Page 5 of Handful

“Are you single?”

“That’s not the point.”

“So yes.”

“I’m going back to the bar now.” I retreated before she could ask any more questions. He’d apologized. Genuinely apologized, not the bullshit non-apology men usually gave when they got caught. He’d even admitted he was wrong.

It didn’t excuse his behavior. Didn’t make up for the comments or the general air of entitled douchebaggery. But it was… something.

Don’t go there, I reminded myself. And went back to making drinks.

Chapter 2

❧

— Handful —

It had been three days since I’d gotten kicked out of The Velvet Hour, and I’d spent approximately seventy percent of that time replaying our conversation in my head. The other thirty percent was dedicated to eating, showing up to work, and trying to figure out why a woman who’d kicked me out of her bar was living rent-free in my head.

Austen.

Even her name was sharp. Like the rest of her.

I’d never met anyone like her. Club girls laughed at my jokes. Women at bars tolerated my comments because they knew what they were signing up for. But Austen? Austen had looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe — and then she’d kicked me out of her bar.

It was, pathetically, the hottest thing anyone had ever done to me.

“Handful. Hey. Earth to Handful.”

I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. Colt was staring at me from across the garage, a wrench dangling from one hand.

“What?”

“I asked you three times if you’re done with that carburetor.”

I looked down. The carburetor was still sitting on my workbench, completely untouched. I’d been looking at it for at least ten minutes without doing a damn thing. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

Colt’s eyebrows rose. “Thinking. You. That’s new.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been weird for days.” He set down his wrench and crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

I sighed. There was no point lying to Colt. The VP’s bullshit radar was finely tuned thanks to the antics of his nine-year-old hellions.

“I met someone.”

Colt’s expression didn’t change. “A someone or a someone?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“Okay.” He grabbed a stool and sat down, settling in like this was going to take a while. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I met this woman at that cocktail bar downtown — The Velvet Hour. She’s the bartender. We talked, I was my usual charming self, and she kicked me out.”