A Brevia Beginning. Michelle Major
to understand what made someone who appeared so sure of himself at the same time give off waves of uncertainty.
She wanted to really know him.
As if he could read her intention, his eyes turned cold. “Never mind. I’ll figure something out.” His voice cut through her thoughts. “Luke gave me a fair price and I’ve got the time and money to deal with it. Maybe I’ll redo the whole thing and sell it for a hefty profit.” His words were sure but his tone still held a hint of uncertainty.
“If you didn’t want to own a bar, why did you buy it?”
“I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his almost-black hair. “I’m known for being impulsive. It’s my trademark.”
There must be more to the story, but as much as she wanted to know, it wasn’t any of her business. Yet. “I never do anything impulsive.”
“That’s not how I heard it.” He glanced over her shoulder at the tray of half-full glasses sitting on the kitchen table. “Here you are, a fancy-pants corporate attorney, renting my sister-in-law’s apartment, practicing to be a bar waitress in this sleepy Southern town. Are you telling me this is some sort of master plan?”
She almost smiled. “I guess you’re right. I’ve been pretty impulsive in the last couple of days.”
He shook his head. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’m going to take it as one, anyway.” She placed her mug on the counter. When she turned back, Scott had stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that she could smell toothpaste on his breath and the musky scent of last night’s cologne on his shirt.
“If you want to get impulsive, I can help.” He reached his hand up and trailed the pad of his thumb along her jaw. “I’m an expert at impulsive.”
“I’m not that kind of girl,” she whispered, hating that he broke straight through to her earlier longing.
“I can’t figure out what kind of girl you are.” His mouth turned up at the corner. “But I know you’re the worst waitress I’ve ever seen.” He straightened, dropping his hand. “I’m the boss now. So you’d better practice all day with those glasses. Because you helped get me into this mess and I’m not going to let you cost me more money every night. Luke may have owed Julia a favor, but I don’t owe anyone anything.”
Lexi sucked in a breath. “Are you threatening to fire me?”
“It’s no threat,” Scott told her. “I’m sure you’ve got a corner office waiting for you somewhere. I don’t care why you’re slumming it in a bar. But it’s mine now. I don’t play favorites. Show up a half hour early for your shift tonight. We’re having an employee meeting.”
He turned and headed for her door.
“This is because you’re mad that I wrote the contract. You want to blame me. It’s not fair.”
He held up one hand and ticked off several points. “I’m mad that I signed the contract. I blame myself for that, but I don’t appreciate you being a part of that moment. And if you haven’t realized it before, life isn’t ever fair. Deal with it.”
Without looking back, he strode from her apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.
Chapter Three
By five o’clock that night, Scott’s headache was way beyond a hangover. He’d driven down to Charlotte to pick up some updated electronics the bar needed right away, along with a few extra clothes until he had time to get to his condo in D.C. for his stuff. He’d noticed a bathroom and shower off the office in back, where he’d bunk until he could figure out what to do with his new investment.
Damn. His plan hadn’t included staying in Brevia for more than a few days, and definitely not in this run-down bar. He didn’t know why he’d come in the first place, other than wandering around D.C. and watching ESPN in his place had been driving him crazy.
He and Sam hadn’t been close in years, and he knew his brother still didn’t trust him after Scott’s part in breaking up Sam’s first engagement. He pressed two fingers to the side of his head as the pain of regret mingled with the dull pounding inside his brain.
He’d thought they were going to put the past behind them when Sam was planning to take the job with the Marshals, but the relationship with Julia had ended that. Scott had been mad as hell. He’d stuck his neck out to get Sam the job. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he’d craved a second chance at a relationship with his brother.
He knew Sam didn’t want him here. Maybe that had been part of the motivation for making this stupid deal. He’d always had a talent for getting under his brother’s skin.
Hefting another box of beer bottles into the large refrigerator in the back room of the bar, he spun on his heel as someone cleared his throat behind him.
Scott slammed the refrigerator door and faced a craggy-looking man whose thin blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He looked to be in his mid-forties and wore faded jeans and an army-green canvas jacket over a white T-shirt.
“You ain’t Luke,” the man told him.
“Great observation.” Scott eyed the stranger, clearly ex-military by the way he held himself. “I’m Scott Callahan, the new owner of this place.”
“New owner?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t hear nothing about a new owner.”
“It’s a recent development.” He’d also met earlier with Luke, who’d been thrilled to hand over his keys. He’d offered to stick around for a few weeks to help, but Scott had declined. From what he’d seen this morning going through the bar’s accounts and ledgers, Luke hadn’t known much about running a business. Scott had certainly spent enough time in bars. He figured he could pick up most of what he needed to know from the staff. As long as he kept the beer cold and the liquor flowing, how hard could it be?
“You can’t be any worse than Luke. That guy could barely tap a keg when he got here.”
“I’ve tapped plenty of kegs in my day,” Scott assured him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
The two of them stared at each other for several moments. Finally, the man said, “I’m Jon Riley.”
“As in Riley’s Bar?” Scott tried not to look surprised.
Joe nodded. “My dad opened this place almost twenty years ago. Luke took over when Dad passed a few years back.”
“I’m sorry. You work here?”
“Unfortunately.” When Scott didn’t reply, Jon continued, “I’ve worked in restaurants most of my life. Trained as a chef up in New York. But I got hurt over in Iraq and, well...ended up back here.”
Scott had noticed the full kitchen, although from the looks of it, nothing had been cooked there for years. “Riley’s doesn’t serve food.”
“Used to when my dad had it.” Jon shrugged. “Now I wash glasses, clean up, handyman stuff. Whatever needs doing. You gonna change things around?”
“I’ve owned the place for less than twenty-four hours. My head is still swimming.” And pounding.
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“You’ve still got a job if you want one.”
“I do.” Jon stuck out his bony hand and Scott shook it. “Nice to meet you, boss.”
“You, too, Jon.”
“I got one more question for you.” Jon nodded toward the unused kitchen space. “My apartment’s only an efficiency. I can’t cook anything worth eating. I clock in here at six-thirty most nights. Would you mind if I brought in some supplies and made myself dinner before I started? I’ll keep it clean.”