Emerson bounced and clapped her hands. “Great! And just promise to keep an open mind.”
I nodded in agreement. No harm in that. At the very least, I could observe the way everyone interacted. Bars were one giant meat market. Maybe I would learn some dos and don’ts. Observe what it was guys responded to. It couldn’t simply be short skirts and ginormous breasts.
I was a psychology major. Studying human nature was what I did. Tonight I just needed to pretend Mulvaney’s was one giant petri dish. Like scientists before me, I’d observe and learn. And maybe have some fun in the process. After all, who said learning had to be boring?
Chapter 3
There were several things—okay, a lot of things—that remained perpetually unclear to me. The exact location of my mother, whether I preferred Canadian bacon or sausage on my pizza, and what precisely I was going to do after college with a degree in psychology.
But the one point of fact that never wavered in my mind was that I wanted to be part of the Montgomery family. I wanted to marry Hunter Montgomery.
I wanted to belong to the family that had offered me such solace growing up. The Montgomerys were everything that a family should be. Loving. Supportive. They sat down at the table for dinner every night and talked about their day. They played Monopoly together and had pool parties. They shared more than a house. They shared their lives with each other. It was everything I never had.
Before living with Gran, my life had been a series of motel rooms. I vaguely remembered a house with a tire swing in the backyard. When my father was still alive. I remembered him standing over a barbecue pit with lots of people around him. It was the Fourth of July. There were fireworks, and I was sticky with Popsicle juice. But that was all I had. The only memory of a time that wasn’t crowded with the sounds of Mom crying as some guy beat on her, heard through the thin walls of the bathroom or closet where she’d hidden me.
The Montgomerys attended church together. Sent out Christmas cards with all five of them and the dog posing before a huge ten-foot tree. Ever since Lila took me home with her in seventh grade and I was given a glimpse into their life—ever since I met Hunter—I knew I wanted to be one of them.
“You sure you don’t want to go back and change? You can borrow one of my outfits.”
Emerson’s suggestion pulled me from my thoughts. “I couldn’t fit my big toe into your jeans.”
She rolled her eyes at me as we made our way across the gravel lot.
Mulvaney’s was a local institution, catering to townies and college students alike, but that didn’t mean I had ever been there before. Bars . . . the smell of alcohol, loud drunken voices—it reminded me too much of Mom. Emerson and Georgia dragged me to Freemont’s once, but I only went because it was Emerson’s birthday.
There were two entrances. As we entered through the back one, we squeezed past the people in line at the food counter. The aroma of fried food filled my nose.
Emerson pointed to the whiteboard above the counter. “At one in the morning there’s nothing better than the fried macaroni balls. We’ll have to get some to go before we leave.”
I nodded, tempted to ask why we didn’t just do that now, but Georgia gave me a quelling look, warning me not to even suggest it. Linking her arm through mine, she led me up a wood plank ramp that opened into the main room. A long bar stretched against the far left wall. The place was packed. There weren’t near enough tables, so at least a hundred people milled about the room, drinks in hands, their voices a deafening crescendo that rivaled the music blaring from the speakers.
Sliding into single file, we held hands as we squeezed through the press of bodies. I ended up in the middle, a deliberate move on Emerson’s and Georgia’s part I’m sure. Guys tried to talk to us as we pushed past. Emerson smiled, calling hello back to a few of them.
“Hey, Red,” one called to me, sandwiching between me and Emerson. I had to look down at him. He barely reached my chin.
I started to stammer out a hello when Emerson backed up and looked him over. “Red? Really? You lose points for originality. C’mon, Pepper.” With a tug on my wrist, she pulled me after her. “See. Not five minutes here and you’re already getting hit on.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He’s not what we’re aiming for, but no worry. The night’s still young. We haven’t found who we’re looking for yet.” Emerson pointed at the bar. “Why don’t you get us a pitcher? We’ll get a table.”
I craned my head to look around. “How are you going to find a table in this zoo?”
Emerson gave me an insulted look. “Oh, we’ll get a table. Leave it to me.”
“Here.” Georgia thrust some money in my hand. “First pitcher’s on me.”
“The only pitcher. We don’t need to buy our own drinks.” Emerson shook her head like we both had much to learn and motioned for me to move on toward the bar. “Go on. And while you’re there keep an eye out for you-know-who.”
I watched as they disappeared into the throng, convinced now that the whole point of sending me to the bar was for me to scope out the player bartender we’d come here looking for. I worked my way through the crush, wading through bodies until I stood in line behind a pair of giggling girls.
“Yeah, that’s him,” a bleached blonde said to her friend. “Lydia said he was hot, but OMG . . . that’s putting it mildly.”
Her friend fanned herself. “If he would mess around with Lydia, he’s going to think he hit the lottery with us.”
Who talked about themselves like that? I couldn’t help myself. A laugh escaped me. I slapped a hand over my mouth.
The dark-haired girl glared over her shoulder at me. I quickly dropped my hand and tried to look innocent, angling my neck as though I was impatient to place my drink order and not eavesdropping.
The blonde slapped her arm. “You’re so bad, Gina.”
Gina returned her attention to her friend. “Well, hopefully I’ll get to be bad with him tonight. I call dibs.” She waved a ten-dollar bill, clearly trying to gain the bartender’s attention.
