“Pretty sure you’re not old enough to be back here, either,” I commented, giving Nick a look. “Legally. By the rules.”

“I’m not drinking.” Nick flashed me a smile more akin to a poker player laying down a winning hand than any kind of invitation. “I’m serving.”

“Not very well.” Inebriated Frat Boy slid in at the bar beside me. Based on his intact appearance, I assumed the bouncer had managed to defuse the fight in time. “How many rounds do I have to buy to get a little service around here?”

“You can have a little service once I have your keys.” There was nothing overtly challenging in Nick’s tone or his stance, but it was clear as glass that what he’d just said was nonnegotiable.

“My keys?” The frat boy leaned forward in what I could only assume was meant as a loom. “You think you can tell me not to drive?”

“I think,” Nick replied, “that anyone who orders more than three beers in an hour gets to give me their keys. House rules.”

I could have told the frat boy not to bother arguing—and not just because of the line of tension now visible in Nick’s jaw. His brother was in a coma because of a drunk driver. Campbell’s

father.

“I want to talk to the manager,” Frat Boy blustered.

Nick arched an eyebrow at him. “That would be me.”

If Frat Boy had been in possession of even half the sense God gave a goose, he would have seen the glint of warning behind Nick’s hazel eyes.

“Then I want to talk to the owner.”

Nick placed his elbows on the bar and leaned his weight onto them. “Also me.”

Now it was my turn for raised eyebrows. “You own this place?”

Nick cut a glance toward me and shrugged, his shoulder muscles pulling at the confines of his shirt. Frat Boy slammed his keys down on top of the bar.

Wordlessly, Nick took them. “What can I get you?”

I had to wait a full minute before he circled back around to me.

“Since when do you own a bar?” I asked.

“The owner put it up for sale a few weeks ago.” Nick began making Victoria’s remaining three drinks. “I had a friend who worked here. Nice guy. He had a new baby. Couldn’t afford to be out of a job.”

“So you bought the bar?” If I’d been talking to Walker, that might not have surprised me. But Nick? “Where did you . . .”

“Get the money?” Nick saved me the trouble of saying the m-word myself. “Your grandpa paid me off. You know what they say about blood money—it really does burn a hole in your pocket.”