Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(7)

Somehow, without my noticing, a giant of a man-child sidles up to me, shadow looming from above, almost blocking the light.

That’s how large he is.

That’s how large he seems, anyway.

Gingerly, without speaking, he plucks the tap hose out of my grip, grasping the nozzle in a giant hand, pinching it between two fingers and holding it over his cup. The hose hisses from having air in the line, so the big dude reaches down and gives the barrel a few pumps.

Holds the nozzle down again. Fills his cup without speaking to me.

Then, “Where’s your tip jar?” He’s still not looking at me, intent on watching the foam building over his beer. Flicks the top off onto the rug beneath the keg before meeting my eyes.

His are big, brown, and framed by arched bushy brows, a hair-covered face, neck, and head.

His whole appearance is startling. He’s kind of a mix between Wolverine, Teen Wolf, and Bigfoot—if Bigfoot were real. And now he’s pinning me to the floor with his question.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t all bartenders have a tip jar?”

“I’m not the bartender.” Did he really think I was? I can’t for the life of me read his expression under that bush.

“I know that. I was fucking with you.”

“Oh.” Yeah, I said Oh, as if it was the best response I could come up with. Then, because I’m a genius, I follow it up with, “Why?”

“Because you’re just standing here filling everyone’s cups like a fucking bartender, that’s why.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to squeak out a loud, I am not!

My lips part to protest, but the words won’t come out because…my god, he’s right—I have been standing here filling cups. I don’t even know for how long. How did that happen? It’s kind of like holding a door for someone at the store. You do it for one person then more come, and before you know it, you’re stuck standing there.

I wasn’t doing it on purpose, and this guy?

He noticed.

I glance around, wondering if anyone else did too.

Shit. How embarrassing.

“Why do you keep coming back if you’re just going to stand here all night?”

“What do you mean, keep coming back?”

“Last weekend you did the same thing—walked over to the keg and stood there.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

Who the hell is this guy?

“How do you know? Were you watching me?”

His broad shoulders shrug—no, not broad. Mammoth. Wide. Expansive. All better words to describe the width of this guy’s amazing upper body.

I avert my curious gaze.

This guy is freaking huge, his intelligent, intense gaze following mine across the room curiously when they land on some guy with shocking red hair near the kitchen wearing a bright blue polo shirt. “You like Jasper Winters?”

“Who?” My palms are sweating, making the cup in my hand slippery. “I don’t even know him.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know him—like, biblically?”

“What? No! Jeez, all I did was look in his direction. Would you stop?” What is with this dude? I try to steer the conversation. “And how do you know I was standing by the keg last weekend?”

Those bright, caramel colored brown eyes bore into me. Roll. “I saw you.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Well no shit. But why?”

“I was holding up the wall over there, and it was hard not to notice when you didn’t move the entire night. You know”—he tips his cup in my direction—“kind of like you’re doing right now.” He finally lets the hose from the keg drop to the floor. “There. Now you’re officially off duty—let them pour their own fucking beer.”

His voice has a timbre so low, my cheeks flush to the point I’m tempted to cool them with the palms of my hands. It’s deep and masculine and—

“Rule one: if you’re going to date one of these guys, you can’t be a pussy.”

I’m sorry, did he just say…the P word?

Now I’m blushing for an entirely different reason. He could have chosen any other word in the dictionary but that one. Wuss. Chicken. Wimp.

But no. He went with pussy and made my cheeks flush so fast I can feel the blood flow hit my face.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t be a pussy,” he repeats casually, taking a deep chug of the beer inside his red cup.

“I…I… Who says I want to date one of”—my hands flail through the air helplessly as I choke on the rest of my words—“these guys?”

He takes another chug. Another swallow.

Raises a thick brow. “Don’t you?”

My hands smooth down the front pleats of my yellow skirt and when I look up, I notice his eyes tracking my fingers.

“No! I mean, not these guys specifically.” And not just any guy. A gentleman—someone smart, who can make me laugh and have a good time. Someone on a career track so I—we—never have to struggle financially—like my Mom always had to after my dad walked out on her. Us.

Someone—

“Uh…hello?”

He says it in that tone you reserve for your idiot friends who can’t take a hint or don’t have a clue.