Casey Harvell

Excerpt:

Anyone who walks through this place on a Friday night that I don’t know is just passing through. Believe me—I know everyone in this town. I have lived here almost all my life. So when something like that walks through the crappy bar doors, I notice. Hell, every damn woman here notices.

What’s the difference between me and the rest of the women that now swoon over Mr. Hottie-pants who leans casually against the bar? I know damn well that I don’t have a chance in hell. Girls like me? We’re meant for the background. Meant to fade into it and go without notice.

I continue on with my job like any other night—a night where some Adonis doesn’t ooze sex appeal that wafts around like a pheromone-filled cologne. I sneak a peek at him while I bring the zillionth tray to my disorderly customers and he catches me. Shit, he’s hot.

I grab the final glass to fill the small drink tray in my hand (again). My table is a rowdy bunch of college morons and to say they’re drunk is a gross understatement. They’re so drunk that they begin to worry me. After this round I’ll have to send Danny over to cut them off. I don’t get paid enough to do that shit.

“Hey—” a voice slurs as an audible slap sounds. He. Did. Not. Yep—he did! This guy seriously just grabbed my ass. “Put the pitcher here.” He laughs at his own drunken rudeness.

I know that I shouldn’t do anything, but I can’t really stop myself. “I’m sorry.” I say sweetly. “Where did you want this pitcher?” The fucker points to the table in front of him with a smile on his face…a smile that quickly changes to a look of shock when I proceed to pour the entire contents of the pitcher over his head.

“You bitch!” The guy screams and flips the table as he stands with more speed than someone as drunk as him should.

Uh-oh. See—this is why I’m not supposed to do this. Danny (aka my boss/bar owner/bouncer) is busy across the bar. The drunken beer-covered fool in front of me is hella-pissed and towers over me. Whoops!

You think that’s enough to give me pause, make me back down or shut the fuck up? Nope, not me. See, that makes sense and I’m not a fan of that at all. “I’m sorry!” I say brashly. “I assumed when you grabbed my ass you wanted to wear your beer.”

The man raises his hand high above him and I know what comes next. I don’t flinch though—instead I stand my ground. The group of friends behind him splits. Half of them try to calm him while the other half eggs him on. Maybe a second before the drunken asshole’s fist crashes into me an even larger more impressive hand shoots out from behind me. I expect to see Danny behind me so I’m quite speechless when I see the gorgeous piece of man from the bar instead.

~Jordan