name is Chelsea, by the way. And my son is Henry.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Dylan Foster.”
With that, he moved to the other end of the bar, making the sweep to see who needed what drink and who wanted to close out their tab. As he did, he considered her request, trying to come up with at least one job possibility to offer. Foster’s Pub wasn’t hiring. Neither was the other Foster family–owned business, the sporting-goods store his brother Cole managed.
So lost was he in these thoughts, his appraisal of the bar’s customers and their needs, he failed to pay adequate attention to the blonde. It was the sound of her laughter—a series of too loud, too playful, completely manufactured giggles—that yanked him clean out of his head and smack into the trouble he’d anticipated the whole damn evening.
It didn’t take an abundance of brainpower to size up the current situation. She had scooted herself closer to Mr. Miller Lite—so close she might as well have plopped herself on his lap—and was in the process of trailing her long red-painted fingernails down the front of his shirt. The poor sucker had his arm wrapped around her waist and was, by all appearances, clueless as to what was about to go down. Because coming toward the couple in long, heavy strides was another man—Mr. Heartbreaker, Dylan guessed—and he did not look pleased.
The blonde seemed quite content with herself and the blowout that was likely to occur. Dylan rushed forward, intent on stopping the altercation before it started and mentally cursing himself for allowing the brunette—Chelsea? Yeah, that was her name—to take over his thoughts. If not for her sad, fearful blue eyes, he would’ve been on top of this a hell of a lot sooner.
He stepped in front of the blonde at the same instant Mr. Heartbreaker arrived behind the couple. Bad luck, that, but Dylan smiled at the man and said, “What can I get for you?”
The man ignored Dylan. He grabbed Mr. Miller Lite’s arm and pulled it off the blonde’s waist, saying, “It’s time to go, Amber. You’ve made your point.”
“Oh, I don’t know that I have.” Excitement glimmered over her expression, there and gone in a blink. Facing the new arrival, she said, “Ask me tomorrow. And I’m not going anywhere with you. Now or ever. So you’re wasting your time.”
“Hold on here,” Mr. Miller Lite said. “Who is this guy? What’s this about, Amber?”
“His name is Brett, but there’s nothing to worry about,” Amber said, pressing her body another inch tighter against Mr. Miller Lite, her words a catlike purr. “He doesn’t have to ruin our fun or our night. He was just leaving.”
“We’re leaving together,” Brett the heartbreaker corrected. “And tomorrow, we’ll straighten all of this out, when you’re more willing to listen to reason.”
“Reason? I highly doubt there is anything—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip in a sultry type of pout. “Just leave.”
“You heard her,” Mr. Miller Lite said, disentangling himself from Amber so he could stand. “She doesn’t want to go with you—” he curled his fists at his sides “—so why don’t you stop embarrassing yourself and take off before someone gets hurt?”
Amber’s eyes widened and Brett’s mouth pursed into a glower. Uh-oh.
“Let’s all calm down. This seems like a private discussion,” Dylan interjected, considering how fast he’d be able to climb over the bar and physically get in between the two men and wishing that one of his brothers were also in attendance. Or, hell, both. “And this isn’t the place for a private discussion, so I think everyone should—”
That was all he managed to say before the first punch was thrown.
As far as fights went, Dylan had seen worse. Brett got two solid hits in, a clean one across Mr. Miller Lite’s jaw and the other straight into the gut. Mr. Miller Lite retaliated with an elbow punch, also to the gut, followed by several sharp jabs to the ribs. Brett was raring up for another go when Dylan and a couple of the pub’s employees managed to separate the two. From what he could see, no real damage was done, though both men would surely have a few bruises the next day. And, he was certain, very different stories to tell.
Fortunately, when Amber sidled next to Brett, obviously ready to mend fences, Mr. Miller Lite was smart enough not to argue. Dylan shooed him out first, and a few minutes later he sent Brett and Amber on their way. He didn’t know what had started their squabble, but he figured this wasn’t their first—nor would it be their last—go-around. They just had that look.
“The show is over, folks,” he said to the gawkers who hadn’t yet returned to their seats. None of whom had jumped in to help during the fight, thank goodness. That would have resulted in one hell of a mess. Everyone scattered to their various chairs, and within minutes the fight was forgotten and normalcy was restored.
It wasn’t until the hum of chatter had fully resumed that Dylan recalled Chelsea and her plight. Dammit. Nothing had changed. The facts were still the facts. There might be plenty of job openings in the city, but he didn’t know where, and really, that was fine. She was an adult and, despite the effect she’d had on him, a complete stranger. He had no business being concerned.
She wasn’t—in any way, shape or form—his responsibility.
Except when he searched the bar for her and her son and didn’t see them anywhere, knots formed in his stomach. Had she found a hotel? She’d mentioned they’d driven a long way, so he guessed she wouldn’t turn around for the return trip tonight, even if she had made the decision to leave. And honestly, if she didn’t have a job and had nowhere to go, why choose to stay?
Shaking off his absurd worries—why the devil did he care, anyway?—Dylan returned to working the bar and socializing with the customers. He refused to waste another second thinking about some woman he’d likely never see or hear from again.
The next several hours passed swiftly, and finally—thank God—it was closing time. Another hour spent putting the bar to rights and he was heading out through the kitchen, ready to go home and crash for a solid eight. Nine, if he could get away with it.
Haley was still in the kitchen, eating a late-night snack at the small round table the family and employees used. He grabbed a chair and sat down across from her, because as much as he wanted to hightail it home, he wouldn’t let his sister walk to her car alone.
“Long night,” she said in between bites of a turkey sandwich. “Long season.”
“Agreed. We’re almost done, though.” One more night of craziness and everything would calm down for a few months. Of course, as soon as he caught up on sleep and fun, boredom would settle in. It always did. “Any plans I should know about on your end?”
“Huh? Me? Nope.” She shrugged, twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Nothing exciting, anyway. I mean, nothing that you would find exciting.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep, that’s so.” She twirled her hair tighter. “Just the normal in-between-season stuff.”
Dylan tried to find the energy to question his sister further, because she was—without a doubt—hiding something. The twirling of her hair, one of Haley’s tells, was a dead giveaway, but she could keep her secret. She was in a good place in her life. For well over a year now—closing in on two, actually—she’d been happy and in love with a man the entire Foster family considered one of their own. Whatever her secret, he highly doubted there was reason for alarm.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Please tell me you’re almost done with that sandwich.”
Narrowing her more-green-than-brown-tonight eyes, she gave him a protracted once-over. “Are you okay? You didn’t get your head beat on while breaking up that fight, did you?”
“Can’t win with you, Haley,” he joked. “Either I ask too many questions or not enough. I’m fine. Just tired and cranky and ready to head home.”