CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT

JENSEN

The bank said our town couldn’t support another bar. I told the bean counters they underestimated the spongy quality of our livers here in Hope Harbor. It’d earned me a laugh, but hadn’t netted a business loan.

Looking around at the steady flow of customers on my third Saturday night in business, I’m glad I didn’t take the bank’s “no” as a final answer. And I’m thankful as hell I accepted my buddy’s insistence on backing the place. 

Anthony had laughed off the investment with an easy, “I’ll catch you for a favor sometime.” Thank fuck he’s just a lucky bastard who won the lottery a few years back, not part of the mafia.

My never-silent partner has been here since the doors opened tonight, cruising the room with a tray of complimentary shots. “On the house,” he says, or, “Cheers to the birthday boy, Jensen.” Stuff like that. He never takes credit—just pays with it. All those free shots are courtesy of Anthony’s platinum card. There’s a heart of gold under the superficial party-boy image he projects.

By ten thirty, On the Rocks is packed wall-to-wall with bodies. My marketing manager made sure all of Hope Harbor knew tonight would be my big, dirty-thirty birthday party. Not my idea, but it worked.

I swear, nearly everyone I’ve met between birth and high-school graduation has walked through the door tonight. Everybody has a smile and a story from back in the day. It’s awesome. A relief, too. Hope Harborites can be fickle about new businesses started by out-of-towners. I was away for twelve years, but apparently, I still count as one of the locals. It’s good to be back.

Anthony joins me at the bar, sliding another tray of empty shot glasses across the polished wood top. “When you brought me along for the walk-through of this abandoned craphole, I wasn’t sure it could live up to your dreams—and it didn’t.”

Well, fuck. “Don’t hold back, Anthony. Tell me what you really think.”

“That’s what I’m doing, dumbass.” He punches my shoulder—a pointless action, since I’ve got nearly a hundred pounds on him—then motions for the nearest bartender to fill the tray with a round of fresh drinks. “The place looks amazing, man. The finished product blows your concept ideas out of the fucking lake.” He nudges me, winking and nodding. “See what I did there? Lake, not park.”

“Good one.” I acknowledge the latest in his never-ending string of lake-related puns, then add, “And thanks. The compliment means a lot, coming from you.”

“Because I’m a shit-talking asshole?” He grins while handing his credit card to the bartender.

“Because you were the second-best wannabe architect at university.”

“Look who’s the shit-talking asshole now,” he says, liberating two shots from the newly filled tray. He puts one in my hand and raises his glass for a toast. “To your new baby. Now, time to get rid of this one.” And because he is a shit-talking asshole, he jabs my stomach, where it’s testing the endurance of my shirt’s two lowest-visible buttons.

“Yeah, yeah.” I lean over the bar and dump my shot in the sink. Not because I give a shit about the calories. I don’t. Haven’t for a long time. I just want to be one-hundred-percent clearheaded while I’m on the job, that’s all.

“Hey.” Anthony backhands my arm as I’m wiping the bar. “Please tell me the hot blonde who just walked in is part of the ‘everyone loves Jensen Rockford’ club, because I want an introduction. That pretty little fishy is definitely putting her sweet lips on my hook tonight.”

I know who his latest lake pun is about before I turn around. My favorite hot blonde. Hell, my favorite woman of any description. Bailey Burrows. I’ve had one eye on the door all night, waiting for her to show up, like she promised when I ran into her at the coffee shop this morning. Or yesterday, when I literally bumped into her with my shopping cart at the corner of canned goods and crackers in the grocery store. Because everywhere I go since moving back to town, Bailey is there. Yeah, being back in Hope Harbor isn’t so bad at all.

“A-fucking-plus,” Anthony says, when Bailey spots me and waves as if we haven’t seen each other in years. “It’s good to know a guy who can hook you up.”

My head whips in Anthony’s direction fast enough to hear my neck crack. “What?”

“The blonde. Hook me up, bro.”

“No.” I shake my head because, fuck that shit.

“Why not?” He laughs as if I just told some hilarious joke. “This is our dance, dude. You’re the wingman. You reel them in with your nice-guy schtick, then I throw them back after giving them my big stick.”

“Not this time.”

“Why not? Because the whole town will come after me with their fishing poles if I break her heart?”

“Not the whole town,” I say, gritting my teeth hard enough to hear the friction echoing in my ears.

The lights go on behind Anthony’s dark eyes. He slaps his hand on his leg and howls. “You like her.”

“Of course I like her. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.”

“That’s it?” he asks, and I nod. “Then I’m calling in my favor. Introduce me to blondie, hang around ’til she settles in, then leave her to me.”

