Ash wasn’t quite drunk, but with his current rate of consumption, it wouldn’t be long before he arrived.

He signaled the barkeep.

“Another scotch and soda?” Dawson asked.

“Lose the soda.”

“You sure about that?” Dawson narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been hitting the sauce pretty hard. Want to talk about it?”

Ash had played on the same hockey team starting on the peewee league when they were five and ending senior year of high school with Avery Dawson. Not many called him Avery since grade school—not without getting a black eye for the infraction. He’d been surprised to see Dawson running the ancient Pump House. Even more surprised to find that Dawson now owned it, transforming the old drinking hole into an upscale microbrewery with an extensive pub food menu and providing a place for Heartbreakers to not only socialize but also dance, while leaving the antique gold miner ambiance the same. The place was packed even though it was the middle of a work week.

“Turned psychologist, have you?” Ash asked.

“Comes with the job. Patrons don’t sit at my bar nursing their wounds without a reason.” Dawson wiped down the counter. “It helps to talk it through, instead of trying to drown the hurt.”

“Doesn’t that go against making a profit?”

Dawson flipped the bar towel over his shoulder. “The way I see it, I’d rather have my customers happy and safe and returning for repeat business.”

“Smart business model.”

“Long-term business model. So, spill. I’m sure coming home after all these years has brought up issues for you. And I’d bet at the top of the list is Sorene Wilde. Nothing has a man turning to the bottle faster than a woman. My armchair psychology is cheap, and I’ve been known to help a few. So, give me a shot.”

Ash tapped his glass. “I’ll need more liquid courage if I’m going to talk about her.” He wished he could unload about his dad, but he promised Quinn he wouldn’t tell anyone he was sick. Quinn didn’t show weakness, and Ash had to respect his privacy, since he had the same stubborn streak running through him. He wouldn’t want people hovering over him if he was ever in the same situation. But carrying the burden that his robust father may not be long for this earth, seemed almost more than he could bear.

“All right, but I’m leaving in the soda.” Dawson poured him another drink.

Ash brought the glass up to his mouth and drank half the contents before setting it down. “She’s the one, you know. Always has been. I knew it when I saw her that first day of freshman year. She’d slipped on the ice and went down in a cascade of textbooks. Then she sat up and laughed. I was a goner.”

“That’s not a surprise to anyone who remembers how you two were in high school. I’m still holding out for a love like that.”

“So, you agree, you can find your soulmate at that age?”

“I don’t think age has any bearing on love.” Dawson pointed out a couple holding each other close on the dance floor. “See those two? He’s twenty years her junior. Some object to the age difference, but they don’t even notice it. They’ve been together thirty years and, in my opinion, they’re probably more in love now than when they first tumbled.”

Ash regarded the couple with interest. The man looked to be in his early fifties, and he never would have guessed the woman, with her long, flowing, silver hair, was twenty years older than her partner.

Maybe love kept you young, or at least young at heart.

“Remember Griffin and Jen?” Dawson indicated another couple huddled together in a corner booth sharing a pizza and a pitcher of beer. “They were a few years older than us in school. Griff knocked her up and they married before graduation. A lot of people said they wouldn’t last. The loudest of the naysayers were their parents, who objected to them keeping the baby and getting married. They pushed hard for adoption. But look at them now. That is not a couple who only tolerate each other. The six kids they produced can attest to that.”

Ash watched as Griffin wiped pizza sauce from the corner of Jen’s mouth, licking the sauce clean from his thumb, his eyes smoldering as they took in his wife.

Christ, he wanted that. Hell, he’d had it. Until Sorene sent him packing. He picked up his drink and drained the contents, pushing the empty tumbler toward Dawson for another.

“You keep this up, and you’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“It’s your hangover.” Dawson refilled the glass.

“Catch me up on Sorene.” He wasn’t one to participate in gossip, but he hadn’t been able to get more out of Quinn other than, “You need to marry that girl.” Yet, by all accounts, Sorene couldn’t tolerate the idea of even working with him. He couldn’t imagine how she’d react if he mentioned marriage. And while his heart had stuttered at Quinn’s demand, he didn’t know if he had it in him to risk his heart again where she was concerned.

The kiss they’d shared earlier haunted him throughout the day, prompting him to saddle up to the bar and try to silence the emotions. It also kept him from being underfoot with Quinn and Rea. There had to be more going on between those two than nurse and patient. He swore he’d interrupted something when he returned home earlier than planned. He had to give it to his pops; the man could charm any woman into bed, even his death bed.

