Standing at the doorway, about to beg for a job, wasn’t a measure of how far I’d fallen. I’d found the bottom of my well a year ago. A job filling mugs of beer in this sports bar was me on my way up.

Working men came to this bar, not to pick up women, but to get their day off their chest. They poured beer down their throats, and thumped their glasses back on the cracked-varnish tables with a satisfied sigh. Or a burp. Nobody cared. Manners were for home.

I entered with my head held high, crossed the floor, and at the bar, I asked for the manager.

“Andy’s not here, sorry. He was called away.” The bartender, who I had hoped might soon be a colleague, gave me an apologetic smile.

I pushed back at the disappointment. Andy, the manager, probably regretted agreeing to discuss the possibility of a bar job. Unfortunately, like everywhere else in small-town New Zealand, there probably wasn’t a vacancy for me to fill.

“Have a glass of wine, on the house,” the bartender offered.

“Thanks, but I shouldn’t—” I was close to being a charity case, but not quite there yet. Anyway, I didn’t want a drink, I wanted a job.

The bartender spun around to the bar fridge and pulled out a bottle. “Oh, come on. It’ll make Andy feel better about letting you down.”

If Andy had instructed his staff to pay me off with wine for letting me down, it seemed my appointment wasn’t about to be rescheduled. What the hell, I’d take the free drink as compensation for dressing up in my one decent outfit and making the fifteen-minute walk into town in heels.

“Thanks, Simon.” I said, as he poured my drink.

He tilted his head as if surprised by my use of his name.

“Name tag,” I said, pointing to his chest.

“Oh, right.” He blushed. “Darcy, isn’t it? Grab yourself a seat and I’ll bring your drink.”

The bar was filling with the after-work crowd and only a few larger tables were unoccupied. I didn’t want to sit solo at a table for eight, looking as though I’d been stood up, not by one man, but by an entire group of friends, so I took a spot at the bar, away from the serving area. It was darker, and I could guzzle my wine inconspicuously and get out of there.

Another day chalked up to my year of not catching a break.

It had been a long time between drinks and I sipped cautiously, the chilled alcohol flooding me with warmth. Half a glass later I felt an unnerving sense of confidence creeping through me. Breakfast was eight hours ago, so I placed my glass on the bar and ordered myself to slow down. I was more hungry than thirsty, and if I replaced food with booze anything could happen.

I swung between feeling confident and glancing around the bar, to being overcome with a sense of inadequacy. The lone girl in town with no friends. I pulled out my phone and thumbed around with it. Not that I had anyone to call, but if I faked some texting I wouldn’t look like such a loser.

Studying the weather app with way more interest than it warranted meant I hadn’t noticed Simon’s approach. He placed another glass of wine in front of me. Now the manager was overcompensating. There was enough apology in the first glass.

“Thanks, but I’m about to leave.” I held up my hand because it was possible the second one wasn’t complimentary, and I didn’t have the money to quench a thirsty bar tab.

“There’s a gentleman at the end of the bar. He sends it with his compliments.”

Oh, great. The last thing I needed was some sleaze-ball trying to pick me up. I slipped my phone back into my bag and went to push myself off the stool. “Tell him ‘thank you’, but there’s somewhere I need to be.” Anywhere but here.

Simon leaned further across the bar. “The drink is from Oliver Sackville.” His tone carried the gilded edge of reverence.

“Never heard of him, but like I said, tell him thanks.”

The barman’s eyes widened as I felt pressure on my handbag. Unprepared for a purse-snatcher, it fell from my grip. I swung fast, totally invested in fighting hard for the few belongings I had left. My fist connected with a brick wall of a chest. A well-dressed chest in a suit, white shirt, loosened tie and a couple of buttons freed at the neck.

The guy in the suit snatched my wrist like a lizard taking a passing fly. “Steady,” he said.

As a pickup line it needed work, yet I obeyed, heart pounding around my chest, ready to help me fight or take flight.

He released my wrist and returned my handbag. “Now that I have your attention,” he held out his hand, “Oliver Sackville.”

I was still fingering the spot where he’d grabbed me and I eyed his hand with suspicion.

He twitched his fingers. “Come on, a handshake and a name.”

He spoke with a rich, privileged timbre that could get him voice-over work if he needed a job—if he wasn’t so rich, and privileged. His looks caught me off-guard given the bar-room setting, and he was totally overdressed if you compared him with the other blue-collar patrons. Reluctantly I offered my clammy palm, and felt it engulfed by his warm, dry hand. “Darcy Kennedy,” I said, mustering up my own confident tone.

“Pleased to meet you, Darcy Kennedy. Let’s have a drink.”

When I looked at the bar I saw the barman had ferried Oliver’s drink from where he’d left it so that it now sat beside mine. “Do you plan to distract me and make another attempt to steal my bag?”

“I’m too distracted already.” His eyes swept over me and I should have been offended, but his looks and charm were his pass card. “And I’m not here to snatch your bag,” he added.

“If you’re trying to pick me up, your technique could use a makeover.”

“I’m out of practice. When I buy a drink for a woman I’m not usually punched, and for the record, your fighting technique could use a makeover, too.”

My face flushed. I’d never hit anyone in my life and my little display hadn’t gone unnoticed by the others in the bar. Thankfully, their drinks called to them when the fight went no further.

“You did grab my bag…” my fight was leaving me.

“To stop you leaving. You’re still here, so as a technique it worked pretty well.”

I sipped my wine trying to figure out where this was going.

“I’m guessing you’re new in town. What brings you to a sports bar?”

