Dean Grayson pulled his truck up to the curb in front of his cousin Luke’s house, a curious sense of apprehension tightening his shoulders. Luke’s big navy blue truck—emblazoned with “Grayson Carpentry” on the side in white letters—was parked in the driveway. A silver and blue bicycle sat near the front porch, likely tossed down and forgotten when Luke’s ten-year-old son Ethan had come home from school. A breeze stirred the leaves of the birch tree in the front yard, sending warm spring air drifting in through the open windows of Dean’s truck. Afternoon sunshine dappled the leaves.

He cut the ignition and pulled his phone out of his pocket, pulling up Luke’s text and reading it again.

Can you swing by later? Something I need to ask you re: wedding.

Dean had replied with a simple “sure,” knowing he could stop by before heading in to work at the Tipsy Bison. He’d squashed the urge to text Luke back and ask for details. Besides the fact that he would be a guest, Dean had nothing to do with Luke’s upcoming destination wedding in Mexico, which was why Luke’s text had him both curious and just a little on edge.

He hopped out of his truck and strode up the path to Luke’s front door, ringing the bell. There was movement behind the mottled glass windows and then Luke answered.

“Hey, thanks for coming over. This won’t take long,” he said, shaking Dean’s hand. He tipped his head, indicating that Dean should follow him into the house, and Dean could feel his pulse creep up, mounting in time with his curiosity. He moved to follow Luke and almost ate it when his foot caught a skateboard lying in the middle of the floor. He managed to stay on his feet, but just barely.

With a long-suffering sigh, Luke scooped up the skateboard. “I warned him that if he left this lying around again, it was mine for a week.” He quickly stashed it in the garage while Dean made his way into the living room, sitting down in one of the comfy armchairs.

“Beer?” asked Luke when he returned, heading straight for the fridge.

A creeping wariness made its way through Dean. Was this a conversation that required beer? Just how big a favor was Luke about to ask of him? Jeez, maybe he needed a kidney or something, and he thought because they were cousins, they’d have a better chance of being a match. Granted, he probably wouldn’t be giving him beer—or drinking one himself—if he needed a kidney, and he’d said what he had to ask him was about the wedding, but . . .

Dude. Focus.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered, smiling his thanks when Luke handed him a bottle of Goose Island.

Luke sat down on the couch across from him and grimaced, as though not sure where to begin. “So, this is awkward,” he finally said after a minute, his hands clasped in front of him, his forearms balanced on his knees. “But Christie and I are a little worried.”

Dean frowned, his grip tightening on his beer bottle. “Is everything okay? With the wedding?”

Luke cleared his throat and silence filled the room. A plane flew by in the distance. A car horn honked. Ethan laughed at something upstairs. Luke rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glancing down at the floor.

Dean leaned forward, his curiosity giving way to worry and the sinking sensation that he wasn’t going to like where this was headed. But shit if he had a clue what it could be about. “Dude, whatever it is, just lay it on me. It’s fine.”

Luke looked up and Dean shot him a smile, trying to reassure him, even though he was starting to feel like he’d been dragged into the principal’s office.

Luke blew out a long breath. “Christie and I have been talking,” he said, knitting his fingers together. “And I know it’s short notice, but we’d really like it if you brought someone to the wedding. To Mexico.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Not what he’d been expecting. He’d RSVP’d long ago, and even though his invitation had included a plus-one, he’d planned on going solo. “Well, I’m not seeing anyone right now, so that might be tricky.” Truth be told, Dean saw a lot of women, but not in any official capacity. Never in a let’s-go-to-Mexico-together capacity.

Luke opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly searching for the right words. “Right. But you’re . . . Shit.” He cleared his throat and scratched at his temple. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but we’re worried about how you’ll behave in Mexico,” he said all in a rush, as though ripping off a verbal Band-Aid. “With the bridesmaids, and Christie’s friends.”

An emotion he couldn’t name washed over him. Not shame, exactly, but it was on the same spectrum. Indignation? Maybe that was the right word.

Before Dean could respond, Ethan bounded down the stairs and sent a curious glance Dean’s way. Then he looked at his dad and shrugged. “His pants look zipped to me.”

Luke’s face went red. “Go do your homework.”

“I’m getting a snack,” he said, completely oblivious. “Have you seen my skateboard?”

“I have. It was in the middle of the front hallway, not put away like I asked you. You’ll get it back next week.”

