normal life.”
Eventually Sean’s voice sounded again, a little less steady this time. “Go away. And have pity on a man who’s about to go onto his fourth tour of duty and won’t see a woman again for the next—aahhh—nine months.”
How any woman—especially a New York City health inspector—could mistake his brother for a soldier was out of the range of rational possibility. Yet for some reason, rationality, Sean and women never went together anyway. Gabe banged on the door.
Sean yelled back. “You’re embarrassing the poor woman, Gabe. Be a gentleman and leave.”
Gabe shook his head. “All right, but don’t think I won’t remember this,” he threatened.
“Instead of worrying about me, why don’t you worry about Tessa?”
So typical of Sean. Diverting attention from the matters at hand. Three-card monte with emotional overtones. Sadly Gabe was suckered into it, because Tessa had enough problems to worry about, and it would be hell if something else came up and bit her in the butt.
“What about Tessa?” he asked.
“Employees not coming to Dr. Phil? Tsk-tsk…”
“What about Tessa?” Gabe repeated, seriously considering busting the door down, but he’d only replaced it three months ago, and doors weren’t cheap, especially the seven-feet tall, two-feet wide, custom-made kind.
“Give me another six minutes and I’ll tell you the whole story, because it’s obvious she’s keeping secrets from you.”
With a frustrated sigh, Gabe put an “out of order” sign on the ladies’ room door and went back upstairs. Thursday nights lacked the chaos of the weekend, but when the Yankees were on television, the crowd skewed to beer and bets. Even some of the daytime regulars were there, as well. Judging by the happy faces, the Yankees were winning.
An embarrassingly short two minutes later Sean appeared at the top of the basement steps with a tall brunette wearing schoolmarm glasses. Sean lifted her hands to his lips—just like Sir Fucking Lancelot. Jeez.
“I take it we passed inspection?” asked Gabe, keeping his face purposefully bland. Not that he needed to worry. The health inspector shot Sean a punch-drunk smile. “With flying colors. Flying. Colors,” she murmured, and Sean beamed, an already healthy ego getting supersized. Shit. Sometimes Gabe wanted to shoot his brother, but Sean had connections everywhere, and the bar had never failed a health inspection yet. Okay, Gabe would forgive him. Right now he was more concerned about Tessa anyway.
He shot her a quick mental-health-check glance. Everything looked normal. She was mixing drinks with her usual Hollywood flair, tossing glasses into the air, to the delight of her male customers. But when she listened to an order, Gabe noticed the telltale tugging on the lock of hair that fell in her face.
Tessa attracted trouble like rain on a busted umbrella, but that didn’t matter to Gabe. When his employees needed him, he was there. Especially for Tess.
TESSA KNEW A TRAIN wreck idea when she heard it, and this was definitely one. She shot Gabe her best mean-girl glare, the one she’d been practicing in the mirror for nearly all of her twenty-six years. All that practice didn’t mean she was any good, but she had to keep trying.
“I am not moving in with you. You’re my boss, among other things. And don’t think you can make me say yes by flashing those earnest blue eyes in my direction, because I’m learning to say the word no to men. No. N.O. Non. Nyet. Nein. I can say it in Navajo. Dooda. See, I can say no.”
To make sure her point was not missed, she lit a flame over the flaming Jägerbomb shooter she was making, still working the mean-girl glare.
Gabe hefted a bucket of ice into the bin, biceps rippling with the effort. The world’s most perfect bartender. Understanding, thoughtful and sexy as hell.
“It’s not like that, Tess,” he said, flashing those earnest blue eyes in her direction. Four women sighed as they watched him work. Gawd, it was like synchronized lusting.
Tessa pulled a draft beer, then slid it down the bar to the waiting customer. In her heart she knew Gabe meant well. Gabriel O’Sullivan was more than just any bartender. He was the lifeline who’d given her a job when she’d shown up in Manhattan after a bitter breakup—because, after all, everyone knows that the brainiac thing to do after leaving all your worldly possessions in Florida with your old boyfriend is to move to stratospherically expensive New York with only a high school diploma and an encyclopedic knowledge of tropical bar drinks.
Not once had Gabe laughed at her, and for that, he earned her undying loyalty. Except that didn’t mean she was moving in with him. On that she was standing firm. Firmish. Unfortunately she only had five days to find an apartment.
“You need a place to live,” he continued, completely ignoring her denials. “I have an extra bedroom. It’s the perfect solution.”
“I’m looking for a place,” answered one fake-blonde type with way too much eyeliner.
“Did you need a drink?” asked Tessa pointedly, absorbing the fake-blonde hate-vibes. The blonde would get over it, especially considering the way the suit behind her was eyeing her ass. Then Tessa turned her attention back to Gabe. “And don’t you have a bar to cover? Look at poor Cain, he’s in over his—” Tessa checked out the back bar, noticed Sean had ditched his usual jacket and tie and was working alongside Cain. Just once she should be right in her life. Just once. Was that too much to ask?
Four thirsty Con Ed workers lined the bar, and she mixed up four mojitos, grinding the mint leaves with a little more force than necessary. Abject pity usually did that to her.
“I’m helping you out here for a bit,” he explained, right as the waitress, Lindy, came up with a whole barful of drink orders, leaving no space for idle chatter.
“Meyer’s,” called Gabe.
“Heads up,” answered Tessa, tossing the bottle in his direction. Gabe flipped the bottle behind his back, then poured the rum into the glass, and before you could silently mouth the word show-off, he had blended up a beautifully constructed mai tai.
Tessa, never one to be outblended, scowled and threw the shot glass in the air, sending it spinning four revolutions with an extra half twist for good measure. The Con Ed guys applauded with gusto. Tessa beamed pointedly at Gabe. Yes, she was capable. A miracle-working mixologist. A miracle-working mixologist who was about to be homeless.
Some miracle.
Unless she agreed to Gabe’s offer.
Sensing her momentary weakness, he leaned over her station and smiled in a manner guaranteed to break hearts and insure a fifty percent gratuity. “You need a place to live, Tessa. You can’t live on the street.”
Yeah, make her sound like a bag lady already. Tessa pushed bedraggled hair back from her face and met his eyes with dignity. Faked, but dignity nonetheless. Tessa was nothing if not proud.
“I could be some wet kitten or stray dog tossed out on the street by their heartless owner and you’d take me in. You’re too soft. I know you, Gabriel O’Sullivan.”
“You’re not a stray dog.”
“Thank you for that compliment.”
“Come on, Tess. It makes sense.”
She didn’t need this conversation right now, but fine, if he wanted to explore the myriad reasons why she couldn’t move in with him, she would list them off one by one. Starting with the obvious.
“You are a man.”
He didn’t roll his eyes, but he might as well have. “Yes.”
Gabe pushed it off so easily, as if his physical attributes were no big deal. But that was what made him so irresistible. Dark brown hair that had a tendency to curl into the nape