job back. It's not an entirely formal application, given that he's scribbled it on the notepad she keeps beside her bed and hands it to her while they're both naked in her bed. Still, she rehires him on the spot. He's the best bartender in Boston, after all.
She'll never be able to look at the pool table the same way, though.