Maybe he could charm Sorene into bed, work out his pent up sexual frustrations over her for a week or two, and finally get her out of his system for good. They always said that fantasies paled in reality. Could he have built up what they had together into something that really didn’t exist?

Christ, he hoped so.

“Well, hello stranger,” Leia Atwood purred, sidling up to the empty barstool next to him. “I heard you were back in town. Where have you been hiding yourself? We need to catch up, you and I.” She trailed a long, purple-painted nail dotted with rhinestones down his arm.

Leia hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d seen her. Still as pretty as always with her espresso-colored hair and large doe-like eyes looking innocent and sincere, but he knew from experience she was anything but. Her looks concealed a calculating, opportunistic, barracuda, which he’d found out the hard way.

She wore a stylish, red halter top that showed off her breasts and tiny waist. She’d paired the top with wide-legged, black, silk pants and neck-breaking high heels. A thin gold chain with a crucifix nestled in the deep cleavage she displayed for God and all to see. As outfits went, it was perfect for a New York night club, yet she stood out in the rustic Alaskan pub, which no doubt, she intended.

“White wine, if you would, Dawson, and I’m buying Ash his next drink.”

“I can buy my own drinks,” Ash said, inching to the edge of his barstool to create some personal space between them. If the stool next to him had been empty, he would have slid over to it.

Leia didn’t get the message. “Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t buy my former lover a drink?”

“We were never lovers.” A bitter taste rose up from his throat.

“Once upon a time we were.” She leaned into him and the sickly-sweet scent of Jasmine overwhelmed him. “I have fond memories of our night together.”

He had no memory of that night, other than waking up naked in her bed and wondering how the hell he got there.

Dawson set down Leia’s wine and a black cup of coffee for Ash. He nodded his head toward the door of the pub. “Sober up, Ash. Sorene just walked in.”

He swiveled so fast on his stool that he had to grab the edge of the bar to keep himself from tumbling to the floor. His breath caught at the sight of her.

Gone were the nondescript overalls and flannel. In their place was a knit sheath dress that painted every inch of her body to where it should have been labeled indecent, yet she was covered from wrist to neck to ankle.

Leia’s outfit showed off more skin, but it was Sorene who took his breath away, by far the more tempting of the two. The jade color of the fabric set her eyes to glowing like emeralds, and the material of the dress hugged in all the right places, while the A-line hem flirted teasingly around legs covered in tall, black, leather boots. Her hair was down and fell softly in golden waves to the middle of her back. She resembled a mermaid and ambled hesitantly to a table as though she’d just been gifted legs for the first time.

His chest ached, and he realized he needed to suck in oxygen to feed his lungs.

Linked arm-and-arm with another woman, this one animated with a quick smile and confidence that radiated from across the room, Sorene laughed at something she said. Her companion looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. “Who’s she with?”

“That is Catronia Wilde.” Dawson drew out the name in such a way that dripped with history.

“No way. That’s Kitten?”

“I wouldn’t call her that now. Believe me, she’s grown into her claws.”

Ash tried to see through his buzz and focused on Dawson. “You two an item?”

“Oh, they were,” Leia butted in. “The talk of the town a while back.”

Dawson grumbled something under his breath that Ash didn’t catch.

Looked like hashing his history with Sorene was fine, but not Dawson’s with Catronia Wilde.

“Heads up. You have competition,” Dawson murmured before turning to fill an order of cosmos.

“Oh, isn’t that sweet,” Leia said in a syrupy voice, so close to Ash she almost perched in his lap. “Bart’s been sniffing around Sorry for a while now. Don’t they make a cute couple?”

“Her name is Sorene,” he corrected, knowing he should drill that home, but unable in his current state. Instead, Ash did his best to search out Sorene, easy with the dim-lighting overhead catching her halo of golden hair.

Bartholomew Bruhn, with his Tom Selleck mustache and dimpled chin, twirled Sorene onto the dance floor. Her head fell back on a laugh as he swung her into his beefy arms, his face lowering until he rested his temple intimately against hers.

Ash clenched his hand into a fist, shrugged off Leia, and lurched to his feet.

“Don’t do it, man,” Dawson warned from behind the bar, followed by, “Ah, shit.”

Before his brain comprehended his intentions—and kicking in some much-needed common sense—he stormed onto the dance floor.

Grabbing Sorene, he tore her out of Bart’s hold. “Get your paws off my woman.”