Page 5 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

I can't sleep.

One AM finds me in Mark's old study, my office now, though I still call it his, with a glass of wine and the journal Dr. Patterson insisted I start after Mark died. Five years of entries, and I've never written anything like what pours out of me now.

I'm losing my mind. Or finding it. I can't tell which.

Dear Diary,

There's this man. Jason. He looks at me like I'm precious and breakable and strong all at once. He called me 'baby' and 'good girl' and I nearly combusted on the spot. What kind of forty-two-year-old woman reacts like that?

The kind who's been empty for so long she forgot what it feels like to be full.

God, I miss being touched. Not just sex, though yes, that too, but touched like I matter. Like I'm worth gentle hands and careful attention. Jason touched the cut on my temple like it was sacred. Do you know how long it's been since someone checked if I was okay and actually waited for the answer?

Mark loved me, but it was comfortable love. Safe love. We were partners in all the practical ways. We built a life, a business, a family. But did he ever look at me like he wanted to devour me whole? Did he ever make me feel small and protected and cherished?

I feel guilty writing that. Like I'm betraying his memory. But Dr. Patterson says the dead don't own the living, and Mark would want?—

A knock on my door makes me slam the journal shut like a guilty teenager.

"Mom?" Josh's voice is small, uncertain. "Can I come in?"

"Of course, baby."

He shuffles in wearing his old Pokemon pajama pants and the guilt written all over his face. My boy, caught between child and man.

"Can't sleep either?" I ask.

"I'm sorry." The words tumble out in a rush. "About earlier. About accidentally knocking over the bottle and yelling at you and—God, Mom, I'm so sorry."

"Come here."

He folds himself into the chair across from me, all gangly limbs and remorse.

He’s a senior in high school this year, been taller than me since he was in seventh grade.

He’s on the verge of manhood and yet, when I look at him, I still see my baby boy.

He’s as if someone hit control v on a computer and out popped a copy paste of his dad. "I was such an ass."

"Language."

"I was such a jerk." He picks at a thread on his pants. "It's just... seeing you with someone else..."

"I know."

"Do you?" His eyes, Mark's eyes, meet mine. "Because sometimes I still expect Dad to walk through the door. Like this has all been some horrible nightmare and he'll come home and everything will be normal again."

My heart cracks a little more. "Oh, honey."

"And then this guy shows up and you're smiling and getting dressed up and you look..." He swallows. "You look happy. Really happy. And I hate myself for resenting that."

"Your feelings are valid, Josh. Being angry doesn't make you bad. It makes you human."

"Dad would be pissed at me for acting like that."

"Your dad would understand you're protecting what you love." I reach across the desk, taking his hand. "But, baby, I can't live in amber. I can't stay frozen in grief forever."

"I know." His voice breaks. "I know that, Mom. Logically, I know. But my heart..."

"Your heart needs time. And that's okay.

" I squeeze his fingers. "But, Josh? You don't get to be cruel while you're processing.

You don't get to break things or curse at me or be disrespectful to guests in our establishment. You are allowed to be angry and hurt. You aren’t allowed to be disrespectful or violent. "

"Yes, ma'am." He studies our joined hands. "He stood up for you."

"What?"

"Jason. He didn't yell or get aggressive. He just... stood up for you. Made it clear I was out of line without making me feel small." Josh meets my eyes. "Dad would have liked that."

Tears threaten. "You think?"

"Yeah." A ghost of a smile. "Dad always said you needed someone in your corner. Someone who saw how much you carried and helped shoulder the load."

"When did you get so wise?"

"Tuesday." His grin is more genuine now. "Right after I acted like a total toddler in front of your... what is he exactly?"

Good question. "I don't know yet."

"But you like him."

"I do."

"And he makes you happy?"

"He makes me..." I search for words. "He makes me feel like myself again. Not just Mom or boss or widow. Just... Karen."

Josh nods slowly. "Then I'll try. I can't promise I'll be perfect, but I'll try."

"That's all I ask."

He stands, then surprises me by coming around the desk to hug me. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, baby."

After he leaves, I sit in the quiet darkness, processing. My phone buzzes on the desk.

Jason: Can't sleep, baby?

I stare at the message. 1:47 AM. Why is he awake?

I look around, expecting him to be standing outside my house. It’s a bit creepy.

Me: How did you know?

Jason: Light's on in your office. I can see you from my hotel.

I move to the window, peering out at the street. The Prairie Harbor Inn is directly across from my house, and sure enough, one room on the third floor is lit.

It’s not like he knew he’d be facing my house. Why didn’t I close the curtains? I’ve known for years the person who stays in the executive suite can see directly into my room. I’d put up heavy, light blocking curtains years ago.

Me: Why are you awake?

My phone rings instead of buzzes. I answer without thinking.

"Because I can't stop thinking about you." His voice is rough with exhaustion or something else. "Because I close my eyes and see you in that green dress, looking like every fantasy I've ever had.”

"Jason..."

"Tell me why you're awake, Karen."

I curl up in Mark's chair—my chair. "Josh came to apologize. We talked."

"Good. How are you?"

"Confused. Scared. Aroused." The last word slips out before I can stop it.

His sharp inhale is audible through the phone. "Careful, baby. A man could get ideas."

"Maybe I want you to get ideas." What is wrong with me? One AM honesty is dangerous.

"Karen." My name is a warning and a caress. "You've been drinking."

"Wine. I'm not drunk, just... uninhibited."

"Tell me what you're thinking. Really thinking."