Ethan’s small face tightened. “But Dad! I can’t believe you—”

Luke cut him off with a raised eyebrow. “Really?” he challenged, his voice flat. “Choose your next words carefully.”

Ethan sighed, his shoulders slumped. Without further argument, he headed back toward the fridge.

Dean let out a little laugh and shook his head, entirely unsure how to feel about the situation and grateful for Ethan’s temporary distraction. Apparently, Luke and Christie had been talking about him, and his perceived inability to keep his pants zipped. He knew he had a bit of a reputation, but . . . shit.

The entire first floor of Luke and Christie’s house was open concept, and another silence settled over the room as Ethan rummaged around in the fridge for what felt like an eternity. The front door opened and closed.

“Luke, honey?” called Christie from the front hall. Luke rose from his spot on the sofa and went to greet his fiancée, returning to the kitchen with several grocery bags and setting them down on the counter. Ethan went back upstairs, two cartons of yogurt, an apple, and a granola bar in hand. The kid was growing like a weed. Every time Dean saw him, he seemed to have gained yet another inch.

“Oh, Dean. Hi,” said Christie, her Southern accent stretching the vowels out. She glanced between Luke and Dean, the question obvious on her face.

Luke sat back down, and Christie perched on the arm of the sofa beside him. She laid a hand on her fiancé’s shoulder and nodded encouragingly at him.

“I feel like a shit, Dean, but we’d like you to bring a date to the wedding so that your focus isn’t . . .” Luke shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “Elsewhere. We’ll pay for the extra ticket.”

“And just so we’re all on the same page here, focus means dick, right?” Dean cringed, the words sounding more bitter than he’d intended. He took a long pull on his beer and shook his head. He let out a short laugh, trying to dispel the strangling mix of emotions making it harder for him to breathe. The surprise, the hint of shame, the irritation, all combined with the sense that they were blowing his reputation with women way out of proportion. Even worse was the tiny seed of doubt that maybe they weren’t. “Come on, guys. Really? You seriously think I’d chase women at your wedding?” But even as he asked the question, he knew that he probably would. Even when he didn’t mean to, it just sort of . . . happened. He’d been doing it for so long that it was a habit now.

Christie let out a little laugh as she rose from the couch and knelt down in front of Dean, taking one of his hands in hers. Shit. Whatever came next was gonna suck, wasn’t it?

She bit her lip before diving in. “Dean, honey, we love you, and we’re happy you’re coming to the wedding. But . . .” She shrugged. “You’re kind of a manwhore, and the last thing I want at my wedding is drama because you slept with someone, or several someones. Especially seeing as the pretty, single someones are my friends and family.”

Dean scoffed, clinging to his exasperation. “Drama? When have I ever caused drama?”

Luke and Christie exchanged a look, and Dean had a feeling he was going to regret that question. Luke arched an eyebrow. “In recent memory? Let’s see.” He held up a hand, ticking his examples off on his fingers as he went. “My first wedding. Matt and Ellie’s engagement party. The family camping trip to Yellowstone. That time when—”

Dean held up his hands in surrender. Even though he’d asked, he didn’t need a litany of his transgressions. “Okay, okay. Point taken.” He met Christie’s eyes, and put his wounded ego aside to make the bride happy. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find someone to come with me on such short notice, but I sincerely promise I won’t cause any drama.” Dean didn’t make a lot of promises, but when he did, he was a man of his word. He held Christie’s gaze, hoping she could tell he meant it.

After a second, she nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She returned to her spot beside Luke, and when she looked at him, her eyes were bright. “I can’t believe it’s only a week away!” She held her hand out in front of her, gazing down at the diamond sparkling on her finger.

Luke slipped an arm around her. “Only a week until you’re Dr. Harmon-Grayson.”

She leaned toward him, pressing her forehead against his. “God, do I love the sound of that.”

Dean glanced away and took another sip of his beer, feeling like he was intruding. Something tightened in his chest as he watched them, something raw and wistful, and he wondered if he’d ever have anything like that. If he’d ever manage to find someone who didn’t scare him shitless when it came to commitment. He set the bottle on the table beside his chair and stood. “I should get going. I need to head to the bar.”

Christie gave him a hug and a pat on the arm before heading into the kitchen to put away the groceries she’d brought in. Luke walked him to the door. “We’re good?”

