“You shouldn’t have been behind my bar with heels on. You were a distraction and a liability.” His gaze moves over me in a slow sweep. It’s not unappreciative.

“Can we please do this without a door between us?” It’s demeaning to be kept out here on the street, speaking loudly to be heard through the pane of glass.

“Are you gonna try to maim me with your talons again?”

“Maim you?” What in the world is he talking about?

He flicks the lock and steps back, not bothering with chivalry. I open the door and slip in out of the cold as he unbuttons his plaid shirt and pulls the collar aside.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you the evidence.”

“Of what?”

He bends, bringing his shoulder down to my level. There are crescent-shaped nail marks in his skin defined by bruises.

“I did not do that.”

“You sure did.”

“I’m sure that was from whatever college girl you had a quickie with in your office when you took a five-minute break last night, not from me.”

He blinks a few times, inked forearms flexing when he crosses them. The right one is covered in beautiful flowers, and the left is some kind of landscape. I can’t see enough of it to figure out what exactly it is. One of those arms was against my bare thigh last night when he picked me up. “First of all, I have no interest in college girls.”

I scoff and mirror his pose. “Could’ve fooled me with the way you were eyeing them last night.”

“I was tending bar. My job is to be friendly when I’m serving booze. Secondly, I don’t fuck where I work, and third, the word quickie isn’t in my vocabulary. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.”

I fight to hold my smile. “So you’re saying you like to savor instead of devour.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I have to tip my head up to meet his gaze. His caramel-colored eyes are hot, burning like a shot of whiskey. “You treat sex the opposite of how you treat my cupcakes.”

He licks his lips and swallows thickly, like he’s tasting the memory of one right now. “I devour the first one and savor the rest when I’m alone.”

“Hey, Ronan, sorry I’m a bit la—” Ronan’s usual bartender—and the screamer from last night—is at the end of the bar, hands in the air as he takes deliberate steps backward and thumbs over his shoulder. “Oh, sorry, man, I didn’t, uh…I’ll go grab a couple cases of beer or something.” He disappears around the corner.

I don’t understand what that was all about until Ronan’s attention returns to me. We’re literally inches apart, and his arms are no longer crossed. He takes a step back and so do I, bumping into the door.

I clear my throat. “We need to set a schedule for our events. You ruined the last act of my comedy night with your live band.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was.” On many levels. “Look, you’re open until two and I’m only open until nine most nights, ten when I have entertainment on the weekends. You can hold your band until nine thirty, can’t you? How much could that possibly hurt your business?”

“Why should I have to be the one to make concessions?”

“I already moved all my glasses and had to adjust my entire interior wall that adjoins your bar. The least you can do is give me an extra half hour.”

“What’re you gonna do for me?”

“I can start my comedy nights at seven instead of seven thirty. It’s only half an hour and then we can both benefit. My customers can move over to your place and I can close when you have live bands.” I don’t want to bend, but I realize compromise is the only way to win this. I need him to be willing to work with me so I don’t keep losing out. “Unless one of us switches days?”

“Live bands are best on Saturday nights.” And he’s back to crossing his arms.

“And comedians usually have nine-to-five jobs.” Or they’re booked somewhere better than a café in downtown Seattle.

“Unless they’re actually good.” It’s like he’s living in my damn head.

“They were good.” I’m extra defensive, which is frustrating, especially since it makes him smile. “And the last one would have been a whole lot better if not for the noise over here.”

We stare each other down for several long seconds that slowly turn heavy and uncomfortable. He finally sighs and runs a palm down his face. “You’re not going to leave unless I agree to this, are you?”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay. I can push back live bands until nine thirty, but make sure you wrap up the yukkity-yuks by nine so you’re not back here next Sunday griping at me for something else.”

“Do you have anything else planned for this week?”

“Do you?” he shoots back.

I roll my eyes. “I’m trying to be proactive.”

“If that’s what you want to call it. Maybe you’re trying to steal my ideas.”

“So far you’ve been the one piggybacking me, not the other way around.”

He leans in and lowers his voice. “Except last night when you were clinging to me like I was carrying you on a tightrope, not across a bar, one you weren’t supposed to be behind in the first place.”

I open my mouth and snap it shut. He’s goading me. On purpose. I brush a wayward curl from my forehead with my middle finger and spin around, yanking the door open.

His laughter follows me all the way back to my café.

chapter seven

What House Are You?

Blaire

Ronan stays true to our agreement and his band doesn’t go on until nine thirty the following Saturday, giving my last comedian time to finish his act. It works out well, and it’s great for business—Ronan’s more than mine, since it means a good chunk of my customers end up migrating over there when I close up.

I even pop in to check out the band, mostly out of curiosity. Not because I’m trying to support him or ogle, or anything.

After polling my regular customers and setting up an online survey, Harry Potter Trivia Night is born. The winner gets a dozen HP-inspired cupcakes and a round of drinks for them and three friends.