Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
The bartender clasped a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you for doing that. Shit. I panicked. I can’t believe I blurted out about her job when her life was in danger.”
“No problem.” I turned to smile at him, standing up. “People say weird stuff when they’re stressed.”
“Are you a nurse or something?” He eyed me curiously.
“Nope. Worked in restaurants my whole life, actually.”
“So how did you know how to do…it?” He looked confused.
“What, CPR?” I chuckled. “I took a course before I had my daughter. You know, just in case.”
He nodded. “Well, suffice it to say, your drink and your cake are on the house.”
“Thanks.” I glanced around. “So…do you need any help here? It seems busy, and you are one bartender short.”
“Sure do,” he grunted. “There’s a recipe menu in the drawer right next to you. I’ll pay you double what I pay hourly if you save my ass today.”
I pushed up my sleeves and got to work after sending Rhyland a quick text message. The drinks were complicated and the recipes hard to follow—it was called the Alchemist for a reason—but most customers wanted the usual staples of beer or wine. The tip jar overflowed so many times we had to empty it into a bucket every hour. It was decent work that would help me finance a good, hands-on nanny for Grav while I worked.
Med school, though romantic, was no longer in the cards for me.
“Dylan,” the bartender—who turned out to be the owner, Max—hollered at me. “Your shift ends in ten minutes. I’ll Zelle you the money. You wanna take the rest of Faye’s shifts for the week?”
“Text me the schedule. I’ll see if I have childcare.”
And then I was off, a thousand dollars less poor after the tip split. The clock read 6:45 p.m., and I knew I owed Rhyland a lot of answers and an apology.
I pushed the door open, about to pour myself out onto the street, when a hard body slammed into mine. My hands shot out to his chest. Muscular pecs that felt familiar beneath my fingertips bumped into me. My stare volleyed up like a bullet to his face. Patrician nose. Dark blue eyes I knew well, because once upon a time, they’d stared back at me every day.
“Dylan,” he gasped.
“Tucker?”
Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.
“Wait.” Tucker steadied me, clutching my arms and anchoring me in place. “D-don’t go.”
“What are you doing here?” I jolted away from his touch as though it were made of liquid fire. The father of my child—who wasn’t really a father and acted like a child, hadn’t seen her once since she was born, and had screwed off to God knows where—was here in New York.
Here in the bar I was visiting for the first time in my life.
Had he been here this whole time, right across the street? What were the odds?
Good, if Kieran knew he’d be here and orchestrated the entire thing.
“Babe, shit, you look so good.” He stuck a hand in his hair, which was still lush brown, thick, and unfairly glossy. “I work here as a bartender.” Tucker’s eyes roved over me like restless hands. “Kieran told you to seek me out, huh?” He smirked smugly, and I wanted to kill him and Kieran and every man I knew. “I wanted to reach out—”
“But you didn’t.” I tried to stay calm, but it was hard to do when all I wanted was to claw his eyes out. “You ran away, and now you don’t even know what your daughter looks like. What her hobbies are. Her dreams. Her allergies.” I wanted to shoulder past him, to leave him here, stewing in this realization. If he even cared at all. Instead, a vicious thrill crawled through me, settling like a hand on my throat and squeezing venomous words out of it. “She has your eyes, you know,” I sneered. “Big and blue and curtained with thick lashes.”
His nostrils flared, mouth pressing into a thin line. Was he angry? Upset? Annoyed? Emotional? I couldn’t tell.
I continued. “She’s allergic to kiwi, just like you. She’s athletic. Got it from both of us. Superfast and tumbles the best in her age group in gymnastics. She knows how to count to one hundred, how to read, how to draw a three-dimensional box. She’ll be four in December and is already as advanced as a seven-year-old. She is smart. And cunning. I got a message from her sitter today that she extorted him twice.” I didn’t take a breath, didn’t stop the rush of words from streaming out of my mouth like a troubled river. “She’s so eloquent, so bright. She’s beautiful and loving and warm—”
“I want to meet her.” He reached out to touch me again. I zapped his hand away. A few people squeezed past us on their way out of the bar. “Dyl, fuck, you look so good. I missed you so—”