“Well,” I say, leaning in a little.“You picked the wrong bar to sulk in.At Sno-Globes, we’re all merry.”
His gaze slides down my face to my cleavage, then back to my eyes.“I can see why.”
I straighten quick, not that I can hide anything in this sweater.
“You always this chipper or is that just the holiday high?”he asks, scowling.
“Christmas is my season,” I say, shrugging.“Some people tan, I twinkle.”
He laughs then, quiet but real, and it hits me low in the stomach.His frown returns quick.“You’re trouble, bartender.”
“Only for the ones who don’t believe in Christmas magic.”
He shakes his head, finishing his drink.“Magic’s for kids.”
“Or old men who’ve forgotten what it feels like.”
That earns me a look, half-wounded, half-hungry.For a second, I swear the whole room tilts.
He drops a few crumpled bills on the counter.“Keep the change, Carol.”
I freeze.“I didn’t tell you my name.”
He taps the name tag pinned crooked on my chest.“You did.”
“Oh.Well, it says Caroler.We all use nicknames here.”
“So, I guessed right?”His smirk deepens.“Don’t worry, sweetheart.I ain’t the type to remember names, but the women who try to sleigh me I ain’t gonna forget.”
Chapter 2
Carol
I pour.Humbug drinks.I move because that’s safer.I refill a beer, shake a martini, wipe a ring of sugar from the bar.But the biker’s presence stays at the corner of everything, an off-screen howl.
The regulars watch him from the edges of their eyes, too.He’s not just mean.He’s mesmerizing.A couple of tourists whisper the way people do when they want to be seen whispering.The woman beside him spills her drink.It splashes in front of him.He doesn’t notice or pretends he doesn’t.
I go to sop it up as the woman apologizes to me instead of the scary biker.But she wants him to notice her.He’s stoic.
I can’t help but talk to him again.
“What’s with you and Christmas?”I ask him before my better judgment can build a fence around my mouth.
“What’s with you and Christmas?”he fires back with a growl.“You humming it like a prayer.”
“Didn’t even know I was doing it.My mom says I came out singing carols.Hence the name.I love it,” I say, topping off a hot toddy.“The town, the lights...the hope.”
“Hope,” he says, like the word tastes bad.“You selling that, sweetheart?”
I glance at the line of shot glasses waiting for a decision.“By the ounce.”
“Then pour me some more,” he says, and I'm unsure if he’s mocking me or asking for help.Maybe both.
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I say, my eyebrows up.
“Okay, Peppermint.”
My phone buzzes under the bar, Blake’s ringtone, sharp and insistent.Something I picked from the phone while my friends have Christmas Carol’s assigned.