I close my eyes. "I'm thinking I've been dead for five years and you're making me feel alive. I'm thinking about your hands and your voice and the way you take control without taking over. I'm thinking I want things I shouldn't want."

"Like what?"

"You know what."

"I want to hear you say it."

My face burns in the darkness. "I can't."

"Yes, you can." His voice drops to that commanding tone. "Tell me what you want, baby girl."

The endearment undoes me. "I want to let go. Want someone else to make decisions. Want to be soft and taken care of and..." I swallow. "Want to be good for someone. Want to hear you say it again."

"Say what?"

"You know what."

"Good girl." The words pour over me like honey. "There's my brave, beautiful girl. Was that so hard?"

"Yes." My voice is barely a whisper.

"I know." Gentleness now. "I know it was. But you did it anyway. You trusted me with your truth. Do you know how precious that is?"

"I don't do this. I don't have phone sex with strangers at two AM."

His laugh is low, warm. "This isn't phone sex, baby. This is connection. This is two people being honest in the safety of darkness."

"What's your truth then? Fair's fair."

Silence for a moment. Then he answers. "My truth?

I've been sleepwalking through life for years.

Going through the motions. Building a career, maintaining a marriage that died long before the divorce papers were signed.

I came here to consult on a winery and found a woman who makes me want things I'd given up on. "

"What things?"

"Partnership. Passion. Someone to protect and cherish and push when she needs pushing. Someone who needs what I need. An exchange of power, that unique trust. Someone who looks at me like I'm not just useful but necessary."

"You are necessary." The words escape before I can stop them.

"Careful, baby. I'm trying to be respectful here."

"What if I don't want respectful?"

"Then I'd remind you it's now two AM, you're emotional, have been drinking and I'm not the kind of man who takes advantage."

"And if I said please?"

"Then I'd tell you to be a good girl and go to bed. Save those pleas for when I can do something about them."

Heat floods through me. "Bossy."

"You have no idea." I can hear his smile. "But I'll show you. When you're ready. When you're sure. I'll show you exactly how bossy I can be."

"Promise?"

"I promise." His voice is certain. "Now, will you do something for me?"

"Maybe. Depends on what it is."

"Go to bed. Actually sleep. No more wine, no more journaling, no more worrying about Josh or the bar or whether this is a good idea."

"How did you know I was journaling?"

"Lucky guess. You strike me as the type who processes through writing."

He isn't wrong. "Fine. I'll go to bed."

"Good girl."

Those words again. They shouldn't have such power, but they do.

"Jason?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For tonight. For calling me. For... seeing me."

"Always, baby. Sweet dreams."

I hang up and make my way upstairs, feeling oddly settled. In my bedroom, our bedroom once, mine alone for five years, I change into soft pajamas and slide between cool sheets.

My phone buzzes once more.

Jason: Your office light is off. Good girl for listening. Sleep well, beautiful.

I smile into my pillow. This man and his caretaking. His bossiness. His way of making me feel tethered when I've been drifting for so long.

Across the street, Jason stands at his hotel window, watching Karen's house go dark.

He shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be falling for a widow with a teenager and a complicated life in a small town he'll leave in a few weeks. But God help him, he can't stop.

She's everything his ex-wife wasn't. Warm where Melissa was cold. Real where Melissa was polished facade. Karen has substance, depth, the kind of strength that comes from surviving real loss.

And those glimpses of submission, of need? They call to everything dominant in him. The way she responded to "good girl," the catch in her breath when he takes control, she's perfect. Perfectly imperfect. Perfectly his, if she'll let herself be.

His phone rings. Dale Morrison, because apparently no one sleeps in Prairie Harbor. He thought the night life in Chicago was active.

"Bit early for business calls, Dale."

"Saw your light on. Figured you were up." Dale's voice is cheerful despite the hour. And apparently, there is no privacy either. He’d been shocked when he’d seen Karen’s clear as day from his room. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about extending your contract."

"Oh?"

"The winery project's ahead of schedule, but I've got three restaurants wanting consultations. High-end places in Lincoln and Omaha. Could keep you busy another month or two."

Jason's eyes stay on Karen's dark house. "I'll think about it."

"Think hard. Also... I know it's none of my business, but Karen Mitchell's good people."

"I know."

"Do you?" Dale's voice turns serious. "Because that woman's been holding this town together since Mark died. She doesn't need some city boy playing games."

"I don't play games."

"Good. Because half this town would cheerfully murder anyone who hurt her. She's Prairie Harbor's heart."

"Dale." Jason's voice carries enough authority to stop the older man. "I know exactly how precious Karen is. I have no intention of hurting her."

"Intentions and actions aren't always the same thing."

"No," Jason agrees. "They're not. Which is why I'm going to be very careful with her. Very... intentional."

Dale is quiet for a moment. "You extending that contract or not?"

"Send me the details. I'll decide by Monday."

After they hang up, Jason pours himself a scotch from the mini-bar and settles into the uncomfortable hotel chair. He has a thriving business in Chicago. A life there, such as it is. Empty condo, empty bed, empty existence filled with work and not much else.

Here, he has possibility. Challenge. A woman who needs what he needs, who calls to parts of him he buried during his marriage.

"Sometimes you have to choose between the life you planned and the life that's waiting for you." His therapist said that during the divorce proceedings. Jason didn't understand then. Now, watching the first hints of dawn creep across Prairie Harbor's sleepy streets, he's beginning to.

Monday. He'll decide Monday.

Or maybe he's already decided, the moment Karen Mitchell looked up at him from her bar floor, bleeding and defiant and absolutely magnificent.

Maybe some decisions make themselves.

Maybe some things are just meant to be.