I shook my head, regretting every time I’d ever judged Emerson for her lack of inhibitions. Compared to these two she was a Girl Scout. Clearly they were discussing my bartender. Wait. When did he become mine? I winced. From the sound of it, he belonged to every female that passed through Mulvaney’s doors.
I reminded myself that I would not be hooking up with anyone tonight . . . especially a bartender with a reputation for swapping DNA with the entire female population of Dartford. Thanks, but no. I couldn’t imagine myself with someone so undiscriminating. I had standards. There was no way I could contemplate messing around with someone like that. Even if it was to gain some much-needed experience to win over Hunter.
And then I saw him.
The air froze in my lungs. He stepped up in front of the two girls, bracing his arms against the bar top. I heard his voice, low and deep, over the steady drone of the bar. “What can I get for you?”
I gawked, unable to blink. I had an unobstructed view of him in the space between the girls. The blood rushed in my ears, and suddenly it was last night all over again and I was on a lonely stretch of country road, the acrid smoke of my overheating car filling my nostrils as I stared at his familiar face. That dark blond hair cut close to his head. The tall, lean body that had bent over the engine of my car less than twenty-four hours ago. I could see him even more clearly now, but I hadn’t been mistaken in my initial assessment. He was hot. His jaw square and strong. His features like something chiseled from marble. There was a shadowy hint of stubble on his face, and his eyes were so piercing a blue they looked almost silver.
He looked just a few years older than me. I could see that now. It was probably the way he held himself. Experienced. Capable. He wore a well-worn cotton T-shirt with MULVANEY’S stretched across one of his impressive pecs. Dimly I wondered if his shirt felt as soft as it looked. If his chest was as solid.
The girls were tittering like seventh-graders now. Gawking at him, too. I felt like someone sucker punched me. My rescuer. My bartender. Mulvaney’s man-whore. One and the same.
“What can I get you?” he repeated.
“What’s good?” Gina propped her elbows on the bar, no doubt flashing him some of her cleavage.
He rattled off the various beers on tap like he had done it a hundred times before, which he probably had. His gaze slid the length of the bar as he talked, assessing the crowd.
“Hmm. What’s your favorite?” Gina called.
Shaking his head, he looked back down at her. “Look, I’ll come back to you when you make up your mind.” His eyes snapped over them to me. “What’ll you have?”
My mouth parted, surprised that he was addressing me, that he dismissed them so easily. Just like that. And when they were flirting with him no less.
His eyes narrowed with recognition. “Hey. You.” He nodded slightly at me. “How’s the car?”
Before I could answer, Gina sent me a withering look and then turned back to him. She waved her money in his face. “Excuse me. We were here first.”
Sighing, he looked back down at them, his expression a blend of annoyance and boredom. “Then order already.”
She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. “Forget it. The service here sucks. We’ll go somewhere else.” Turning, they shoved past me.
He didn’t even watch them depart. With his stare fixed on me, he shrugged one shoulder and flashed me a half smile that made my stomach lurch. I stepped up to the bar, trying to look confident. Like I hung out in bars all the time.
He braced his hands on the edge of the bar, leaning forward slightly. “Now what can I get for you?” His tone was decidedly friendlier than when he spoke to the other girls, and heat swarmed my face. I’m sure it was just because we knew each other—in a way—but it still made me feel special. Singled out.
I lowered my gaze, eyeing his arms. The muscles bunched. A tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeve and crawled down his tanned bicep and forearm, stopping at his wrist. It looked like some kind of intricate feathered wing. I would have liked to study it further, but I was already conscious that I was ogling him, and I still hadn’t answered his question.
“Um. A pitcher of Sam Adams.” I knew Emerson liked microbrews.
“ID?”
“Oh.” I fumbled for the fake ID Emerson made me get last year for the one time she dragged me to Freemont’s.
He glanced at it and back to my face. A hint of a smile played about his lips. “Twenty-four?”
I nodded, but my face went from warm to scalding.
“Guess you just have one of those baby faces.” He didn’t wait for a reply. Still smiling faintly, he stepped away.
My eyes were drawn to his broad back. His T-shirt hugged the muscled expanse. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans, and the view from the back was almost as nice as the front. Suddenly the bar felt oppressively hot.
He set the full pitcher and a stack of cups in front of me.
“Thanks.” I handed him the money. He took it and moved to the cash register.
In the moments he was gone, I tried to think of something to say. Something cute and engaging. Anything that might draw out our conversation. I didn’t let myself consider why. Or that suddenly I wasn’t so averse to the idea of talking to him. Flirting with him. Flirting.
My throat closed up, panicking at the prospect. How did Emerson do it? She made flirting look so effortless.
He returned with my change. “Thanks,” I murmured, dropping it into the tip jar.
“Take care.”
I looked up but he was already gone, moving on to the next customer. I hesitated, staring after him. Shaking my head, I reminded myself not to ogle. Tucking the cups under one arm, I held the pitcher with two hands and dove back into the throng. Only I didn’t make it two steps before someone bumped me. The pitcher flew from my hands, somersaulting amid bodies, sloshing beer everywhere. People cried out, wiping ineffectually at their doused clothing.