Page 1

Chapter One

Ivy

Fingers tap against the rounded edge of the bar. Despite the large hands and the long fingers, the tapping is soft, and gentle, and completely out of rhythm. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A slight shiver trickles down my spine as I eye the man who seems to be studying the bar top with great interest.

The tapping stops and he lifts his head. With the cap pulled low over his eyes, a shadow falls across his features and I can’t quite make out the color of his eyes from my spot by the beer taps. I force myself to look down, eyes back on the taps as I twist my wrist and switch out the glasses in my hands. A steady stream of beer flows eagerly and the second pint glass fills to the top.

“Won’t be a moment,” I call out, my eyes falling on the man again. He hasn’t called me over since sitting down, nor has he really shown any indication that he is ready to order, but I call out anyway. Still, there is something in me that can’t resist trying to get his attention. He gives a slight nod without meeting my gaze and his fingers take up tapping again against the lacquered bar top.

The man’s disinterest bothers me.

Why?

No idea. But it does.

“Here you go, Doug.” I push the two overflowing pint glasses in front of the older gentleman.

“You should pour yourself one, darlin’. On me and the boys,” he replies as I add the drinks to his tab .

“You know I can’t drink on shift, Doug. Stop trying to get me in trouble.”

He laughs, heartedly and with his whole body. He gives me a fake pout and shakes his head, telling me, “I’m just waiting for the day you quit this place and run away with me. You know that.”

I can’t help but laugh right along with him. Doug is good natured, sweet, and madly in love with his high school sweetheart. I’ve heard the stories about him and his wife enough times to know that he is only kidding about running away with him.

Doug is my favorite regular customer by a mile. I’m only here casually to help out but during the quieter hours when Doug and his buddies are the only ones around, they like to regale me with stories, talk nonsense, and dissect any football game that happens to be playing on the bar’s televisions. I remember the time I’d asked Doug if he’d ever played before—a passing comment after I’d first started working shifts at the bar—and the rollercoaster of a story that had followed ended with him breaking his ankle in high school and ruining any chance of him going pro. I laughed, commenting that it was a damn shame because he looked like he could have been an American All-Star. That had earned me the brightest smile from Doug who’d been quick to agree.

That story remains my all-time favorite of his.

“You’re a gem. Thanks, Ivy.” Doug is missing a tooth but his grin hasn’t suffered from it. The faded, over worn Broncos jersey stretches over his large beer belly. I can’t help the smile that grows again and I wave him off.

When I turn, the man in the cap has raised his head a little and I can see more of his jawline. Sharp. So sharp.

He’s been watching the exchange with Doug but when our eyes meet, his gaze drops and his fingers resume their out-of-rhythm tapping. I approach, moving slowly down the bar to his seat .

“Hi,” I say, resisting the urge to clear my throat first. My mouth is suddenly dry and I practically feel my nerves pulsing under my skin. Why the hell am I nervous? “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water.” He pauses as his chin lifts slightly. His rough voice raises goosebumps on my arms when he adds in a low grumble, “Please.”

“Sure. Nothing else?” My hand is already moving toward the chilled glasses in the fridge next to where I stand.

“Just the water. Thanks,” he adds quickly.

At least he has manners. I fill his glass with ice, eyeing him as he whips the cap off his head and runs a hand through his hair.

My stomach turns over with a pang of familiarity.

I know him.

He looks so familiar, it’s as if I recognize some of the features of his face but can’t place them clearly in my mind. It’s a blurry, pixelated version. My mind screams at me, positive that I have seen this man before. I try to school my features though; I don’t want to scare him off while my brain tries to put the pieces of this puzzle together.

“You from around here?” I ask before I can stop myself, letting my easy and well-rehearsed customer service smile slip into place. I slide a coaster under the glass of water and place it in front of him.

Green. His eyes are green.

My gaze drifts over his strong jaw, and up to his hair, taking note of the way his hair curls at the ends after being trapped under his cap. I glance down, following the trail of corded muscles down his arms. His biceps stretch the cotton, the t-shirt he wears hugging his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. I swallow. I would bet good money that he has an eight pack under that shirt of his. My gaze darts around his impressive form and my fingers twitch, wanting to reach out to feel how solid he is.

God, I need to get a grip.

Finally, he meets my gaze. Another small shiver rolls down my spine as a chill spreads up my arms and I fight off the urge to shake them out.

