He eyed the sandwich dubiously before looking back at me. “Who are you?”
“Georgia,” I replied, deliberately choosing not to elaborate. I wasn’t sure how he would feel about me living above the bar he felt so proprietary over even though Reece had taken it over.
“I made it with this really delicious pretzel bread. Made fresh this morning. It’s unbelievable.”
Mr. Mulvaney’s gaze dropped to the sandwich I held wrapped in a paper towel in my hand. If there was one thing I knew about a hard night of drinking, it was that the munchies were never far behind. I glanced down at it and added, “Turkey and Swiss cheese, too.”
He held out his hand. “Give it here.”
I handed it to him and he started eating, assessing me as he chewed. He swallowed. “It’s good.” He shot a glare to his son. “Would taste a hell of a lot better with a cold drink. This beer is getting warm. Make yourself useful.”
Logan snorted and looked from me to his father and back again. “Too bad we’re closed and no longer serving.”
Mr. Mulvaney waved at me as he tore into the sandwich again with gusto. “She one of your girlfriends?”
I shook my head even as Logan lifted his gaze to me. I didn’t miss the use of the plural. Even his father knew he was a player.
His father snorted. “Oh. It’s like that then. Complicated. I had a complicated relationship once. I married her and that only made things even more complicated.” He laughed roughly.
He took another bite out of his sandwich and then set it down on his lap, presumably keeping it. He lowered his hands to the sides of his wheelchair and rolled out from behind the table. “Thanks for the sandwich.”
“Sure.” I gave him a small wave good night, watching as he descended down the ramp. Turning, I found Logan staring at me with an odd expression on his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “It was nothing.” And it really was nothing. I didn’t do anything special. I gave his father a sandwich. Big deal. He could have thrown the food at me and just as easily kept yelling at Logan. He could have yelled at me, too.
“No, my old man . . . he’s difficult.”
I resisted pointing out that that might be an understatement. My mother was difficult. His father was abusive. And that angered me, tightened my chest with all kinds of impotent rage for the little boy he had been, living under the same roof with that man.
He motioned to the back door and then tucked both hands into his front pockets. He rocked on his heels for a moment. “I gotta take him home.” He looked down at the mess and sighed. “I’ll come in early and take care of this. Watch your step so that you don’t cut yourself.”
“I will.”
He looked at the back exit again, clearly reluctant to go. He probably just hated leaving the mess. I’m sure it had nothing to do with me. “A buddy of his dropped him off. He can’t drive himself . . .” His voice faded.
I nodded. “Of course. I understand. You gotta go.”
He lingered, still looking like he wanted to stay. If not for his dad, would he ask to stay the night? I had given up expecting to see him at my door. Especially since we had those ugly words the other night. He’d called me scared in the most scathing way, but right now he looked like he wanted to crawl all over me. Every part of me tingled under his regard, tiny pinpricks of sensation racing along my skin like lit gunpowder.
I tried to cling to my outrage, but after seeing how his father treated him, I just wanted to hold him . . . bring him into my body until the only thing either one of us felt was the gratifying rush of release.