In the reflection, Morgan sweeps along the floor, teasingly shoving people out of the way while his friend—white guy, floppy hair, rangier than Morgan—grabs the cleaning supplies and they work together, ducking down out of sight.
“Like a professional,” someone says in a lilting voice, and a few people chuckle.
The crowd resumes its normal hum, the music gets turned down, and after a few minutes, Morgan appears in front of me again, still shirtless.
“So you’re a stripper,” I say.
“Nope.” He grins. “I didn’t take my clothes off.”
“You took your shirt off,” I point out.
He puts his hand over his chest, his thumb resting against a thick black line that slopes down over his pec. “I’m so glad you noticed. But that was the setup.”
“You danced.”
“The dance was for you. I may have gotten carried away.” He grins, unrepentant. “I don’t dance that way for anyone, you know.”
I shake my head. I don’t think he’s lying to me, per se, but that sure felt like I was minutes away from getting a lap dance. And what else could the hint have been?
Someone calls for more drinks, and Morgan trots off to take care of them. He returns a few minutes later, dropping my loaded tater tots off in front of me with a fresh beer, and then I try to ignore him milling around while he lets me eat in peace.
I’m about halfway done when someone comes up to the bar a few seats down from me. Most of the bar patrons are either in the booths behind me or at the far end by the pool table where Morgan’s friend Kit is playing a game with the guy who was sitting here when I first arrived.
This person, though, isn’t a twenty- or thirty-something local that fits right into this little dive bar. She’s an older white woman, maybe in her sixties, with a silver-gray bob and a color-coordinated outfit, complete with a jeweled brooch.
She holds a martini glass, which, in my entire two months coming here, I’ve never seen one before.
Morgan spots her and saunters over, full, charming grin in place.
“Mrs. Gardiner, ready for another martini?”
She sniffs. “Morgan, my glass has been empty for nearly a half hour.”
I’m sure that’s not true, because I haven’t even been here a half hour.
Morgan is nonplussed by her tone. “Sorry, Mrs. Gardiner. It’s hard to see it over that bucket of beer at the table.”
“Or you’ve been too busy trying to charm your way into this woman’s pants.” She says it with something that could be a sneer.
“Your lips to God’s ears,” he says, flicking his eyes at me with a tease. Is he just so charming he can’t help himself?
The lady gasps. “Morgan. What would your grandmother think, you cavorting all over the place with your shirt off? Or your boss? I have half a mind to report you.”
“He’s right over there. You know Hunter. He took your granddaughter to prom, remember?”
“I’m talking about the Schaefers,” she snaps. “I don’t know what they’re thinking, leaving you two to run this place. You’ll run it into the ground!”
Morgan’s smile doesn’t slip, but I swear the muscle in his cheek jumps. “Why don’t you head on back to your booth with your friends and I’ll whip up that drink for you and bring it over? That way you can leave my future bride to enjoy her own drink in peace.”
I roll my eyes. This isn’t the first time that Morgan has joked about marrying me. In fact, the second time I was in his bar, he asked how the tots were, and I stared him dead in the eye and said, “It’s fried potatoes.”
He’d put his hand to his chest, staggering. “Oh baby, I love the way you pay me compliments. Will you marry me?”
I’d scoffed, he’d laughed, and it had been enough encouragement for him to keep it up.
Mrs. Gardiner sniffs. “Be sure that you do, Morgan. I’m not your mother who’ll let you get away with far too much.”
Morgan turns away from me so I can’t see his reaction to that, but it’s a pretty obvious dismissal. The rude lady harrumphs, but follows his advice and goes back to her friends.