WALKING THE LINE

Chapter 4

ELLIE

Working with Finn was hell.

Pure, yanking-out-eyebrow-hairs-one-at-a-time, Brazilian-wax, torturous hell.

Being understaffed, I'd had to work the bar alongside him tonight. So I'd been privy to his constant sexy smiles, his incessant flirting and the panty-dropping charm that seemed to come as natural to him as breathing.

And while he did it with everyone, he seemed to focus most of it on me. I'd tried freezing him out, shooting death glares, even the odd name-calling. The result? He tried harder. What was worse, I actually liked it.

I didn't flirt. I didn't encourage guys. I donned my armor every morning, from my foundation to the five ring piercings in each ear, and faced the world head on. That was another thing; when I'd walked downstairs earlier, the way he'd looked at me seemed like he could see beneath my deliberately chosen leather exterior to the real me beneath. It had disarmed me more than anything and I'd wanted to fire him on the spot.

Kye had been right about the optimism thing too. I'd heard Finn say he'd had his money stolen by some chick at the backpackers' where he was staying, had lost his passport and had his pockets picked, but then he'd waxed lyrical about Sydney and made the crappy stuff sound insignificant.

The guy was one of those annoyingly chipper people who bounced through life with a permanent smile on their face, oblivious to the darker realities. I couldn't stand that kind of blatant cheeriness. It grated. And made me want to shake some sense into him.

But then Finn would turn some of that warm liveliness on me and for an all-too-brief second I'd forget the reasons why I'd morphed into a hard bitch and allow myself the luxury of basking in his all's-right-with-the-world happiness.

Eager to get the hell away from him, I slid the last bolt home on the front door. "I'll pay you for tonight then you can leave out the back."

"Actually, could we talk?"

Liquid warmth pooled in places it shouldn't and I inwardly cursed my body's reaction to his voice. "What's up?"

"Firstly, aren't you going to commend me on a stellar job?" He grinned like a proud little boy who'd mastered toilet training. "Several of those customers said they were moving on to other clubs but ended up staying here all night."

Annoyed that he was right, I crossed my arms. "And you think that's because of you?"

"Damn right." He perched on a bar stool and patted the one next to him. "They enjoy my flirtatious charm as much as you do."

I frowned. "But I don't."

"Liar," he said, so softly my skin rippled with goose-bumps. "You love my charm."

I snorted and reluctantly took a seat beside him, only because my new three-inch heels had murdered my feet. "You can turn it off now. Your audience has left."

"Why don't I turn it on instead?"

Before I could blink he'd placed his hands either side of my barstool, effectively pinning me between the bar and his all-too-close body.

Bamboozled by his nearness, the lust in his eyes and the intoxicating scent of hard-working male sweat and woodsy aftershave, I blurted the first thing that popped into my head.

"I'm thirty-four."

"You look twenty-four." He smiled and I resisted the urge to dip my finger into that captivating dimple. "My age, in case you needed more ammunition to keep me at arm's length."

He was a decade younger than me? Jeez. Not that I had any intention of robbing a cradle, even a cute Irish one, but the fact we were ten years apart merely accentuated the divide between us.