I shook my head, aggravated by the thought of him and his guerrilla tactics, ambushed by his attractiveness and my subsequent weakness. Sipping my whiskey, I eyed down Abraham, who was greeting patrons at the end of the polished bar. Not only did the club owner have a successful speakeasy, he had a horde of handsome men who fell at his feet. As much as I hated the trait, I couldn’t deny I felt jealous of what he’d built for himself. While my family members were fiending for a piece of fairy action, I was salivating over a slice of the Peach. I wanted him. I’d never looked at another man and coveted him the way I did Abe’s muse, and I hated both Abe and his love interest for it. How exhausting it was to feel so much and to know the redhead so little. I suppose it was better that way. After all, playing with fire would get me hot, and I could not afford to flame out the way he made me want to. It was better to never get in his path rather than to end up a section of scorched earth beneath his heat.

Fuck, I had a crush. The last time I’d gotten so hot and bothered by a guy was when I was twelve. It was Sweetbread Bailey, the Cubs’ pitcher. The baseball player was tall, strong, and everything wet dreams were made of. I would know since he gave me enough of them. Abe’s Peach had a body like a baseball player with his broad shoulders and narrow waist. I wanted to punch him in his pretty face. Goddamn.

Chugging the remaining contents of my glass, I slid it across the bar top toward an empty space, knowing it would not be long before Abe took care of a refill. I needed to be way more inebriated than I was to cope with the fucked-up fantasies I was having about my best client’s man.