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I shake my head. “Not this year. Can’t afford the plane ticket. I finally saved up enough to buy the car I’ve been eyeing at Dooney’s Garage. She’s my Christmas present to myself.”
“Cool.” Ryan pushes a hand through his short blond hair, and runs his teeth across his lower lip. “We’ve got a gig the day after Christmas just outside Aurora—you want to come? It’ll be a good time. Maybe you and me could grab something to eat after?”
Ryan’s an Alpine local—born and raised. He’s about my age and plays lead guitar in a band that’s not half bad. Jace lets them play live here on Wednesday nights. Heather’s been crushing on Ryan forever—almost as long as I’ve been obsessed with Jace.
And even if she wasn’t, I don’t date. The hunk out behind the bar may not realize he’s got my heart under lock and key—but I do. Leading someone else on, giving another guy the idea that I might be interested in him, when I know there’s no chance, just wouldn’t be right.
Before I can answer, the hunk himself is standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his eyes cold with impatience.
“You got that order or what, Evie?” Jace jerks his dark head out toward the main room. “Customers are waiting.”
I give him a nod. “Coming right up.”
I pick up the plates and smile at Ryan on my way toward the door. “Thanks for asking, but I can’t.”
Not now. Not ever. Not with him.
Yep . . . totally pathetic.“You want another round?” I ask the young, trendy couple, as I set their burgers in front of them and point to their almost-empty mugs of dark Guinness.
They each nod and I head over to the bar to fill the order.
The girl kind of reminds me of me—with her full, wild wavy hair and dark brown eyes. The me I was four years ago—back when I used to date.
Dating is how I ended up here.
It was Dylan McCaffery—he wasn’t Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now—he was more Mr. Pass-the-Time. And when he suggested a cross-country road trip, my twenty-one year-old self quit my job as a dental office receptionist, emptied my savings account, and hit the road for some good old life experience.
The first few days went well, but by the time we stopped in Alpine two weeks later, Dylan and I were bickering like two people who couldn’t stand each other.
Because we actually couldn’t stand each other.
The final straw came when I showered first—using all three minutes-worth of the hot water in our motel room.
That’s when Dylan, and his car, ditched me.
My plan was to grab something to eat, spend the night in the motel and head back to New Jersey the next day. But then, I walked into The Black Diamond for that something to eat. Jace was behind the bar, and Heather was my waitress and by the end of the night—I had a new roommate and a new job, and the start of a whole new life.
It’s funny. Sometimes life is like a maze in those activity books for kids. You take a swirly, roundabout path, just to end up right where you were supposed to be all along.“Have you ever had a sexual fantasy about Santa Claus? If yes, describe in detail below.”
I look up from the paper in front of me, at my roommate Heather.
“This is wrong on so many levels. Explain this to me again?”
We’re in the breakroom—I’m starting my break and she just came in to start her shift. She twists her blond hair into a bun on top of her head and puts her purse in the locker. “It’s called The Naughty List—it’s an anonymous survey for my human sexuality class. I need to gather responses from friends and acquaintances over the winter break, so do me a solid and fill it out.”
Heather is working toward her physical therapy degree.
“What do naughty fantasies have to do with PT?” I ask.
“I have two theories. A—physical therapy is about the health of the whole person, sexual health included. Or B—my professor needs fodder for his spank bank.” She shrugs. “Probably some combo of the two.”
Heather’s hazel eyes open wide. “Oh! I almost forgot . . . speaking of spank banks . . . I got some saucy holiday fashion for the Christmas party this week!”
She reaches back in her locker, and pulls out two clingy t-shirts, holding them up. In jolly green letters, one says, “I love big balls,” above an image of two, large Christmas balls hanging suggestively below it. The other shirt displays, “Who wants to stuff my stocking?” across the chest in bright, Santa-red writing.
“What do you think?”
I laugh, giving the thumbs up. “I think we’re going to look like a couple of ho, ho, hoes.”
“Perfect!” She heads for the door, pointing toward the paper on the table. “Now get to writing down your dirtiest fantasies! And be honest—I promise I won’t read it—and your name isn’t on it.”
