Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 13908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 70(@200wpm)___ 56(@250wpm)___ 46(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 70(@200wpm)___ 56(@250wpm)___ 46(@300wpm)
"No," Dean says with a smile and leans close so only I can hear. "You never liked it when I called you that, and I don't plan to start now. Thank you for staying."
"Thank you for coming," I reply with a wicked grin and a wink as I continue to move from one end of the bar to the other.
Dean grins with a slight snarl, leaning in to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek that stamps a smile on my face. We've always had this ebb and flow where I can let my guard down around him. However, the last time I got too comfortable, I realized I was out of sorts, and Dean did too much to put me back together. I hated myself for a while and tried to keep my distance from him, but here we are, constantly drawn back together.
We move in unison, finding a rhythm easily as I take orders and Dean pours. It's easy to see that I'm far more generous with alcohol than he is, and rightfully so. It's his place. It's only right to be conservative with his inventory.
By the time he announces the last call, the frustration from my lack of work washes away with one last swipe of the towel across the countertop. The last stool is empty, and the TV is off. Dean sighs as he closes the register, yawns, and stretches before looking toward the back of the bar.
A long hallway has restrooms on one side, an office, and a back door leading into an alley behind the buildings lining Main Street.
"Are you going back to Sweet's tonight?" I ask him. It's hard stopping my grin every time I think of a bakery next to a bar, and he owns them both. Sweet Treats. On the Rocks. I have no idea how he has the energy for it.
Dean nods before running his fingers through his thick brown hair, which he keeps short. I try to remember how soft it is, but then I remember the pain it took me to forget. Still, I hate knowing he will be working until the bakery opens in a few hours.
"How about I come help you prep if you let me keep all the tips from tonight? You get to go to bed before the sun rises for once."
"I don't know, Mackenna. You know how hard it is…" He smiles and lets the end of his sentence drop.
I have to stop myself from reaching for his crotch to see exactly how hard he could be. Control is the name of this game, and neither of us seems to win it. We lose control whenever we're in the same room together, but we decided to give each other space.
It's been almost ten years since we were next-door neighbors and six months since I got so hammered in this same bar, he picked me up off the floor. In those moments of Dean taking care of me while swirling through my grief, I wasn't ready to let him be there for me.
The perfect gentleman at all times. Even when I'm drunkenly throwing myself at him, he protects me from trauma-based choices. However, the embarrassment slithering through me keeps me away from his bakery, but I have my favorite stool as a regular in his bar. A bar I can drink at without dwelling on what I wanted us to be because Hank's the best bartender at On the Rocks. Now Hank is gone, and I might have to deal with all the words I never said to Dean while loathing my career over free shots of bourbon.
"How's your family doing?" he asks, sympathy rolling through his tone.
"Better than me," I admit. "Pop keeps himself busy with all of his furry patients at the vet clinic. Maddie's still flipping that house over on Grave Street. Rye's slinging smiles and sundaes at her parlor."
"Right." He nods. "The ice cream spot on Smith."
I smile because I know he already knows. Dean's been looking after the Monroe sisters since we were little. I pushed him away before, but he didn't push back. He never pushes me to do anything I don't want or anything he knows I don't want.
A sigh of what-if pushes through my lips as I find my voice to silence my thoughts and speak. "The kids are all right. Listen, Dean, I just … I don't know how to thank you, and this is just me trying—"
Dean puts his hands up to stop me from talking, and then he holds it out for me. The moment I slip my hand into his, he pulls me close. A hug from Dean is like hot chocolate on Christmas morning. He smells like it, too, but now there's an essence of cognac sprinkling into his sweet cinnamon and pastry aroma.