Serving Trouble(4)

He kept his gaze locked on her face as he stepped back and placed his hand on the door again. He was ready and willing to slam it closed. She could tempt and tease him, but he refused to take his eyes off her face. Hell, he knew better than to play chicken with her breasts. Right now, with the way he wanted her, he’d lose that game.

First, he needed some time to process. He wanted space to think about the fact that things hadn’t worked out for her in Portland. He needed her to leave before he pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her, and offered comfort. Before he begged to know every damn detail about what had happened.

No, he needed her gone. Because he’d learned one big life lesson from his time with the marines: he wasn’t a hero. He couldn’t let old habits take over, pushing him to save her. He wanted Josie’s hands on him, her lips pressed against him . . . not her problems dumped at his feet. And if Josie was back in the town that had insisted on labeling her wild, holding her solely accountable for losing her panties in a hay wagon ride, then something had gone horribly wrong in Portland.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t—­”

“I need a job, Noah.” She wasn’t begging, merely stating a fact. But desperation and determination clung to her words. Never a good combination.

Noah sighed. “Do you have any waitressing or bartending experience?”

“Not exactly.” She forced a smile as she uncrossed her arms and riffled through the worn black leather shoulder bag. She withdrew a manila folder and handed it to him. “But I brought my resume.”

Propping the door open with his foot, he took the folder and opened it. He read over the resume and tried to figure out how a series of babysitting gigs related to serving the twenty-­one-­and-­older crowd.

“You took a year off between working for these two families.” He glanced up. “To focus on school?”

“No.” Her smile faded. “I can serve drinks, Noah. I’m smart and I’m good with ­people. Especially strangers. And now that you’ve taken the “country” out of Big Buck’s, I’m guessing the locals don’t camp out at the bar anymore.”

“Some still do.” And they gave him hell for telling his dad to remove the mechanical bull. Five years and the ­people born and bred in this town still missed the machine that had put the “country” in Big Buck’s Country Bar. Some dropped by to visit the damn thing in his dad’s barn. But he’d bet no one had ridden it like Josie in the last five years.

He closed the folder and held it out to her. “Why are you so desperate to serve drinks?”

“I owe a lot of money.”

Another fact. But this one led to a bucket of questions. “Your father won’t help you?”

She shook her head. “This is my responsibility. He’s giving me a place to stay until I get back on my feet.”

The don’t-­mess-­with-­me veneer he wore like body armor cracked. If someone had hurt Josie . . . No, she wasn’t his responsibility. Whatever trouble she’d found—­credit card debt, bad loans—­it wasn’t his mess to clean up. He’d spent most of his life playing superhero, first on the football field, later for his family, and then for his fellow marines. But his last deployment—­and the fallout—­had made it pretty damn clear that he wasn’t cut out for the role.

He couldn’t help Josie Fairmore. Not this time. And he sure as hell couldn’t give her a job that would keep her underfoot. He couldn’t pay her to work for him and want her at the same time. It wasn’t right. Maybe he was a failed hero. But he still knew right from wrong.

“Look, I need experienced waitresses and bartenders.” He stepped away, ready to head back to the peace and quiet of his empty bar.

“So you haven’t filled the positions?” she asked.

“I—­”

“Please think about it.” She removed her foot, offering him the space to slam the door. “If you can’t help me, I’ll have to take Daphne up on her offer to serve topless drinks at The Lost Kitten. And I’d rather keep my shirt on while I work. But one way or another, I’m going to pay back what I owe.”

She turned and headed for the red Mini. He stared at her back and pictured her bending over tables. One look at her bare chest and the guys at The Lost Kitten would forget what they planned to order. He hated that mental image, but jealousy didn’t dominate his senses right now.

He’d witnessed a woman sacrifice her pride and her dignity for her job. He’d fought like hell for her and he’d failed her. He couldn’t change the past. What happened to Caroline was out of his hands now. Even if he wanted to help, he couldn’t. She’d disappeared. If and when Caroline resurfaced, she’d be the one charged with a crime. Unauthorized absence. And his testimony? The things he’d witnessed? It wouldn’t matter.