Chapter 8

Paige also suspected Blythe’s perfected “extra swagger,” which drew one’s gaze to the round derrière barely hidden by her tight crimson skirt, had been purposeful, considering that Max—he of the infamous “maximum bulge in his jeans”—governed the bar. And yes, despite the deeper lines around his eyes and the few strands of gray at his temples, the man did indeed look as hot as ever wearing those tight jeans and the black V-neck shirt. Blythe certainly had good taste in men—at least when it came to bartenders.

Once they settled into the booth, Blythe confirmed Paige’s earlier suspicions. “Was Max watching me? Did his gaze stay glued on my wiggling ass?” Chuckling, she glanced across the room toward the bar. “That’s right, hot stuff,” she continued, a lecherous sneer on her painted lips, “I’ve got something over here beneath this slinky red number just for you and your hard salami, baby.”