“Yeah, man, of course. I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.” A rock settled in the pit of his stomach at the idea that his family thought he was a thirty-year-old fuck-up-drama-magnet-manwhore. The rock wasn’t there because they thought that of him, but because he knew they weren’t wrong.

And that wasn’t who he wanted to be. Not anymore.

He drove through Cheyenne toward his bar, The Tipsy Bison. His father had opened the bar and restaurant over thirty years ago, and had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into it to make it the success it was. It was the only thing that had kept him going after his wife—Dean’s mom—had died over ten years ago, now. The ovarian cancer had been swift, taking her only months after the diagnosis, and leaving both Dean and his father completely bereft. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so it had just been him and his dad—and his father’s endless string of women—after that.

Dean had grown up working at the Bison, busing tables, washing dishes, and then bartending after he’d turned twenty-one. Over the past several years, he’d taken on more and more responsibility, and two years ago, his father had officially retired, handing the Tipsy Bison over to Dean. He took great pride in running it and making sure it remained successful. Professionally, he was fulfilled. On a personal level . . . maybe not so much.

After his mother’s death, he’d picked up his father’s habit of chasing girls to help him forget the pain of losing her. Of watching her waste away. Of watching her try to hide her pain. He’d found solace in connecting with a woman, but only physically. Any time things got emotional, he’d bailed, unable to deal with the vulnerability that came with it. After a while, the bailing had simply become habit. It was one he wanted to break, but fuck if he knew how. He’d been doing it for so long that it was ingrained in him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d stunted himself, and was past the point of no return.

Maybe it was the fact that his friends were getting married and having kids. Maybe it was the fact that he’d just turned thirty. All Dean knew was that he wanted more, even if he didn’t know how to go about getting it. He didn’t want to be the weird pervy guy still chasing women at forty. At fifty. Didn’t want to end up alone because he’d pushed everyone away out of fear.

As he drove, he replayed the conversation with Luke and Christie over and over again, his mood sinking with each turn. Manwhore. The word beat through his skull, interrupting his other thoughts, over and over again.

God, he just wanted to be . . . better. And happier, if he was honest with himself.

Step one: keep it together in Mexico so that he didn’t turn into Cockzilla and ruin his cousin’s wedding.

* * *

Carly Jensen ran her cloth over the gleaming cherry wood surface of the bar, polishing it more out of habit than necessity. The crowd was thin at this time of day, before the start of the dinner rush, but she liked to keep moving. Staying busy made the shifts fly by.

“Hey, darlin’, can I get another Miller Lite?” asked Tom, one of her regular customers. He sat in his usual seat, his eyes on one of the flat screen TVs over the bar.

“Sure thing,” she said, turning and pulling a cold bottle out of the fridge. She cracked the cap off and slid it down to him, then added the bottle to his tab. Working the bar wasn’t glamorous, but the Tipsy Bison’s atmosphere was warm and welcoming, and for the most part, the customers were friendly. The tips were decent, and the schedule was flexible, which allowed her to take last-minute or out-of-town gigs when they came up.

“You okay, darlin’? You’re lookin’ a little blue.” Tom frowned, his kind brown eyes studying her. Thinning salt-and-pepper hair covered his head, and he scratched at his stubbled cheek.

Unable to help herself, Carly sighed. “You know what, Tom? I’ve been better.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

She laughed softly, bracing her hands on the bar and arching her eyebrow at him. “I think that’s my line.”

He took a sip of his beer and smiled sadly at her. “You’re too young, too pretty, and too sweet to look so sad.”

Something in her chest softened at his kind, unsolicited words. She wagged a finger at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere, but you still have to pay for your drinks.”

“Well, shit. You figured out my master plan.” He shook his head, the smile still on his face. “So what’s gotcha down?”

She pulled her water bottle out from below the bar and took a sip, then wiped up a few drops of condensation. “Just life, I guess. Things aren’t going the way I’d hoped.”

Tom nodded slowly. “Sorry to tell ya, but that’s usually the way it goes.”

“So I’m learning.” She wiped at the bar as she talked, finding comfort in opening up to a neutral party. “I’d been dating this guy, Mike. A doctor.”

Tom let out a low whistle. “A doctor. Very nice.”

Carly nodded. “Right? Might as well aim high.” She sighed, and waved a hand through the air, as though she could brush everything she was feeling away. “But it didn’t work out. We broke up a few weeks ago.” The ass. Just thinking about him sent anger burning through her.