“No. ”

“So, you just moved here?” I ask, studying him. My eyes linger on the shadow of a beard growing. I wonder what he looks like with the beard fully grown out? I imagine it only adds to the appeal. The ruggedness of him. A tall, wide man with a full beard. I think he would look good with a full beard. Although, it would probably hide that jawline of his, and that would be a shame.

His eyebrows crease, long lashes framing the green of his eyes and deepening the color just a little. He cocks his head to the side and frowns, clearing his throat.

Shit.

I’m staring.

“Yes. That would be the definition of me not being from around here,” he replies in the same low, gruff tone.

“You could be just visiting.” I shrug. I could walk away, I should walk away. There are a few glasses that could go through the wash, missing bottles of beer to be refilled in the fridge. I have things to do before we close. I don’t have to stay and chat with this guy.

Yet the puzzle pieces still aren’t making sense and I can’t shake the feeling that I know him from somewhere. I hesitate for a second. “You look familiar.”

It’s his turn to study me and with his gaze the beginnings of a flush burn at the nape of my neck. I take a subtle deep breath, willing the heat to stay off my face. The corners of his eyes begin to tighten, fingers reaching to clutch the untouched glass of water in front of him before he says, “Hazard of the job, I guess.”

“Oh?” I shuffle through my memories, searching for him. He isn’t a teacher at the school. Unless he is new? No, I don’t think they’ve hired this year for the junior school. I haven’t seen him around the bar before, nor around the hospital and I don’t spend my time anywhere else these days. I press on, my curiosity winning out over my politeness.

“What do you do? ”

“I—” He goes to answer but something in his eyes shift as if he’s only just realizing what I’m asking him and a gleam of joy flashes through the small cracks of his stoic mask. “Nothing important. I work across the road.”

“For the Broncos?” I lean on the bar toward him, wanting to figure him out and trying my best to do so before I scare him off.

I’m curious. Sue me.

He’s a mystery and the only thing I want at this moment is to figure him out. Eagerness be damned.

“You could say that,” he answers. My heart skips a little as his fingers drum along the bar top again.

“Oh, well, you’ll be a new regular then I expect. They all come over here during the week from what I’m told. And during home games, the bar is packed with fans.” I wave a hand lazily around the bar.

“You’re told? This is your first shift?” he asks. I bite down a smile. Good, I’ve got him curious too. Curious about me, maybe. Hopefully. My stomach flips and something flutters lightly in my chest.

I ignore the feeling though, tugging the cloth from my back pocket to run it over the bar.

It’s cliché as hell but whatever.

I need a distraction from the butterflies suddenly roaming around inside me.

“My friend’s parents own the bar. I only really work on weekends when they need help.” I drop my gaze to the mahogany bar top, the flush creeping even higher up my neck without permission. “I’m actually a kindergarten teacher.”

“Bit of a change. Toddlers to drunk adults.”

“You’d think so, but not so much in my experience.” I curl my fingers into the cleaning rag, sweeping it across the bar top again. “They’re more similar than you’d think.”

As if on cue to prove my point, a bunch of rowdy guys stumble through the door. One of them wears an off-white, stained with beer wedding dress. The others don t-shirts with a drunken photo enlarged—of what I assume to be the groom—and printed on each one. Great. I drop my head, rolling my shoulders back. So much for an easy, quiet afternoon. I was hoping for a story or two with Doug, an opportunity to pull out my school work and plan some lessons for the kids so I was well and truly ahead before the school year starts.

“Ah.” The familiar man’s eyes follow mine, his jaw tightening as he watches the group loudly decide on a round of shots. He shoves the cap back onto his head, pulling it as far down over his face as it will go. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Oh.” My chest tightens. I didn’t want him to go. “Well, it was nice to meet you …”

“Scott.” He fills in for me.

I beam, holding out my hand across the bar. “Ivy.”

Scott stares at my hand for a moment before wrapping his fingers around mine. His hand is calloused, rough, and uneven. It dwarfs my own. Yet as I settle into the shape and feeling of his fingers curled around mine, it’s as if the two fit perfectly. As if each is carved out purely for the other.

He drops my hand, brows pulling together and a frown tugging at his lips.

“See you round, Ivy.”

Despite the fact there isn’t a hint of a smile on his face and his features are still set into what I’m beginning to think is probably stone, his eyes flash with something else. The green of his eyes swirl under the shadow of his cap. They’re intense but a spark takes hold and lights a small fire in the pit of my stomach.

I swallow the lump in my throat, losing the war with the unwanted flush heating up my face. I give him a small wave, calling after him, “Welcome to Boston.”