“She’s not your type.” The bar squeaks in protest beneath the unnecessary scrubbing I give it. “She’s a nice girl.” That ought to do it. I’ve been Anthony’s wingman more times than I can count since we met at university. He’s a good friend, but lazy. With all things in life, including women. He goes for the sure thing.

Anthony’s attention shifts to Bailey as she works her way through the crowd. He whistles under his breath as she bounces toward us, all smiles and sunshine—and tits. “Favor time, man. Let’s see if I can fuck the ‘nice girl’ right out of your cute little friend.”

Bailey reaches us before I have time to react—aka, punch Anthony in the face. But when he checks her out like a hungry man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, I’m tempted to throw the fucking punch anyway.

“Happy Birthday!” she squeals, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing all her incredible soft parts against me.

I swallow her tiny frame inside an oversize bearhug. It’d be rude not to, she’s been a friend since forever. And, yeah, I’ll take any excuse to be this close to her. Especially with Anthony ogling her ass as if he owns it.

She releases me from the mega-hug, flattens her palms on my chest and stretches to place a kiss on my cheek. “Thirty looks good on you.”

“Thanks. Your turn in a couple weeks.”

“Oh, my God, how do you remember my birthday?”

“You know our buddy, Jensen,” Anthony says, butting in. “He’s probably got everyone’s birthday on a master calendar, so he doesn’t forget to send a Facebook message.”

Bailey blinks a couple times, then laughs. “That is possible.” She smiles up at me while issuing a playful poke. At least this one’s in my chest. “I do see your handsome avatar on all kinds of happy-birthday posts. That’s a great picture of you, by the way.”

I’m not completely lacking in confidence, but hearing Bailey call me handsome is an unexpected win. 

Anthony takes my momentary silence as an opportunity to wedge himself between us. “Jensen here may have the best Facebook manners, but he’s falling down on the in-person job. I’m Anthony. And you’re the most gorgeous woman in here.”

Bailey’s gaze shoots past Anthony, to my face. The bar is semi-dark, but I swear there’s a question in her eyes.

No matter what I do, somebody’s going to lose. I don’t expect to come out the winner—that’s not how it works when you’re the wingman—but I’m sure as hell not letting Bailey be the loser. Hopefully she’ll see him for the player he is. One way or another, she’s not going home with him.

I exhale, doing my best not to scowl. “Bailey, this is Anthony Marini, a good friend of mine from Toronto. We started out in the architecture program together, then Anthony won the lottery, literally, and dropped out of school.”

Her eyes open wide enough to show the whites around her brown irises. “You actually won the lottery?”

“Yup. Ten million.” He loves telling this story. Fucking loves it. Probably because it almost always leads to getting laid. “I was waiting tables seven nights a week to make tuition and rent, and one of the other waiters asked me if I wanted to join their lottery pool. I handed over ten bucks I couldn’t afford, and boom, next day, we were splitting one of those mega-jackpots.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” she says. Typical response.

This is the part where I’m supposed to smooth the way for Anthony. Make the woman feel at ease with him, so he can flash his smile, and string the girl along, right into his bed.

Not happening tonight. “Anthony’s your man if you’re looking for a fun one-night stand with a guy who’ll buy all your drinks. If you’d rather be with someone who’ll take their time, stick around, and treat you the way you deserve, long-term, you should resist the moves he’s about to put on you.”

Anthony’s head jerks back and Bailey’s bottom lip drops. There’s about five seconds of everybody staring and nobody speaking.

Then a belly laugh rips from Anthony’s mouth. “Holy shit, man. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I know where he’s headed with that comment, but it’s not happening. One of a wingman’s skills is subtly redirecting, and that’s what I plan to do. “Wingman shoots down the pilot—it’s treason, I know. But Bailey’s been a friend longer than you have, so she gets priority.”

There’s a glint in Anthony’s eyes. He’s brewing up trouble in that bored brain of his.

All I can do is hold my breath and hope he chooses to be less of a dick than me.

“All right, you get a pass—for now.” He points a finger at me. “Don’t waste it, it’s a limited-time offer.”

Nope, not responding to that one. Which is an acknowledgment in itself.

Anthony’s grin tells me he knows it, too. “I’m going to lubricate the crowd,” he says, picking up the tray of shots. Because he is a good guy, just one who can’t keep his dick in his pants. He tips his head at Bailey. “Nice to meet you. And I spoke the truth when I said you’re the most attractive woman in here.”

“It was nice to meet you, too.”

I snort at her blatant disregard of his obvious, last-ditch attempt to pick her up. The sound doesn’t go unnoticed—by either of them. Fuck. I need to get a handle on the jealousy I have no right feeling.