“What happened?”

She kept wiping the bar, tracing the same circles over and over again as she unburdened herself. “He met someone else.” She shrugged and glanced up at Tom, wondering if he could see the bruise on her pride. She sure as hell could feel it. “Guess I aimed too high.”

She’d dated Mike for about three months, and God, she’d really liked him. Smart, funny, cute. A doctor, with a nice family. An all-around good guy. The kind she could’ve seen herself marrying, someday. But that vision had been completely one-sided, because he’d left her for a nurse at the hospital. And it wasn’t even so much the fact that he’d left her that stung—she hadn’t been in love with him so much as the idea of him. No, the pain came from the reasons why he’d found Ashley so much more appealing than her.

Prettier? Check.

Girlier? Check.

Not a bartender-slash-stand-up-comedian? Check.

Mike hadn’t been comfortable with her dream of being a comedian, or her lack of cooking skills, or her inability to walk in heels, and so he’d gone out and found someone with bigger boobs and a smaller nose who fit his definition of the perfect woman.

Like anyone, she had her insecurities, but damn, that had hurt. The rejection, the sense of failure, the worry that she’d never find someone to share her life with. That she simply wasn’t what men wanted.

“No such thing as aiming too high,” said Tom, bringing her back to the present. “Screw that guy. You’re a catch.” He winked at her and gave a nod, as though his word on the subject was final.

She slapped her towel down on the bar, mustering her confidence, and resenting Mike for the fact that she had to muster it at all. “Damn right I am. I just . . . I just want a man with, like, a decent job, and an apartment, or a house, with actual furniture and who’s good in bed and appreciates me. Someone funny, smart, and kind. That’s it. It’s a short list.”

Although, to be fair, Mike had fallen a little short in the good-in-bed department. A little vanilla, maybe. And his oral sex skills had left something to be desired. And he hadn’t seemed concerned if she came or not.

Okay, maybe more than a little short.

But the rejection still hurt. Probably would for a while.

The bar’s front door opened, bringing in a gust of fresh air along with Carly’s boss and friend, Dean Grayson. He tipped his head at her and gave a cursory wave before heading toward his office at the back. She watched him move through the bar, taking in his slumped shoulders and the way his brows were drawn together. He disappeared into his office, and Carly scooted out from behind the bar and to the kitchen.

“Hey, Greg,” she called to one of the cooks, who was in the process of chopping an onion at lightning speed. She had no idea how he could move so quickly. If she tried that, she’d end up without any fingertips. “Can I get two bacon cheeseburgers, extra bacon, with a mountain of fries?”

“Meal break for you and the boss?”

“You got it.” She and Dean often ate together, a tradition that had started not long after she’d started working at the bar two years ago. She’d been his first hire after he’d taken over the bar from his dad, and they’d struck up an easy friendship based on a shared love of cheesy music, comedies, delicious food, and a mutual hatred of the Colorado Rockies. Even though Denver was far closer, they were both Giants fans, all the way. Carly’s dad, a retired high school teacher, had grown up near San Francisco, and he’d imbued both her and her brother with a bone-deep love of the Giants.

Truth was, she’d always had a crush on Dean. Short, thick hair, so dark it was almost black. Light blue eyes that contrasted appealingly with his olive skin. Killer smile, chiseled jaw. He was six feet of hard muscles and had a masculine confidence that oozed out of every pore. Really, it would’ve been virtually impossible not to be at least a little attracted to him.

Or more than a little, in Carly’s case. But he was completely wrong for her, and she knew it. She wanted to find someone, a serious relationship someone, and everyone knew that Dean Grayson didn’t do relationships. Not to mention that crossing that line with him would jeopardize their friendship, and potentially her job. Not that he’d fire her, but things would be . . . weird, when it eventually came to an end, as all his flings did. And she didn’t want weird with Dean. So, she accepted all of that and didn’t spend any energy wishing their friendship into something it could never be.

Even if he did check almost every single box on her “Carly needs a man” wish list. Attractive? Check. Kind? Check. Smart? Check. Hardworking? Check. Fun? Check. Financially stable? Check.

Emotionally available? Questionable.

Able to commit? Inconceivable.

