Barely turning his head, he followed her with his eyes. The swing of her hips and curve of her ass damn near hypnotized him. Kat made waitressing look like an art form, simultaneously weaving her way through the crowd, delivering trays of drinks, and beating back the locals with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue.
As he moved through the land of the inebriated, he searched for signs of trouble and kept one eye on the spunky redhead. She knew how to handle herself and, unlike the other waitresses, never called on the coolers for help. But that never stopped him from intervening. There was always a bad apple in the bunch that didn’t use the sense God gave him.
If he noticed a potential threat, he’d move in and take care of it before it escalated. If his presence alone wasn’t enough, a well-worded threat against the family jewels usually did the trick. Around these parts, the “family” kind was all they had and they tended to prefer them intact.
The first time he’d run interference for Kat with a less-than-polite customer, she’d stared at him incredulously. He’d only managed to stare back, unable to find his words with those light blue eyes turned on him, before she spun on her heel and stormed off. That happened a few more times: him stepping in, an awkward staring contest, and a silent retreat.
Then, one night after he’d “escorted” a guy out in a chokehold for grabbing her ass, she stalked up to him outside with narrowed eyes and fists planted on slender hips. “I can take care of myself.”
Aiden crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t doubt that.”
“Then knock it off. The other coolers aren’t as meddling as you. Dealing with a certain amount of crap gets me decent tips. You scowling at every customer who looks at me wrong is cutting into my bottom line, buddy.”
Aiden hadn’t considered that the waitresses got tipped better if they let the men flirt or paw at them. He scowled. He didn’t want to hurt her financially, but there was no way he was backing off. “How much would you say you lose every time I interfere?”
She threw her hands in the air, clearly frustrated. “Five, ten, twenty bucks? How the hell should I know?”
He nodded. “Then I’ll give you twenty bucks every time I keep some asshole’s hands off you.”
Her brows drew together and the starch left her spine. “I don’t want your money, Irish.” He liked the way his name sounded on her lips. Or his nickname, anyway. Just like she used an alias, he’d stuck with his old nickname from his fighting days. Xander was the only one there who knew his real name—and his secrets—and he intended to keep it that way.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked. “I want you to back off.”
Like hell he would. “Can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
He couldn’t tell her that any more than he could back off like she wanted. Couldn’t tell her that his reason for leaving his home on the South side of Boston for Bumfuck Nowhere had started out as a favor owed to a friend and ended up as something else entirely. That from the moment he saw her, his promise to make sure she was okay for her sister’s peace of mind came second to his own inexplicable need to watch over her. To protect her.
Fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and chase away the ghosts he saw in her eyes, Aiden shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “As long as I’m around, no one touches you without an invitation.” Unable to help himself, he lowered his head and whispered in her ear. “No one.”
She jerked back with a barely audible hitch of breath. A flash of something he couldn’t identify crossed her face, and then she darted back inside. After that, she never spoke to him again other than a quick thank you with her eyes whenever he helped her. Nonverbal communication was fine with him, so he always responded with a look of his own, hoping it said, you’re welcome, and not, Goddamn you’re gorgeous, or, I’d give anything to bury myself in you for a night. Since she hadn’t hauled off and kicked him in the junk yet, he figured he’d done okay so far.
Every day, though, it was getting harder and harder to disguise the heat he suspected simmered in his eyes when he locked sights with her. He couldn’t help it. He liked to think he was a decent guy, but he was far from a damn saint. Her pixie-petite frame and subtle curves were highlighted by her short and tight uniform, and it was all he could do to not mentally undress her.
And then mentally fuck her.
“Irish,” Xan said through the comm-link. “You got sights on the shit brewing over by the billiards?”
“How many times have I told you we call it ‘pool’ on this side of the Pond? You sound like an ass.”
“Right, and you sound so bloody intelligent with your wicked smaht accent, ya feckin’ Southie.”
“Better than being a Yorkie, douchebag.”
Some friends drank beer and hugged. Some beat on punching bags and gave each other shit. Aiden and Xan didn’t hug.
He located the two already in a heated argument, but his phone vibrated on his hip before he even took a step in their direction. Shit. Very few people had his number. Fewer still whom he could blow off. Checking the screen, he swore under his breath at the text.