Stepping around the bar, she grabbed the whiskey off the top shelf, glancing in the mirror to keep an eye on him, and then went to the bar and started to pour him a shot. She was rarely generous with the good stuff, but she had a feeling if she was sparse with him, he wouldn’t be happy.

“There you go.”

The guy she assumed was called Rebel didn’t sit, but put one of his hands flat on the counter, picked up the glass, and then knocked it back, giving out a little sigh of appreciation. Everyone else she had seen drink this had taken their time, or even winced at the spice as it burned their throat.

“Another.”

She did as she was asked, pouring him another drink. This time, he didn’t chug it back, but looked at her. Willow hoped she wasn’t blushing. It would be a nightmare if he thought she was embarrassed or had a crush, or was even attracted to him. She knew one of them to be true, but that was beside the point. He shouldn’t know the true answer.

As she folded her arms across her chest, Rebel chuckled.

“He said you had an attitude a mile long.”

“Who did?” Willow asked.

“Your dad.”

This made her pause. She had no idea her father even talked about her behind her back. Why would he talk about her? He’d been disappointed in her for a long time and didn’t even acknowledge her existence. That seemed to be her father’s trait—pretending she didn’t exist, so he didn’t have to deal with the fact his wife, her mother, had left them both.

The divorce papers had sent her father over the edge, and it had cemented their stalemate relationship.

“He shouldn’t have been talking about me,” she said. She moved away to go and do anything that involved her hands, and not talking to him.

“Why not?” Rebel asked. “You’re his daughter.”

“My father’s dead, so please enjoy your drink, because it’s nearly closing time.”

Rebel chuckled. “Sassy, I like it.”

Willow had heard enough. She didn’t want to think about the guilt that ate away at her each time she thought of her dad. There were so many times she wanted to come home, to make up for lost time, to try and make it work, but she always found some excuse not to work it, and now there was no chance of them ever mending bridges.

Her father was gone and was never coming back. She didn’t need this … biker, to remind her of that.

Rounding the bar, she made her way toward the door, and Rebel gave another little chuckle that set her nerves on end.

“Leave!”

Rebel threw back his whiskey and slapped the glass down on the bar. She thought the sheer force of it might shatter the glass, but it didn’t.

Rebel walked slowly toward her. Willow tried not to pay attention to the walk, or the way he looked at her. There was no disgust or any indication he was pissed off. She didn’t know how she had done it, but he actually looked entertained by her.

She was ready to kick his ass out, but Rebel took another step toward her. For some strange reason she didn’t feel afraid.

“You know, he said you had attitude, but he didn’t say anything about how fucking sexy you are.”

“He was my dad,” Willow said.

Did this man find her sexy? No, she shouldn’t care.

“True, and that kind of shit is messed up.” Rebel gave a groan of approval. “I’ll let you kick me out this time, but I promise you, Willow Storm, by next Christmas, you are going to be screaming my name and begging me for more.”

“Get lost, creep.”

Rebel gripped her waist and pulled her in close.

“Not a creep.” He slammed his lips down on hers, kissing her hard, taking her by surprise.

At first, she didn’t kiss him back, because she was a little shocked that he had taken a kiss and not asked permission first. This wasn’t a soft kiss—it was hard, firm, demanding, and Willow loved every second of it. She couldn’t help but kiss him back.

Rebel was the one to break the kiss first.

“And the name is Rebel Constantine. You better get used to it.”