Page 1 of Crash with Me (Seasons of Sizzle #3)

ONE

HEIDI

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing back there?”

I grit my teeth and force a smile, cringing inwardly. Years of bartending have given me ample experience dealing with overly friendly patrons. Including overly friendly fifty-somethings with bottle-dyed hair and shit-eating grins.

“Oh, you know.” I reach for the bottle of Jack and give it a three-count pour over ice. “Just doing my job.”

“I could give you a job.”

My eyes narrow, but I keep my tone neutral but not encouraging. “Oh?”

“I have an idea or two.”

Leaning forward on the bar, he strokes his mustache. The diamond in his pinky ring catches the light and flashes. My eyebrows shoot up.

A pinky ring. I swear, I’ve never seen a real life man with a pinky ring. It doesn’t fit the lumberjack/fisherman aesthetic that Alaskan men usually have. Not that I’m judging Mr. Smooth here for his pinky ring.

I’m judging him because he’s being a jackass.

“Thanks.” I give another tight-lipped, false smile. “But I like the job I have now just fine.”

He scoffs. “You’re happy being a bartender?”

“I am.”

There’s no point telling him and his condescending tone that I love a job that offers plenty of flexibility. Plus it gives my semi-extroverted self a chance to interact with people.

This weekend should be straight forward. The bride and groom paid for an open bar for this rehearsal dinner and the reception tomorrow night. But most people are ordering hard stuff on the rocks or glasses of something bubbly.

Still, people are tipping well on top of the flat fee I’m being paid by the couple up front.

Anyway, the point is, I enjoy my job. It’s fun. It keeps me flush with cash. And it gives me plenty of time and bandwidth to focus on my other passions. Like taking scenic photos and writing poetry while hiking through the bush when the semi-introverted side of me needs to decompress.

Dealing with old farts who think they’re smooth might not be my favorite part of the job, but it’s an occupational hazard I can manage.

Especially because I’ll totally talk shit about him with my friends later.

Mr. Smooth sighs mournfully and leans a little bit further over the bar. “You know, a pretty girl like you could do better.”

My jaw ticks. Okay, enough is enough. There’s a line between being polite to get a tip and protecting my peace, and my dignity. “I bet you’d love to tell me how.”

“I wouldn’t mind showing you.”

“Oh, barf, Jim.” A perky brunette in a fuchsia cocktail dress steps up to the bar at his side and wrinkles her nose. “Lines like that might have worked when you were younger. But now that you’re old, it just makes you look like a creep.”

He scowls. “I’m not old, Stacey.”

“You’re my dad’s best friend.” She gives a deliberate blink. “You’re old enough to be my father and hers.”

“Some women like older men.”

Stacey flashes a friendly smile at me. “Do you prefer old men?”

I grin back. “Not usually.”

“See, there you have it.” She hands Jim his drink. “Now take this and go back to your duties of being my dad’s best man instead of harassing the poor bartender.”

Frowning more fiercely, he snaps up his drink and leaves with a huff. Once he’s out of earshot, we both burst into laughter. The more she laughs, the more I laugh, and vice-versa.

My sides are hurting and I’m gasping for breath by the time we stop.

Stacey accepts a cocktail napkin to carefully wipe the tears from her eyes. “Thank you. And sorry about Jim.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.”

“You probably deal with guys like him all the time.”

“All the time,” I agree, taking her glass and topping it off with fresh chilled Prosecco. She’s been nursing the same glass most of the night while flitting around to welcome guests and whisper with the wait staff. “Your dad is the groom.”

“Yeah, he is.” She releases a heavy breath. “This is his fifth wedding. His fifth marriage.”

We turn our gazes to her dad—the groom—and his much-younger bride-to-be. The buxom blonde is clinging to his arm and beaming up at him like he’s the man who invented the smart phone.

Stacey sighs again. “He swears this one will stick.”

I make a sympathetic sound. “Well, he’s lucky to have your support.”

“I’m not supporting their marriage or relationship.” Something flashes in her eyes. “But he’s my dad. And, well… He hasn’t been the same since my mom died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” A lump lodges in my throat. “That had to be hard.”

I hand her a fresh cocktail napkin as fresh tears fill her eyes.

“Thank you.” She carefully blots her eyes again to avoid smudging her make-up. “It happened a long time ago, but…”

“But time doesn’t mean you don’t miss her, or the life you all had before, any less.”

“That’s right.” Her bottom lip quivers but she catches it. With a shake of her head—and a short humorless laugh—she takes a breath and straightens her shoulders. “Anyway, thank you for that. And thank you for understanding. You’re really good at that.”

“I’m just doing my job. Pouring drinks”—I hold up the bottle—“and playing part-time therapist.”

She giggles again. This time, it reaches her eyes and sounds genuine. “I bet you hear all kinds of thing—from all kinds of people—in your line of work.”

“I do. It’s part of the fun.”

“It’s good you can find enjoyment in that.” She looks over my shoulder and winces. “Oh, crap. It looks like our favorite groomsman is trying to work his charms on the wedding coordinator. I’d better go rescue her.”

“Here.” I hand her a shot of a pre-mixed pink cocktail I’d made at the bride's request. “To take the edge off.”

“Thanks.” She throws it back, flinching only a little. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” I call after her as she gently pushes her way through the crowd. “You’re doing God’s work.”

“Hey, can you do me a favor?” a deep voice asks.

I turn toward the voice. My heart hitches as my gaze lands on a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fitted suit. His beard is trimmed, and his dark brown hair is messy. As if he’s been running his fingers through it.

He tugs at his tie, as if it’s strangling him. He might not look comfortable in what he’s wearing, but he looks good—too good—wearing it.

He looks so good, I seem to have lost the power of breathing, let alone speaking. I just nod my head dumbly as I find it impossible to break my gaze away from his dark, serious eyes.

“Okay, thanks.” He takes a deep breath. “This is going to sound weird, and there isn’t time to explain it. But… will you please go along with everything I say in the next few minutes.”

I nod again, still incapable of using my words.

Have I ever seen eyes so full of power and mystery? Also, I wonder what cologne he’s wearing. It’s kind of woodsy, with a hint of something rich and intoxicating. A musk that’s maybe uniquely him, but should be bottled up and sold to men everywhere who want to smell both rugged and powerful.

There’s something about this man. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. It has me hooked—captivated—as if I’m under a spell. It’s something that has every cell in my body tingling.

Whatever it is, I have the distinct impression I would go along with anything he has to say. Even if he hadn’t asked me to do precisely that.

“Dad,” Mr. Rugged says in a terse tone as the groom and bride approach the bar. His eyes narrow a fraction. “Kelly.”

Dad? I shake my head, partially coming out of my lusty haze. If the groom is his father, that would make him Stacey’s brother.

“Seth,” the groom—I think his name is Walter—says. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

“Did you think I’d miss one of your weddings?”

Annoyance flickers in Walter’s eyes. “I thought you might prefer to skip.”

“We didn’t want you to be… uncomfortable,” Kelly, the bride, says.

“Is that why my invitation went missing in the mail?”

“We would have invited you. And you’re totally welcome. It’s just… we just thought you might feel… lonely,” she says. Her full bottom lip sticks out, giving her a little pout. “You know, since you aren’t seeing someone. We didn’t want you to have to spend the weekend alone.”

“As it happens, I didn’t come alone.”

Walter frowns. “You didn’t?”

Seth raises his chin. “I have a date.”

“You do?” Now it’s Kelly’s turn to frown. “Who?”

Seth slides his hand across the bar. “I’d like you both to meet my date—and girlfriend.”