But Merry did take the stool next to it, one down from the hinge of the bar.

I dropped the drafts, took an order at a table on the way back to the bar, and wedged into the space between Merry’s occupied stool and Colt’s unoccupied one.

I’d bucked myself up before arriving so I was all good when I got there.

“Hey,” I said to him.

“Hey,” he said to me, eyes moving over my face, eyes that flashed in my head as a memory, heated and hooded, right before he came.

Shit.

“You get a break soon?” he asked.

“We’re ordering in Shanghai Salon in a while,” I told him.

“Let me take you to Frank’s. I can call in our orders so they’ll have them ready and I can get you back to work on time,” he offered.

So he didn’t intend to deliver the blow with me at work.

That was Merry—meaning, that was nice.

“Hang tight,” I replied and looked to Jack heading my way. “Two Bud Lights and a Coors, bottle.”

“Got it,” Jack said, then looked to Merry. “Hey, son, you on?”

“Yeah, Jack. Can you shoot me a Coke?”

“Sure thing,” Jack replied.

I got my bottles first and told Merry I’d be back as Jack was aiming the drink gun into a glass of ice.

I dropped the beers, did a walk-through of my tables, got no orders, and headed back to the bar.

I hit the opposite side of Merry this time, closer to the room and not the wall, and wedged in.

“No orders, have a second now,” I told him.

“Then tell me what you want me to order you at Frank’s and ask for your break,” he replied.

“You on lunch hour at four in the afternoon, or what?” I asked.

“Things are slow, but yeah, Mike’s doin’ paperwork at the station, and shit goes down, I’ll have to head out. Either way, I need to get back, so I don’t got a lotta time.”

That being the case, I moved into him, holding his gaze. “Right, then, do what you gotta do. Get Mike a sandwich and head back, because you know we’re—”

I didn’t finish because Merry looked from me to over my shoulder. His brows drew slightly together and he straightened a bit on his stool, so I looked over my shoulder too.

At what I saw, I fully straightened and mostly turned.

This was because Trent’s wife, Peggy, was standing at the corner of the bar.

She looked so out of place it wasn’t funny. Baggy, high-waisted mom jeans. A shapeless top that showed very little skin and attempted to hide the fact she hadn’t taken off her baby weight, which was somewhat substantial, laying evidence to the fact it wasn’t all baby weight. No muss, no fuss hairstyle for her brunette hair, which could have been Martha Stewart hair, in a good way, but she seemed allergic to a roller brush and teasing comb. No makeup at all. Sneakers that looked like they were Reebok aerobics shoes from the ’80s, not kickass Chucks or cool Vans or neon Nikes.