style="font-size:15px;"> Fighting for patience, she rested her wrists on the cutting board and turned, angling her body just enough to frown at him. But looking at him was a mistake. His eyes were filled with mischief, and his mouth was quirked in that teasing grin he’d worn ever since he’d warned her about her blouse.
Scowling, she twisted back around and grabbed an onion. “You’re in my way,” she muttered and slashed the knife through the onion, cutting it in half and sending its sharp aroma spiraling beneath her nose.
“Really?” he asked innocently and purposefully pressed his shoulder against hers again. “I don’t mean to be. I’m just watching to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
The onion’s odor was strong, burning her nose and filling her eyes with tears, but it was the heat from his body where their shoulders touched that she was most aware of. “I know what I’m doing,” she replied, sniffing. “Any fool can slice vegetables.” She lifted her hand to swipe a tear from her eye.
Hank caught her wrist in the width of one wide hand. Startled, she glanced up at him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned. “You’re liable to get onion juice in your eye, and it’ll make it sting that much more.” He caught up a towel. “Here, let me.” He dabbed at the tears beneath her eyes, his touch gentle, his knuckles rough where they scraped against her cheek...and Leighanna wondered what he was up to. He’d already made it clear that he didn’t want her in his bar, which made her suspicious of his kindness now.
He took his good easy time blotting her tears, then bent his knees and put his face level with hers. “How’s that?”
She’d purposely avoided making eye contact with him all afternoon, but with him this close, she could do little else. The eyes that met hers were a dark brown, almost black, and his mouth less than a breath away. His features were almost too perfect, his forehead wide, his jaw square and shadowed, his cheekbones carved if by a sculptor’s knife. His hair, thick and black, just brushed his collar and seemed to cry for a woman’s hands. That he was aware of his sexual appeal was obvious in the cocky slant of his lips and the teasing glint in his eye.
Leighanna had known another man whose sex appeal equaled Hank’s...and was still paying the price for falling prey to his charm. Determined not to fall again, she twisted back around and sniffed again. “Better, thank you.”
Hank’s grin broadened into a smile. “Good. I like to keep my employees satisfied.”
“I’ll just bet you do,” she muttered under her breath.
Hank watched Leighanna from his spot behind the bar and grudgingly admitted that he might just have been wrong about her ability to handle this job. She sashayed between the tables, a tray propped on her open palm, smiling while she set mugs of beer in front of his customers. She made change, toted food, wiped up spills...and dodged the occasional straying hand.
He chuckled as he watched old Jack Barlow sneak an arm around her waist. Smooth as silk, she removed his hand, smiling sweetly enough not to offend the man before she headed back to the bar.
She shoved the empty tray onto the bar and sagged against it, mopping her damp brow with the back of her hand. At some point during the evening, she’d rolled her billowy sleeves to her elbows, revealing slender arms and even slimmer wrists. Her fingers were long and delicate and her almond-shaped nails were painted a light pink, almost the exact same shade as her blouse. A ketchup stain just above her right breast blotted the blouse’s once perfect pink color.
“Two beers and a whiskey chaser,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the blaring jukebox.
Hank couldn’t help but notice the weary slump of her shoulders. He stuck two frosted mugs under the tap. “Tired?” he asked.
Leighanna immediately straightened, not wanting to admit to her exhaustion. “No. Just hot.”
Hank nodded sagely. “Yep. It’s hot all right.” He set the mugs on her tray and picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels. “You can take a break, if you want. I can keep an eye on things for a few minutes.”
A break sounded wonderful after being on her feet for over six hours, but Leighanna quickly shook her head. She was determined not to give him any reason to doubt her abilities to handle the job. “No, I’m fine.” She glanced at the clock behind the bar. “We’ll be closing in less than an hour, anyway. I can wait until then.”
Hank glanced at the clock, too, before adding the jigger of whiskey to the tray. “Your call, but remember we’ll still have some work to do after they all clear out.”
Leighanna stifled a groan, thinking of the toilets that would need scrubbing and the floor that would need mopping. She forced a perky smile. “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
“Hey, Hank!” a man called from a corner of the room.
“Yo, what’cha need?” Hank called back.
“Has that little barrel racer from over Marble Falls way been back?”
Hank’s chest swelled, and a gleam of what Leighanna could only describe as cockiness shown in his eyes.
“You mean Betty Jo?” Hank asked, trying hard not to smile as he curved his hands through the air, tracing a rather top-heavy hourglass shape.
The guy tossed back his head and laughed. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Nah, haven’t seen her,” Hank replied. “But she’ll be back,” he added, shooting the man a knowing wink. “They always do.”
Leighanna snatched the tray from the bar and rolled her eyes as she turned away to deliver the drinks. “Men,” she muttered under her breath.
Leighanna dropped the toilet brush into the bucket, then used her wrist to push her hair from her face. Lord, but she was tired. Her feet felt as if they were swollen twice their size, the leather bands of her sandals cutting viciously across her instep, and her calf muscles ached from all the walking...and she still had the floor to mop.
Groaning, she snagged the bucket’s handle and limped from the bathroom and back out into the bar. Hank stood at the cash register, his lips moving silently as he slowly counted the night’s proceeds. He glanced up, his gaze hitting hers and holding just long enough to make her want to squirm, before he nonchalantly went back to his counting.
The clock behind him read 12:45.
Stifling a moan, Leighanna trudged to the small kitchen and mixed up mop water, then hauled the bucket and mop back out front. With a scowl at Hank who hadn’t done anything in the last half hour more strenuous than lift a handful of change from the cash drawer, she slapped the mop to the floor and began scrubbing. Back and forth, round and round, she swished the mop across the floor, the ache in her back growing until it was all she could do not to cry.
By the time she’d made her way back to the bar, the clock read 1:15. She’d put in over eight hours and it felt like eighteen. With no strength left in her arms, she dragged the bucket back to the kitchen and dumped the murky water down the drain.
Tugging the towel from her waist, she tossed it onto the bar, then ducked
