Becca

FRIDAY

There’s a Magic Mike lookalike hunkered over my brother’s bar and I have yet to tear my eyes away from him. Although, if I’m being super scrutinizing—and since he hasn’t noticed me watching him yet, why not?—he’s not quite pretty enough to be a stripper. He’s rugged. Has a presence.

A loud laugh burbles out of the drunk-and-getting-drunker woman at the bar and the stranger’s eyebrows crash down over a strong nose as he flits his eyes up at the sound. Strong nose below a strong brow…and oh, yeah, a firm, strong jaw.

He’s freakin’ hot.

And now that I’m surreptitiously checking him out while I pretend to wipe down the barstools, why don’t I take a perusal of what’s below the neck, too? He’s less Chippendale’s there, more lumberjack. He’s a hulk of a guy, and I’m hovering around five-feet-nine-inches, so I’m not impressed by merely tall.

But this guy? His width is as impressive as his height. Round, strong shoulders testing the seams in his T-shirt. (The sleeve on the right shoulder might blow at any moment.) Back bent, he checks his phone (dwarfed in one large hand), but even though he’s almost slouching, there’s nothing weak about his posture. His back is wide enough to support a beam.

Whenever I wander from my office in the back, I people-watch. I’ve witnessed plenty of customers checking their phones at a bar, but somehow this guy’s sexy incarnate when he does it. What gives?

His jeans are ragged at the bottoms, worn at his heavy thighs, and he’s wearing a pair of motorcycle boots with buckles on the side. One foot is on the floor, the other hooked by the heel on the lower rung.

I automatically cast my eyes to the lot, wondering if he rode a motorcycle in. The lot’s small, only two trucks and a Jeep parked in it. No bike. I bet his is the Jeep. It’s deep gray, hard top attached, maybe intentionally since it’s raining. I can picture him in it. And better yet? I can picture the Jeep with its top off. Picture him with his top off. Hot sunny day, sweat glistening that lined brow of his. Strong, long fingers gripping the steering wheel as he—

“Becca!”

I start, jerking out of my fantasy at my brother’s raised voice.

The stranger meets my gaze and holds, and heat licks up my thighs and teases there so intensely, I almost forget Tad is still pissed at me.

“Yes, Chosen One?” I ask, his nickname from me to him when I discovered he was my parents’ favorite.

He frowns and sneers—a typical Tad combo—as he tosses a bar towel over his shoulder. He’s such a cliché.

“Why are you cleaning shit if I fired your ass?” he asks. Loudly.

The stranger’s brow crashes down again and that curved back goes straight, like he’s ready to defend me. Interesting. Nay…Intriguing.

Oh, by the way, Tad fired me the moment I set foot in here. I’m perpetually late, but it wasn’t my fault this time! Or last time. Or…the last twelve times. I haven’t lived in Tennessee long enough to know the traffic delays at various times of the day or night.

“Is that what I’m doing?” I regard the cloth in my hand in faux shock. “I must’ve been sleep-dusting again.”

Tad snarls and mutters something I ignore. Or not so much that I ignore it but it’s zapped from my head by two heat-seeking silver-blue irises that vanish beneath narrowed lids.

The stranger is not only looking at me, he’s smiling at me.

It’s brief, but I’m rewarded by the flash of white teeth before that smile vanishes and he snaps those gorgeous eyes away from me and back to his phone.

God. I hope he’s not texting his girlfriend.

I’m struck with the sudden need to approach him. If I don’t, I’ll forever regret not seizing the moment—a moment which could result in getting Magic Mike’s phone number, or learning how much weight he can bench press, or getting him to do a body shot off my stomach.

Sky’s the limit, really.

I allow a wily smile of my own even though he’s not looking, and drop the cloth on the bar top so that Tad can pick it up and bitch at me later about not cleaning up my own messes. It’s tradition. I hate to break tradition.

I’m halfway to the stranger when he orders another beer. My next step is more of a stagger. His voice is rich. As thick as honey. Heavy, dark amber-colored honey that takes its time sliding out of the jar while you salivate in anticipation at getting the first taste.

Oh, yeah. Definitely approaching him.

Tad slides me a look of distaste as he pulls the tap for the stranger’s beer. I do the immature younger sister move of curling my upper lip and sticking my tongue out.

When I snake my gaze back to the stranger, I notice he notices my display. He rewards me with another of his crinkly-eyed, white-toothed smiles.

I bet his laugh is phenomenal. And I bet if he let loose that chuckle into my ear—complete with warm exhale—it’d literally incinerate my panties.

At least, I hope so.

Dax

The rain started when I crossed the Ohio border into Kentucky, and then it followed me all the way down to Tennessee. Some vacation weather.

I rented a cabin, but I also brought my tent and camping gear, planning to find a nice spot under the stars in the woods to sleep for a night or two. I need a break from…everything.

From my buddy, Barrett, who is staying at my apartment thanks to a messy breakup with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, but also from my mother’s constantly asking me if I’m hungry or if she can make me something to eat.

My dad died recently. I spent the summer living back home, helping her clean out the shed and the garage. A task I thought would take two weeks, but ended up taking two months.

Barrett’s timing hadn’t been the best—he asked if he could crash on my couch for a week or so. I’d just returned home from my mother’s house and wanted nothing but peace and quiet.

