“I’ll share,” Jen said with the first real smile he’d seen since he’d arrived. “Feel free to borrow them any time. In fact, why don’t you cancel the hotel and stay here with us?”
Their father still lived in their childhood home, a modest three-bedroom, two-bath cottage-style bungalow in a nice neighborhood. And since Jen had moved her family into the house to better care for their dad, the place was packed.
“Because I’ve never been fond of couches, and I need to concentrate if I’m going to figure this out.” He also needed a drink and some quiet. “I’ll put Joshua down and turn on a movie for the boys before I leave.”
Jen let out a long sigh. “Bless you.”
2
Miranda Wright turned her back on the bar’s rowdy customers and pulled the tap on a local IPA while swaying to the music booming through the bar. 90 Proof was rocking the house tonight, and between the popular local band and the star-studded lineup at the Grand Ole Opry this month, Spur’s Saloon was stuffed to the rafters every night.
Miranda certainly couldn’t complain about the tips, but after a full day on the construction site, these long, loud nights really took it out of her. Still, better her than Marty. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to a father, and, bar owner or not, she didn’t want him here slinging booze until all hours. Not at fifty-nine with a missing limb from combat.
The marketing initiatives Marty had implemented over the last six months had made Spur’s one of the premier hot spots in downtown Nashville. Tonight, bodies crowded around the bar five-deep, everyone singing and dancing and shouting orders toward one of four bartenders, each manning one side of the central square bar. Violet, the other female bartender, swung around to Miranda’s side of the bar and reached for a bottle of peach schnapps from the glass-backed shelving. “He’s too hot to be a CPA. And he can’t keep his damn eyes off you.”
Miranda grinned as she poured froth from the beer before topping it off. When she set it on the tray to her right, she flicked a look in the mirror. Violet had been talking about the guy since he’d come in and commandeered a table in the shadows. Miranda caught glimpses of him through the crowd, still lounging in a corner by the door. Still nursing a beer. Still studying paperwork spread out on the table—at least when he wasn’t watching her.
None of her coworkers had ever seen him in the bar before, which earned him the temporary moniker of Mystery Man. He was the kind of guy who made women stupid—nicely dressed, sexy haircut, square jaw, and deep-set eyes Tammy, his cocktail waitress, claimed were “dreamy.” At least a dozen other females in the bar concurred, judging by their attempted flirtations. All of which had fallen flat.
“Not married. No ring.” Tammy added her opinion before yelling her order to any bartender with their hands free. “I need two mule skinners and a gin sling.”
“Got it,” Steve said from the other side of the bar.
“You know that means nothing.” Miranda cut a don’t-be-naïve look at her. “He might also be gay. The hottest ones always are.”
“My excellent gaydar says no way,” Tammy claimed. “He’s one-hundred-percent hetero. He’s nice too. Not one of those grabby, rude drunks. I don’t usually like blonds, but I’d make an exception for him.”
Miranda finished filling the last of five beers and set the glass on the tray beside the others. Her gaze lifted to the mirror again. This time, Mystery’s gaze was waiting. Even across the crowded space, through the dim light and weaving crowd, his deliberate eye contact created a zing of electricity beneath her ribs.
He wasn’t exactly blond. More of a sandy blond, the top layer brighter, like he spent time in the sun. She usually went for the tall, dark, and dirty type, but Mr. Mystery intrigued her for some undefinable reason.
There was an unspoken, intangible chemistry between them that had been simmering since they’d first locked gazes. The kind of connection that created tingles along her spine and flutters in her stomach. The kind that made her smile for no reason at all.
She refocused on her work and lifted the tray to swing out from behind the bar. “Coming through.”
She hoisted the drinks over the head of a short brunette, swerved around the double Ds of a wasted blonde, plowed straight through a group of wannabe cowboys, and delivered the alcohol to her favorite band just in time for their break.
Miranda turned back toward the bar and spotted Cody standing beside the swinging door. His elbow rested on the polished mahogany, and his drunk-as-a-skunk grin rested on her. She’d have to pass right by him to get back behind the bar, and he knew it. Miranda clenched her teeth in anticipation of yet another confrontation. In one way or another, she’d been confronting Cody Russel since grade school.
“Hey, baby.” Cody purred the slur as she approached. “Why ain’t you talkin’ to me tonight?”
“I never talk to you, Cody. You’re an asshole when you drink.” She pushed at the swinging half door. Before it closed behind her, Cody grabbed her ass.
Ass grabbing was not a new phenomenon. Not to Miranda and certainly not here, but Cody had been excessively annoying tonight, and she’d had enough.
“That’s it.” She slammed the tray on the counter behind the bar. “You’re out.”
Fueled by fatigue and irritation, she moved to the front of the bar, fisted the front of his shirt, and dragged him toward the door. Cody just tripped along behind her with that drunk aw-come-on-b
aby-don’t-be-like-that, half-assed apology.
A rousing cheer from other females in the crowd confirmed Miranda wasn’t the only woman Cody had annoyed tonight.
Once his feet hit the sidewalk, she released him into the strong grip of their bouncer, Paul McGonigal, another friend from high school.
“Dude,” Paul said, taking Cody by the arm. “You sure know how to piss people off.”
Miranda turned back toward the bar. She paused just inside the door, hands on hips, and looked at the whirling crowd. It was a good group. Easy and happy. And now that Cody was gone, not one shit stirrer among them. Her watch vibrated with a text from Marty.