Kiss Me, I'm Irish. Jill Shalvis
ON HIS BACK, the cold dampness of the tile floor seeping through an old Yomuri Giants sweatshirt, Deuce swore softly as the broken nozzle of the soda spritzer slipped from his fingers and bounced on his chest. He’d been under the bar for half an hour and still didn’t have the damn thing working right.
Five days into his latest endeavor, and he was fixing his own equipment. At eight in the morning, no less. A decision he made the night before when the sprayer had malfunctioned. As much as he’d like to sleep after a late night running Monroe’s, he wanted to get in before any of the Internet café customers showed up.
Yeah. Right. He shook off a dribble of club soda that trickled onto his cheek and clamped his teeth tighter over the flashlight that shone on the unit.
Who the hell was he kidding? Cybersurfers didn’t care if the bar was being worked on while they shopped online and played medieval trading games.
He’d come in before the place opened because Kendra had made a science out of avoiding him. And Deuce didn’t want to be avoided any more.
But when he’d slipped in the back that morning, he’d heard voices raised in confrontation from behind the partially closed door to the office. He picked up Sophie’s complaints about an employee who was supposed to have done something regarding a software update, and Kendra’s calmly spoken instructions that Sophie take care of the problem.
Instead of interrupting, he’d gone straight to the bar and slid underneath to inspect the faulty spritzer. As he worked, he heard the sounds of the café opening up, and the ubiquitous smell of coffee being brewed.
He just about had the nozzle reinstalled when the coffee aroma was superseded by something light and spicy and pretty. Turning his head, his penlight lit a pair of high-heeled sandals a few feet from his face. His gaze slid up, up, up a long set of bare legs to a short skirt with a flippy hemline.
Man, there was something to be said for a view from the floor.
One of the cream-colored shoes tapped.
“Come on, Deuce,” Kendra whispered to herself. “Where did you hide the soda thingy?”
She shoved a few of the stainless-steel cocktail shakers to the side, and yanked at the hose that was connected to the nozzle in his hand. “What the heck’s the matter with this?”
She pulled harder, hand over hand toward the end of the hose…where she gasped as they came face to face.
“Oh my God! You scared me. What are you doing down there?”
The flashlight beam made another slow journey up her legs, stopping on a particularly sweet mid-thigh muscle. It flexed under his scrutiny.
“Adjusting my equipment,” he managed to say without unlocking his teeth. “And enjoying the show.”
She backed out of the beam. “I should step on you.”
That made him laugh and the flashlight fell out of his mouth. Slowly, he slid out from under the lower shelf and stood to his full height. She tried not to look at him, but failed.
He wiped at some grime on his jeans and held the sprayer toward her. “Soda, water or diet? They were getting all mixed into one messy flow last night.”
“Certainly didn’t affect the cash flow.”
He grinned. “Oh, so you counted it already?”
Over the past week, they’d started an unspoken exchange. He locked the pouch in the drawer each night, and left the keys on Diana’s kitchen table. She picked up the keys early the next morning when she walked Newman, while Deuce was still asleep. When her day was over—always a few minutes after he arrived—she took the pouch to the bank and left the keys on the desk for him. All the while, she managed to avoid spending any significant amount of time with him.
“As a matter of fact, I have a meeting with the architect in a few minutes,” she told him. “I was planning to make a cash drop at the bank on my way.”
“Oh, that’s why you’re dressed up?” He took another leisurely gaze over a silk blouse buttoned just high enough to make him want to…unbutton it. “I thought it was to impress me.”
“I don’t imagine a skirt and blouse are too impressive to you.”
He shrugged. “You look nice. But I’m kind of partial to leather.”
She rolled her eyes and opened her right palm to reveal two pills. “You’re not helping my headache.”
He retrieved a clean glass, filled it with water and handed it to her. As she put the pills in her mouth, he said, “Don’t blame me. I heard you fighting with Sophie.”
Her eyes popped open, but she managed to get the aspirin down. “I wasn’t fighting with her,” she denied hotly after she’d swallowed. “We were just working out some issues.”
“Sounded like she wasn’t happy.”
She sighed softly and spilled the remaining water in the sink, her gaze moving across to the computer area where Sophie worked at a terminal. “She’s not.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Just some coworker issues.” She settled a sincere blue gaze on him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Well, maybe I can help,” he offered. “I know a little about teamwork.”
She regarded him for a minute, an internal battle whether or not to confide in him waged over her expression. “She just has some problems with newer employees,” she finally said. “Not everyone is quite as competent as she is and, well, she tends to let them know it.”
“Like the veteran and the rookies.”
She looked questioningly at him, then smiled. “Not all of life can be equated to baseball.”
“Yes it can,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you put her in charge of training?”
“Training?”
“Give her responsibility for their success. Coaches do that all the time in the spring when they’re trying to build cohesion between the old, seasoned guys who know everything and the hotshots up from the minors who think they know everything.”
She glanced at Sophie, then back at him. “What do they do, exactly?”
“If you give her the job of training them, and tie their success to hers, she might be more prone to want them to succeed.”
“She does want them to succeed,” she countered. “She also wants everyone to be as good as she is. With the computers, with the customers, with everything. And some of these kids are just out of college.”
“Precisely.” He glided the sprayer hose back into place and twisted a faucet to wash his hands. “But make her feel like their accomplishments reflect her skills. Trust me. It’ll work.”
She said nothing as he soaped and rinsed his hands, then gave him that gut-tightening smile. The real one. The one where she let down her guard. “Thanks for the advice. Now what are you doing here at this hour?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t seem to get you alone for five minutes.”
“I’m busy.” She lifted a shoulder of indifference, but the cavalier act wasn’t working. She was avoiding him and they both knew it. “I’m busy. You work nights. I work days. And, by the way, you’re making my life complicated.”
He managed not to smile. “I am?”
“All this money, Deuce. How can I make a compelling argument to your father that we shouldn’t have a bar in here?”
“You can’t. That’s the idea. And look at this place.”