Tinsel (Lark Cove #4)(19)

I worked my ass off to make sure that happened.

“I don’t have a lot of time for fun.”

“Now you sound like my dad.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s got to be something you do for fun. What is it?”

Her eyes pleaded for an answer, like she didn’t want my life to be filled with only work. There was desperation on her face as the silence dragged on. Her frame deflated as I racked my brain for something to say.

If I didn’t come up with something, anything, she’d shove me into the same category as her dad, and I’d crush her hopes along the way.

“I play basketball.”

Her shoulders perked up. “That’s fun.”

“Not a lot of games this time of year, but once a week I’ll meet some guys at the school gym and shoot around. In the summer, we have a game going every day at a park.”

“I’m glad you have that.”

“Me too.” I hadn’t really thought about my basketball games, but they were something I looked forward to every time.

“It’s important to not just work all the time.” She slid off her stool, bringing her water glass with her. “It consumes my dad’s life. My sister’s too. Though I probably shouldn’t criticize since I’ve never worked. I’m guessing you agree with them.”

“You’re working now.”

She came around the bar, stopping next to me and shrugged. “Does this really count, though? I’m not really working. I’m not even getting paid.”

“Hey. Look at me.” I took her glass from her hand. “This counts. And whatever tips you make while you’re here are yours. You’ll have earned them on your own.”

To emphasize my point, I put down her water glass and walked over to a cabinet down the bar. It was full of a bunch of junk that we’d tossed into one place so it was out of the way. Every few months, that cabinet would annoy Thea so she’d spend an afternoon cleaning it out. Then she’d tell me and Jackson if we piled it full again, we had to clean it ourselves.

We never did.

The cycle just went on and on. Lucky for me, it was overdue for a clean out, but Thea hadn’t done it yet.

I riffled through one of the shelves and found an empty olive jar. I took it over to Sofia, grabbed a Sharpie from the can of pens by the cash register and handed them both over. “That’s your tip jar. Write your name on it.”

She hesitated, her eyes locked on the marker. I was just asking her to write her name on glass, but she looked at it like I was asking her to doodle on the Mona Lisa.

Finally, she took the marker and carefully wrote out Sofia in swirly, flowing letters.

When she was done, I took it and set it on the bar, making sure that it was front and center. My tip jar was next to Thea’s and Jackson’s by the register, but I wanted hers to be visible.

Because she was visible.

She had more potential than she knew. She had more intelligence than most—in spades.

If I did anything in the next nine days, I hoped to show her that at least one person believed in her, that one person didn’t expect her to conform to a certain role because of her heritage or last name or birth order.

Like Xavier had for me.

The Lark Cove Bar wasn’t glamorous, but I was starting to see why Thea had pushed for Sofia to work here. Not because she needed to be taught a life lesson. Not because she needed to learn about hard work and blue-collar life.

But because she needed to find a purpose.

There was something to be said for serving others. A good day’s work in this bar made me feel valuable. It made me feel like I had something to offer.

Sofia needed to feel those things too.

“Ready for another lesson?” I asked.

“Yes.” She inhaled a fortifying breath and picked up a tumbler from the mat next to the dishwasher. Then she set it out on the rubber spill mat.

She looked up to me, waiting for my instruction.

But the drink recipe I’d made a thousand times escaped me. The ingredients got lost in her rich, brown eyes.

With her chin tipped up, her breath wafted between us, the citrus from her water lingering in the air. The scent grew stronger as the heat between us kicked up a notch.

When had we gotten so close? Her chest was just inches from mine. The tips of our shoes were nearly touching beneath us. And her lips . . . with just one tug, I’d have her breasts smashed against my chest and my mouth on hers. One tug and I’d find out exactly how that lime tasted on her tongue.

Sofia’s breath hitched, her eyes locked on my mouth. Her eyes were hooded as she silently begged me to give in.

I leaned in, a split second away from ruining her lipstick. My fingers were hovering beside her cheek, ready to dive into her thick hair, when a voice filled the air.

“If you’re pouring, I’ll have a whiskey ditch.”

We flinched, breaking apart. I spun around as Xavier led the way in from the back door, down the hallway, Hazel and the Kendrick kids trailing behind. His hair hung long over his shoulders. His black Stetson, the one he always wore, covered the gray strands.

“Sofia!” Charlie shoved past Xavier, running straight for her aunt’s legs. The younger two plowed by too, all three children dressed in snow bibs, boots and puffy coats.

“Hey! You guys all have red noses.” She touched Camila’s tiny nose. “Were you playing in the snow?”