Bailey’s attention shifts from me to Anthony. “Sometime when you’re not busy, I’d love to hear stories about Jensen in his college days.”

Anthony grins. “You got it, gorgeous.”

“There are no stories about me,” I say, after my buddy has disappeared into the crowd, the loaded tray perched on one hand, skilled waiter that he is. “I started in architecture, switched to business, worked my ass off, and graduated. That’s about it.”

Her hair shimmers as she shakes her head. “I don’t believe you.”

My fingers twitch at my sides. I’ve wanted to touch that blonde silk since puberty. Because I’m a sucker for self-torment, I chose to sit behind her in class every chance I got. Teachers accused me of daydreaming a lot back then, and they were absolutely right. They’d be up front, talking about whatever subject it was, and I’d be watching Bailey’s hair dance on the edge of my desk. 

“A hot guy like you, on a campus full of hormone-fueled twentysomethings? Please. Even if you weren’t a party boy like your friend, I’m sure you had all the women you wanted, and broke lots of hearts.”

First handsome, now hot. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Bailey was flirting with me. But I do know better. She’s being nice, because she’s a nice girl. Always has been.

“Can I get you something?” I ask, moving behind the bar. “On the house.”

“That’s not how you stay in business.” Her bubbly laugh is as pretty as everything else about her. “Didn’t they teach you anything in those fancy courses of yours?”

Thank fuck I’m supposed to be focused on her right now, because I couldn’t look away if I tried. “I’ll put it on Anthony’s tab, how about that?”

“Sounds reasonable. I’m pretty sure he wanted to buy me a drink.”

“Yeah, well, this is as close as he’s going to get.” I manage to contain the growl, but not the grimace that goes with it.

“Why, Jensen Rockford, are you being possessive, or is this a brotherly, protective thing?”

I grunt a laugh. “Not brotherly.”

“In that case, I approve.”

I know she’s just being playful, so I smile and shake my head. I’m the trustworthy teddy bear. The guy women turn to when they need a safe male presence. They play with me, then put me back. That’s how it’s always been.

“What’s your drink of choice?” I ask, gesturing at the bottles and taps around me. “I bartended my way through college, I can probably make whatever fancy thing you like. I even have little umbrellas, and those swords for spearing cherries.”

She leans on the bar, effectively putting her cleavage on display, front and center. “If only you’d offered to put your sword in my cherry before leaving Hope Harbor.”

There’s nothing in my mouth, but I choke anyway. Audibly. Loud enough that my actual bartender pauses what he’d been doing to look over at me. I motion for him to carry on, and try to unscramble my brain while Bailey smiles at me. I’m a pretty chill guy, but I don’t have a clue how to respond to her comment. Because there’s no way she meant it seriously. Not a chance in hell.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

And now I’m cute. Something’s up tonight, and I think it’s Bailey’s blood-alcohol level. I tip my chin and shoot her a smile. “I think somebody did a bit of pre-drinking before heading over here.”

“I had a few glasses of wine with Mya.” Pink rises to her sun-kissed cheeks. “But I’m not drunk.”

“Just priming, I get it.” I also get that’s why she’s being extra flirty. “Still hanging out with Cheryl, too, like you did back in the day?”

She nods. “You have a good memory. Cheryl stayed in town after high school, same as me. Mya left for college, but moved back a couple years later.”

“Nice.”

“I’ve been lucky,” she says, holding my gaze. “All my favorite people either stayed in the Harbor, or have finally moved back.”

That finally refers to me. I’m not a cocky guy, but I feel the intent of that single word all the way to my core. And lower, because my cock is a bastard. If I serve her another drink, she’ll probably say more things that’ll sound too good to be true. But I’m a glutton for more than just carbs, so I make the offer.

“Have you decided what you want?” I ask, bracing my arms against the bar top.

She nods again.

“All right. What’ll it be?” Thank fuck for the cover of the bar, because my cock really likes watching her pull her full, bottom lip between her teeth. “Rethinking your decision?”

Her wavy hair shines under the bar lights as she shakes her head. “I know what I want, I’m just nervous about saying it.”

“This from the girl who just joked about me spearing her cherry,” I say, giving her a wink. “What do you want—sex on the beach, a screaming orgasm, a creamy pussy?” My smile practically stretches ear-to-ear when her face turns red. “Don’t be embarrassed to tell me. I’ve heard it all.”

“I bet you have.” She sighs and eases back from the bar, robbing me of—or saving me from—the previous primo view of her cleavage. “I’ll just have a beer. Something pale, whatever you have on tap.”

“Are you sure? Because I’ll give you anything. Happily.” If she knew the full depth behind my words, she’d probably run out of the bar and never look back. Good thing she thinks I’m talking about her drink choice.