I glanced around. The place was a bit of a dive, and not somewhere I’d normally choose to drink, much less work. Television screens hung off the walls, broadcasting everything from horse racing to darts.

“I had an appointment to meet the manager, but he reneged.”

“Coincidence. I stopped in to see him, too, but I guess he was called out.”

“I guess.” If it wasn’t true, the manager sure went to elaborate means to make me believe he wasn’t avoiding me.

Oliver removed his jacket, hanging it on the hook under the bar beside my bag. He worked at his cufflinks, slipping them into the jacket pocket then rolled his sleeves exposing tanned, muscled forearms with a light sprinkling of dark hair. A watch. The last man I saw wear a watch was my father, and his certainly didn’t look as expensive as the one Oliver wore. I tried to identify the make and was caught by Oliver. He gave me a sly grin.

Yes, I was watching every move. He looked as though he was preparing to do something with his hands, and part of me, the part between my legs in particular, was hoping it had something to do with me.

He rolled his shoulders. “That’s better,” he said, holding his glass aloft. “So, welcome to Waitapu Bay. What brings you here, Miss Darcy?”

God, I hated being called that. Usually. The way Oliver said it though, lengthening my name into a sexy drawl, I forgave him. I trotted out the line I’d practiced on the plane throughout my Trans-Tasman flight. “I’ve been working in Australia—Sydney—and my contract finished. I decided to return to New Zealand, so here I am.”

“But you’re not originally from Waitapu?”

“I’m from Auckland. I didn’t have the gap year after college that my friends had and I’ve been full-on working in Auckland and Sydney since I graduated. So this is me,” I said, spreading my arms wide. “Waitapu Bay for summer.”

He sat back in his chair, his dark eyes softening to that dense muddy-green you find when you bite into liquorice. We stared at each other and although it wasn’t a challenge to see who would break first, after some seconds I felt a desire to say something. I touched my throat and he smiled because the self-conscious move spoke more than had I merely averted my gaze.

He was gorgeous and for just a moment I was almost happy. Earlier today I’d been counting the coins that rattled around in my handbag, poking my finger in the corners, hoping a hole in the lining might reveal a forgotten stash of bills. Now I kept my focus on the condensation on my glass because each time I looked at him, I couldn’t pull my gaze away.

“You look nervous, Darcy.”

How could I reply? Tell him his voice warmed me like a lick of flame from a fire? Explain that I couldn’t look at him because, as shallow as it seemed, I was attracted to his handsome face and magnificent body. That I fought a desire to reach across and do something intimate, like fix the little part where his shirt was caught at the second button he’d undone.

“Is that your intent?” I asked.

His mouth opened, the corners lifting in a way that suggested his intent was anything but honorable.

“My intent, Darcy, is to give you an interesting experience in your new town.”

I think I shivered before I began to formulate a plan to get away from him. He was too attractive, the package too perfect, and I knew full well he was too much for me to handle.

“You want to go,” he said.

It was a statement. His perfect lips might have been pressed together, but his smile danced in his eyes. I hadn’t seen that before. My ex’s eyes had been vacant for the last couple of years of our relationship.

For the past twelve months I’d been single, and scraping a living together. This thing I felt with Oliver woke pieces of me that I thought had died, so I guessed I should thank him for that. He wanted to fuck me. It was clear in his body language, the way he teased me with glances held a fraction too long, and the few words he’d spoken.

And I wanted to run with it.

One night with a stranger. I’d never done anything like that before. But if I wanted to make this town my home, putting out for the sake of a physical need, for actually wanting to feel something, certainly wasn’t worth ruining my reputation for.

After all, I was in Waitapu to restore my reputation, wasn’t I?

But maybe he was only visiting Waitapu, too? Except, probably not. His knowledge of the place, the way the barman knew him, suggested he was a permanent resident.

In the end, I shrugged. I wanted him to sweep me off my feet and take away my need to make a decision. I hoped my nonchalance was all the permission he needed.

Oliver leaned toward me. “This isn’t my favorite place to drink. How about we go somewhere a little quieter?”

Maybe he was one of those pickup artists. Identify a target and isolate them from the pack. Was I about to allow myself to become a check in the win column of his scorecard?

Except? Except he was different. Confident, sure, but not in a way that solely relied on the size of his cock and what he could do with it.

The bar was turning noisy and boisterous and we were two people out of place. I was basing my personal-safety decision solely on the cut of a man’s suit and an expensive watch. Then he smiled and I melted a little.

“Oliver!”

We both turned as a man approached, hand outstretched, broad grin. He took Oliver’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “The year-three class loved the tour of the boatyard. At the moment every one of them wants to be a boatbuilder or a yachtsman when they leave school. I just hope you can employ them all.”

“They’re good kids, I’d give any of them a job,” Oliver replied, before introducing me to the headmaster of the local school.

“Arch MacDonald,” the man said, gripping my hand with only slightly less enthusiasm than he’d used with Oliver.

“Darcy’s new in town,” Oliver explained.

Arch grinned. “Welcome, Darcy. You couldn’t find a better person than this guy,” he elbowed Oliver, “to show you around. Enjoy your stay.”

With the headmaster’s testimonial erasing my concern, I eased off the bar stool and tested the steadiness of my feet on the floor.

Oliver was only a second behind me. In a single move he dropped some bills on the bar, slung his suit jacket over his shoulder and took me by the elbow, steering me through tables and jostling patrons until we made it onto the street.

In the last light of the spring day, everything seemed so normal.