She moved back behind the bar, knowing it would be ten or fifteen minutes before her food was up, chatting with Tom while she took stock of the bottles behind the bar, making a note of anything that was running low. He asked about her family—he knew she’d gone to her brother’s wedding in Denver last month—and she filled him in on all the details. Her parents were happy in Fort Collins, where she’d grown up, and visited both her and her brother and his new husband regularly. Carly wound up in Cheyenne after attending the University of Wyoming in Laramie, and then getting a job with the local tourism board. It ultimately wasn’t a good fit for her, but she felt at home in Cheyenne, and had decided to stay.

The heavenly scent of French fries wafted through the air and her mouth watered a little.

“Order up, Car!” called Greg from the kitchen, and she waved Haley, one of the Bison’s servers, over to watch the bar while she took her break. She hurried to grab the plates and made her way to Dean’s office, knocking awkwardly with her elbow.

“It’s open,” he said, and she managed to push the door all the way open with her hip. Dean sat behind his desk, his attention on the computer screen in front of him. He smiled when he saw her in the doorway, minimizing the spreadsheet he’d been looking at.

“Thought you might be hungry,” she said, setting the plates down on his desk and dropping into one of the chairs facing it.

“Thanks,” he said, pulling one of the plates toward himself. She couldn’t help but watch his big hands as he picked up the burger and he took a healthy bite. He licked at a stray smear of ketchup on his lip, and she found herself staring at his mouth. His lips. Lips that probably half the single women in Cheyenne had kissed, she reminded herself. Nevertheless, a wave of heat crested over her, and she picked up her own burger, shoving it in her face to distract herself. They chewed in silence, and she tried to convince herself that while she’d felt those tugs of attraction toward Dean before, they only felt stronger today because she’d been thinking about Mike. Not because Dean was sexy as hell.

She waited a minute before speaking. “You okay?” she asked, scooping up a handful of fries and sitting back in her chair.

He sighed and set his burger down and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He popped a fry in his mouth, chewing for several seconds before speaking. “So, it turns out that my family thinks I’m a giant slut.”

Carly sputtered as she nearly inhaled a lungful of potato. She thumped herself on the chest a couple of times before clearing her airway enough to speak. “Uh . . . I don’t even know what to say. I mean . . . it’s not untrue, exactly.” Dean frowned. “Not that I’m judging,” she hastened to add, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “What brought this on?”

“My cousin Luke’s getting married next week in Mexico, and he and his fiancée asked me to bring a date so I don’t fuck everything that moves.”

She laughed and then shoveled some more fries into her mouth. “It’s like they know you or something,” she mumbled through her full mouth.

But Dean wasn’t laughing. He was biting his lip, glancing down at his lap, a frown still on his face.

“Wow, this really bothers you, huh?” she asked, wiping her hands on her jeans. She had to admit that she was surprised. He didn’t exactly hide his promiscuous lifestyle.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and when he glanced up at her, he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Christie called me a manwhore.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Is that what everyone thinks of me?”

God, she’d never seen him rattled like this, and she had to admit there was something endearing about it. As though the legendary Dean Grayson was a mere mortal after all.

She swiped a fry through a puddle of ketchup. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s a free country and you can live your life the way you want.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he said, his voice low. His eyes met hers, sending heat zinging through her.

She licked her lips, and for just a second, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I don’t think you’re a manwhore. Yeah, you have a bit of a reputation, but that can’t be news to you, Dean.”

“It’s not. I guess I just . . . didn’t realize my own family thought of me as the town bicycle.”

“Listen, if it bothers you, maybe it’s time to change it up. But like I said, if you’re happy, you’re free to live your life the way you want.”

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. Over the bar’s speakers, “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing came on, and she pointed toward the ceiling with a French fry. “You wanna dance it out? You can be Baby, and I’ll lift you.” She bobbed her shoulders in time to the music, and a hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

“You’re gonna lift me? I must have seventy-five pounds on you.”

She curled her lip and flexed her bicep. “I’ve been working out. Welcome to the gun show.”

He scoffed and pointed at her arm. “Oh, yeah. Your Nerf arms are real impressive, Car.”

She laughed, and her French fry morphed into a microphone as she started to sing along, getting into the song, determined to coax a full smile out of him. She flipped her hair and winked at him, and a smile broke out across his face. A triumphant surge moved through her and she redoubled her efforts just as Dean picked up a stapler from his desk, jumping in to sing the chorus with her. They chair-danced and sang at each other, and then Dean froze.

“Hey, Car?”

She stopped singing and ate her microphone French Fry. “Yeah?”

“You wanna go to Mexico?”