I flip the bird at the wall between our two bars as yet another bass-pounding song starts, and then box up the few remaining cupcakes.

Daphne dumps what’s left in the coffee carafe down the drain. “Guess the talk with Ronan didn’t go all that well, huh?”

“He’s a dick.”

“What’d he say?”

“He pretended he couldn’t hear me and then manhandled me.”

She sets the carafe down. “He did what?”

“He was behind the bar, ignoring me, so I went back there to confront him and he picked me up and carried me back out!” My cheeks heat as I recall exactly how forceful he was, and how strong, and also how easy it was for him to carry me. I’m not particularly petite.

Daphne’s eyebrows rise. “Can’t say I’d be all that upset if it was me he was manhandling.”

“He ruined the night!”

“Well, to be fair, he only ruined the last act and I’ll be honest: She was the weakest of the three, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Plus you do usually close at nine, so maybe he didn’t realize you were still open?”

“She was distracted, and do not defend him. It’s thoughtless of him to schedule a live band on the same night as our first event. He couldn’t have not known about it. We had signs and flyers out all week. He should’ve consulted me!”

Daphne crosses her arms. “Because you two are clearly besties.”

“It’s common courtesy!”

“Which would hold some water if you two were actually on some kind of friendly terms, but all you do is push each other’s buttons. I’ll honestly be surprised if you don’t either kill each other or end up boning each other’s brains out.”

I scoff. “Not in a million years.”

Daphne grins. “Want to put some money on that?”

“You know I don’t gamble.”

“Uh huh. However you want to play it, Blaire. But I see the cupcakes you set aside for him every single day, and there’s an awful lot of effort going into something for someone you supposedly hate.”

I glance at the box still sitting on the counter with the cupcakes I decorated and specifically set aside for Ronan. “I do it because it’s satisfying to watch him helplessly devour them.”

“Okay.”

“It’s true.”

“Uh huh.”

I dump the box in the trash to prove my point, but it feels a lot like I’ve proven hers instead.

The next morning, once the brunch rush is over I steel my resolve and head to The Knight Cap to talk to Ronan about last night before he opens. I can see him through the window, leaning on the bar, wearing one of his plaid shirts, thick forearms exposed.

I bet it’s purposeful so he can show off his tattoos. I take a deep breath, determined to keep my cool and try to open the door, but it’s still locked. I knock on the window and he glances my way, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up his nose.

Stupid sexy hipster glasses.

I rattle the doorknob to demonstrate that I can’t get in.

He lifts his left arm and taps his watch. It’s very old school, something I would like to not find endearing and generally don’t, especially since he doesn’t make a move to come out from behind the bar and let me in.

So I keep knocking. And knocking. And knocking some more. In fact I start knocking out the rhythm of a song. He shakes his head, tosses his pen down on the bar top, and shambles slowly to the end of the bar. He stops three times on the way to the door to adjust stools and once more to fix a picture that’s hanging askew on the wall. His back is to me, and he strokes his chin, tipping his head to the right before he readjusts the picture in the opposite direction. I take the opportunity to stare at his butt, which I would like to smack and also kick with my pointy heel. I’m not sure what would be more satisfying, although I do know what would be most embarrassing. For me.

He finally saunters over to the door and taps the sign with the opening times posted on it. “We don’t open for another fifteen minutes.”

I bite back a bitchy retort because as he’s pointed out before, you don’t attract flies with vinegar. “Can we please talk?”

He jams a thumb in his pocket and rolls back on his heels. “You seemed to communicate just fine with hand signals last night.”

I clasp my hands behind my back and fire the middle finger at him from there, while I plaster a smile on my face. Immature? Yes. Does it make me feel better? Marginally. “You manhandled me.”

“You shouldn’t have been behind my bar with heels on. You were a distraction and a liability.” His gaze moves over me in a slow sweep. It’s not unappreciative.

“Can we please do this without a door between us?” It’s demeaning to be kept out here on the street, speaking loudly to be heard through the pane of glass.

“Are you gonna try to maim me with your talons again?”

“Maim you?” What in the world is he talking about?

He flicks the lock and steps back, not bothering with chivalry. I open the door and slip in out of the cold as he unbuttons his plaid shirt and pulls the collar aside.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you the evidence.”

“Of what?”

He bends, bringing his shoulder down to my level. There are crescent-shaped nail marks in his skin defined by bruises.

“I did not do that.”

“You sure did.”

“I’m sure that was from whatever college girl you had a quickie with in your office when you took a five-minute break last night, not from me.”

He blinks a few times, inked forearms flexing when he crosses them. The right one is covered in beautiful flowers, and the left is some kind of landscape. I can’t see enough of it to figure out what exactly it is. One of those arms was against my bare thigh last night when he picked me up. “First of all, I have no interest in college girls.”

I scoff and mirror his pose. “Could’ve fooled me with the way you were eyeing them last night.”

“I was tending bar. My job is to be friendly when I’m serving booze. Secondly, I don’t fuck where I work, and third, the word quickie isn’t in my vocabulary. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.”

I fight to hold my smile. “So you’re saying you like to savor instead of devour.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I have to tip my head up to meet his gaze. His caramel-colored eyes are hot, burning like a shot of whiskey. “You treat sex the opposite of how you treat my cupcakes.”

He licks his lips and swallows thickly, like he’s tasting the memory of one right now. “I devour the first one and savor the rest when I’m alone.”

“Hey, Ronan, sorry I’m a bit la—” Ronan’s usual bartender—and the screamer from last night—is at the end of the bar, hands in the air as he takes deliberate steps backward and thumbs over his shoulder. “Oh, sorry, man, I didn’t, uh…I’ll go grab a couple cases of beer or something.” He disappears around the corner.

I don’t understand what that was all about until Ronan’s attention returns to me. We’re literally inches apart, and his arms are no longer crossed. He takes a step back and so do I, bumping into the door.