That was the primary reason he was planning on getting the hell out of Peaceful Harbor for good soon. Usually, when the urge hit, he climbed on his bike and took off without giving anyone a heads-up, much less notice. But he couldn’t do that to the Whiskeys. They relied on him, and he owed them time to find a replacement. He’d tell Red tomorrow that he was taking off after the holidays, which should give them time to find someone.

Tracey stalked toward the bar, shooting invisible daggers at Diesel.

This from the girl who hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes for the first few months she’d worked there. She’d come a long way from the scared girl who lived in oversized flannel shirts and baggy jeans. His gaze dropped to the sliver of skin between the hem of the Whiskey Bro’s T-shirt clinging to her perky breasts and her curve-hugging jeans. He imagined her spread out on the bar as he tasted that sliver of pale flesh on his way to the feast between her legs.

Tracey smacked her hand on the bar, snapping him from the fantasy he had no business entertaining. “Stop scaring off my tips.”

“Pull your shirt down before you get yourself in trouble.” The place was busy. She had plenty of tips coming in. She didn’t need to advertise what she wasn’t putting out.

She smirked, maintaining a challenging stare as she leaned over the bar, giving him an eyeful of cleavage and revealing a hint of black lace. “I think you have me confused with your biker hos. Just because they call you Daddy doesn’t mean you can act like my father.”

“Daddy,” my ass. He wasn’t into that shit. He leaned his forearms on the bar, bringing him nose to nose with Tracey, her enticingly feminine scent stoking the flames he was trying to ignore. He held her gaze, enjoying the quickening of her breaths, the nervous flutter of her long lashes as she visibly tried to regain her courage. He got a kick out of her newfound bravado, but she was liable to get herself in trouble acting like that.

“Getting a little mouthy, sparky,” he warned. “Better check that.”

She pressed her lips into a firm line and pushed from the bar, nervously looking at the customers climbing onto the barstools beside her. “I need a pitcher of Bud and three glasses.”

He scanned the room as he filled the order, nervous energy jumping off Tracey like fleas. Diesel caught the asshole in the denim jacket checking her out and shut him down with another threatening stare as Tracey reached across the bar for the glasses. Diesel covered her slim wrist with his hand, his fingers covering her entire forearm. She was so small, it made him sick to think a man had ever raised a hand to her.