Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(23)

That thought won out, and I lifted my glass to signal to Buck that I was ready for another. As soon as my hand was in the air, another smaller, more delicate hand with black nail polish donning each nail was on top of it.

“Let me get this round.”

I stiffened at the sound of her voice, face flat as I turned to look over my shoulder.

Mallory smiled, though it was a weak one — tinged with an apology she’d tried to give me earlier. Her platinum blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun that somehow looked perfectly designed, with little tendrils falling down to frame her face. Those cat eyes of hers were winged, her lips painted that dusty rose color I’d come to both love and loathe. The piercing in her septum moved a little as her smile widened.

“Please,” she added.

Her eyes searched mine, and too many emotions warred inside me for me to decipher. I hated her. I wanted her. I needed her to leave. I longed for her to stay. The longer I watched her, the more I wondered if she could see right through me, if she could read every little thought.

Buck knocked on the bar, calling my attention back to him.

“Another?” he asked.

Buck was the owner of the little watering hole, his name painted on the brick outside. He wasn’t just the bartender, though — he was everyone’s friend, therapist, referee, and liquid pharmacist.

I nodded, sliding my glass toward him. “Scooter Signature. Neat.” I tilted my head toward where Mallory stood behind me then. “Put it on her tab.”

Buck lifted one thick, caterpillar eyebrow at Mallory. “Okay… and for you?”

“Gin and tonic, please.”

He gave something close to a smile, still eyeing us like a Scooter and Becker together couldn’t be trusted — he wasn’t wrong — before he finally turned to make our drinks.

Jordan and Noah had been in their own side conversation, but I saw Noah nudge Jordan out of my peripheral, and they were both staring at Mallory now.

“Mallory, you know my brothers?” I leaned away from the bar so she could get a better view of them on the other side of me. “Jordan, Noah.”

Mallory beamed, a smile bigger than I ever remembered seeing on her. “Of course. Hey, guys, how’s it going?”

They murmured something that sounded like fine, offering strange smiles that did nothing to hide the fact that they were questioning why the hell she was here.

“I made an ass of myself and got your brother in trouble today,” she explained. “Figured a drink or two might help make up for it.”

Noah smiled a little more genuinely then, but Jordan’s brows furrowed, and he offered nothing more before turning toward the shelves of alcohol behind the bar and sipping on his whiskey.

“How do you like working at the distillery so far?” Noah asked, aiming for amiability.

“It’s… well, it’s not what I expected.” Mallory looked at me then. “I thought I knew what I was walking into, but I was wrong.”

Noah nodded. “I’m not used to hearing those words come from a Scooter.”

It was meant as a joke, but his voice didn’t hide the fact that he was mostly serious with that statement.

Mallory chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be.” Buck placed our fresh drinks on the bar in front of us, telling us to let him know if we needed anything else. Before I could take the first sip, Mallory grabbed both drinks in her hands and stood. “Play a round of pool with me?” she asked, her eyes pleading for a yes.

Everything in my chest tightened — but not in the way it should have. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to play pool with her, that I was annoyed she was here, that I hated her and was still furious for what she’d done.

The truth lay more somewhere around me being giddy at the prospect of getting some one-on-one time with her — outside of work.

I stood in lieu of an answer, which had her smiling again as she turned and made her way toward the free pool table in the back. I didn’t dare glance over my shoulder at my brothers — who were no doubt watching us walk away — because I knew what I’d find.

Questions.

Concern.

Opposition.

And I didn’t want to answer to any of it.

Mallory handed me my drink once we made it to the table, taking a sip of her own before she sat it down and started racking up the balls for us to play. She was silent for a long while, and I just watched her fill the triangle with stripes and solids, moving the balls around until she had the order she wanted.

“So, obviously I owe you an apology,” she finally said, removing the triangle frame. She glanced at me through her lashes, stowing the frame away and grabbing a cue stick from the rack behind her. “You want to break?”

“Go ahead.”

She nodded, chalking the tip before she lowered her chest toward the table, lining up the shot. She steadied her aim, sliding the wood between her fingers a few times before she fired the shot, sending the white cue ball down the green felt to bust up the balls at the other end. They scattered, landing one solid and one stripe in opposite side pockets.

“Stripes,” she called, lining up for the next shot.

She missed, and when she was standing again and it was my turn, she leaned on her cue stick, picking up her drink for another sip.

“I am truly sorry for what happened today, Logan,” she said as I picked out my own cue stick, chalking the tip. “I acted like a fool — like a know-it-all — and this is me eating crow. You were right, I was wrong. And I’m sorry I had to act out like that to learn the lesson.” She paused. “I’m doubly sorry that I got you in trouble with my uncle.”