“What?” she snapped, fire igniting in her eyes.

“Watch yourself.”

THE GALL OF this beast trying to tell me what to wear and how to act. There was a time when Tracey would have cowered under the controlling touch or warning glare of a man, especially one the size of a mountain who grunted more than he spoke. But she was no longer the weak, friendless girl she’d been when she’d escaped the wrath of her asshole boyfriend, Dennis Smoot, and she’d come too far to let anyone tell her what she could or couldn’t do.

She held Diesel’s dark stare, heat and fury warring inside her as the familiar and all-too-confusing clutch of attraction or hate—she could never tell which with him—dug its claws in deep. “I’m just trying to make a living,” she bit out. “You watch yourself.”

Yanking her arm free, she gathered her order, sure smoke was coming out her ears. She stalked away, trying to calm herself down on her way to deliver the drinks. Why did she let him get under her skin? Her answer came as she passed Dixie Whiskey-Stone’s side of the floor. Dixie was a tough redhead who handled the books for the Whiskey family businesses and waitressed a few nights a week. As always, her tables were packed with high-tipping men, while Tracey had two empty tables, and her other customers were mostly women, thanks to Diesel’s Don’t go near her or I’ll rip your arms off stare.

The bastard.

Last Thanksgiving Tracey had finally figured out why Diesel scrutinized every male customer who came near her, and Red Whiskey had confirmed her suspicions. When Tracey had first started working there, Red had been worried Tracey’s ex might come looking for her, and she’d asked Diesel to watch over her. But that was two years ago.

It was time to put an end to Diesel’s bodyguarding, because it was either that or quit, and quitting was out of the question. She loved her job and she adored the Whiskeys. There was no way in hell she’d let that Neanderthal mess that up for her. No matter how insanely hot he was or how often she had sexy dreams about him.