My friend is still bunking on my couch, and watching countless hours of television, and it was either blow my stack and kick him out on his sorry ass, or take myself on a much-needed vacation.

So here I am.

The bartender, a slight guy in his late thirties if I had to guess, brings me another beer. I started a tab. As ready as I thought I was to have solitude and peace and quiet, I find the post-drive beers more settling in public than cracking them open by myself. Maybe it’s because I own a bar. Drinking in public feels more normal.

I think of my dad as I swig a Miller Lite—his beer of choice—and my throat locks up. I miss him. Losing him meant losing our weekly phone calls. During football season his loss is really going to suck. We used to watch games together.

I hear the bubbly laughter from the girl on my right. She works here—or did, anyway, until the bartender fired her. She’s dressed in dark, slim jeans accentuating long legs and a white, flowy top. The second she set one high-heeled sandal in this place, that guy laid into her, much like he did a minute ago when he yelled her name.

Becca.

I wonder if it’s short for Rebecca.

Anyway, I’m not much for disrespecting women, and this jerk seemed to do it no problem, but I didn’t see a reason to intervene. His harsh attitude rolled of Becca’s back like she was coated in oil.

She’s chatting with another guy who works here. He leans a hip on the bar and sends the stinkeye to the bartender who served me—I’m guessing he’s their boss. They don’t seem to like him much.

Boss man steps in front of me now, and informs me of some bad news.

“Mr. Vaughn, I need to swap keys with you.” He slaps down a key on a red key fob reading GRAND LARK CABINS. It’s exactly like the one he gave me earlier, only this one’s yellow. “I’m moving you to Cabin 13,” he tells me. “I just received a phone call from maintenance. The rain has made that hill impassible.”

The key to Cabin 7 is still in my pocket, and not that I’m superstitious, but Cabin 7 sounds a hell of a lot luckier than Cabin 13.

“Mine’s the Jeep,” I tell him with the tilt of my chin toward the parking lot. “I can get up there.”

“I doubt that.” He smiles but there’s no humor there.

“Guess we’ll find out.” I hand-picked the cabin I booked because of the location. Cabin 7 sits deep in the woods, well off the main road, and the overlook beyond the balcony is breathtaking. I don’t use that word ever, so you know it’s true.

“Sorry.” The bartender shakes his head. “Company policy. If you go sliding off the mountain, we’ll be liable. I’m not only the manager over this fine drinking establishment, but I’m also the owner of Grand Lark.”

Well. Shit.

“If it opens up…” I surrender the yellow key fob from my pocket, laying it on the bar.

“We’ll move you immediately.” He looks outside when a clash of thunder follows lightning so close, Becca lets out a startled yip. That yip is followed by her hand to her chest and a burst of laughter that loosens the tightness in my chest.

“Thanks.” I take the red key fob and cram it in my pocket while he slides a map across the bar and points out Cabin 13. It’s not as high up the mountain, and has a few cabins close by. I’m not happy about the development, which he must’ve discerned.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he tells me. “But we should be able to open up the road in the next day, maybe two.”

I dip my chin in a nod. It’ll have to do. I’m not willing to start my six-hour-plus drive back to Ohio, or look for another cabin rental this late at night. Getting this one was a bitch considering the recent Gatlinburg forest fires. I was lucky to find an opening anywhere in Tennessee.

He asks if he can get me anything else before he clocks off for the night. I say no, and he tells me Dominic can get me anything else I need. I’m assuming Dominic is the besotted, Italian-looking guy smiling down at Becca.

He likes her. Probably hasn’t dated her yet, because that look in his eyes is more pining than reminiscent.

She doesn’t seem to recognize that he’s suffering any such plight, given the way she squeezes his biceps and walks away from him. I watch the way he inspects his arm after she goes, pulling his shoulders back like she just made his day.

He’s young. Probably closer to her age than I am, not that thirty-three is old, but she’s maybe mid-twenties.

She rounds the bar and I glance up from my phone again to watch her. At first blush, she’s what you might call “cute.” Tall, her chin-length light blond hair cut at choppy angles. But if you watch her for longer than five seconds, the “cute” morphs into more.

Becca moves with grace, like a dancer or an athlete. She’s lithe, not skinny, and it only takes one glance down those long legs to notice the muscles in her calves even beneath her jeans.

She’s a beauty.

Though I’d allow the “cute” nickname to emerge the moment she opens her mouth. She has a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She’s funny, I can tell already. Even in the face of being fired by her weak-chinned boss, she hasn’t abandoned the premises yet.

Which means she also has balls.

Figuratively speaking, I like a woman with balls.

I don’t like them meek. I don’t like when they play dumb. And thanks to my last relationship, I really don’t like when they treat me like I’m a big, dumb former jock who doesn’t understand how relationships work.

I understand, all right.

It’s an understanding that keeps me from wanting to enter another one. They’re good and fine for a great many people, but I’m not one of them.

For me, the only relationship I’m interested in is the one I have with my bartenders and other staff, and maybe, on occasion if the mood is right, the one I have with a woman on a temporary, no-strings basis.

A flash of blond catches my eye. I turn my head to find Becca, glossed lips hitched, approaching me with a confident, easy walk.

I straighten, ignoring the text that just buzzed my phone.

Looks like the mood could be right for a little no-strings fun tonight.