“You know, I think I’ll head over there now. Catch ‘em early.”
“Good thinking,” CeCe chimes in. “And come back for a refill if you want.”
“Thanks,” I tell her again, securing my cup with a lid before heading out the door. It’s early and I have a feeling the bar isn’t open yet, but last week, when I stopped by on Tuesday, even though they weren’t technically open, the door was unlocked.
Sipping my coffee, I make my way slowly around Jackson Square, taking the long way to give myself enough time to caffeinate and cool down a little before going back into the lion’s den, aka Come Again.
Once I’ve finished my drink and made two laps around Jackson Square, I’m kind of a sweaty mess. Standing near the bench in front of the bar, I toss my empty cup in the trash and stare at the offending yellow sign in the window.
Sure enough.
Help wanted.
I’m not sure I’m ready for this, but I desperately need a job, so I’m going in. Maybe if he’s desperate enough, he’ll be a bit more amicable. I scratch his. He scratches mine.
Not like that. I inwardly groan, making a half circle to face the cathedral. Not that scratch. A job. Although, I hate that he does appeal to me on a sexual level. There’s just something about him that makes my body react. He’s older, mature. The way he walks is more like a stalk, each step intentional. I admit I watched him on his way out of the bar last week, all the way until he disappeared down the long, dark hallway.
Sure, I was fuming.
I was also offended, pissed off, and annoyed.
Digging deep to the pit of my stomach, right down to where my roots live—I pull from the girl who grew up on a farm and was taught to never take no for an answer. A few seconds later, I draw a deep breath and turn my attention back to the bar, storming over to the door. It creaks when I open it, just like last time and I wince at the announcement of my arrival. I could’ve done without that, maybe had a minute to finish finding my gumption and resolve. But nope, the second I walk through the door, the dark eyes from Tuesday are turned on me and when he sees it’s me, he glares.
“I’m here for the job,” I demand, a bit out of breath from all the pre-gaming I just did out on the sidewalk, but I find it imperative to have the first word.
“I’m not hiring.” Turning his back to me, he goes about his business of stocking the booze behind the counter.
“You’re lying,” I challenge, placing my hands on my hips and readying myself for a fight.
Slowly, he turns, but only half way, glowering at me from the side. The way the light hits him, it shows off his face and his features aren’t as harsh as he makes them out to be. It’s the constant scowl that really sets them off. But beyond the scruff, there’s a straight nose and a high forehead, which accentuates his dark eyebrows and intense eyes, which are also dark. He’s kind of mesmerizing.
“What did you just say?” he finally asks.
“Lying… you’re lying,” I repeat, swallowing to keep myself from wavering.
He barks out a laugh and I huff out my annoyance. Turning around to the small window beside the door, I tear the yellow sign off the glass and walk over to the bar, slapping it down with force. “Help wanted?” I ask, thinking maybe that’ll ring a bell. “I came in last week looking for work, remember?”
“And I told you—”
“Right, I don’t have a penis. You made that clear.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “You know how ridiculous that is, right? Let me tell you, I can do just as good of a job as any man. I grew up on a farm. And I might look small, but I’m strong and I can carry my weight.” Before I stop for a breath, I’m practically standing on the bar, my pointed finger now in Shaw’s personal space, precariously close to touching his chest. The stare he’s giving me is lethal, but I’m not scared of him. He might try to intimidate me—and it might work, a little—but he’s not running me off this time.
I’m not leaving this bar without a job.
When I continue to hold his gaze, unflinching and unwavering, his expression starts to change. It doesn't soften—soft and Shaw are two words that don’t belong in the same sentence—but it does shift into something resembling surrender, reluctant surrender, but surrender all the same. His lips twitch as his nose scrunches into a snarl. He hates this. He hates that I’m in his space. I can see it written all over his face, but something about what I just said got to him and I can see he’s reconsidering.
“Just hire me for a trial basis, maybe a month. If I can’t perform up to your specifications, you can fire me, but I’d prefer a notice of some sort. I’m kind of here on my own and I can’t afford to be without a job.” When I realize I’m starting to ramble, I stop myself from saying more and hold my breath to see what his final decision is going to be. If he wants to go another round, I’ve got a little more ammunition, but I’m hoping I don’t have to use it. “Come on. Give a girl a break.”
“Fine,” he grits out behind clenched teeth. “Be here tomorrow at noon. You’ll start training then.”
My eyes widen and I almost ask him to repeat what he just said, unsure I heard him correctly, but then I think better of it. Shaw O’Sullivan doesn’t come across as a man who likes to repeat himself and I’m not stupid. I know when to push the limits and when to keep my mouth shut, so all I say is, “Thank you.”
Before I open the door to leave, I turn back to him and he’s already back to restocking shelves. “You won’t regret this,” I tell him, or his back rather, which is broad and strong, even under the cover of his black t-shirt.
I see him shake his head and hear a harsh chuckle escape before he mutters under his breath, “We’ll see.”
When I’m back out on the sidewalk in the New Orleans sunshine, I realize I didn’t even ask how much he’s going to pay me, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I have a job and anything is better than nothing.
Chapter 4
Shaw
“So, I hear you have another new hire starting today,” Sarah says in her normal, happy tone. My sister is the most cheerful person I know. She’s the light to my dark, the joy to my misery. However, she does share some of my physical attributes. All of my siblings have the same dark hair and nearly black eyes.
Black Irish.
Striking.
I’ve been called that on more than one occasion, usually from women who only want one thing. Occasionally, I indulge them.
“I needed someone,” I tell her, hoping to cut off the Spanish Inquisition before it starts. I’m not really in the mood for conversation, which doesn’t bode well for today’s training session.
Sarah’s expression is pleased and intrigued. “Uh huh, a girl.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does.” She’s so fucking good at antagonizing me. If I didn’t love her so much, I would tell her to fuck off, but that never goes over well with Sarah. She might be sweet and nice and caring, but she’s not afraid to put me in my place, or anyone else, for that matter.
I huff, exhaling harshly through my nose, trying to tamp down the annoyance and frustration. “Please drop it.”