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CHAPTER ONE
MIRANDA SINCLAIR TOSSED the tequila popper to the back of her throat, relishing the burn as the liquor warmed her in all the right places, loosening up the tension in her shoulders from a craptastic day in the field and an even crappier anniversary.
“Keep ’em comin’.” She motioned to Russ, a hard-bitten man with cheeks made ruddy by countless years spent in the harsh Alaskan air, who owned and bartended The Rusty Anchor. She offered a grim smile as he slid the shooter across to her in a practiced move, and after she’d dispatched it in the same efficient manner, she swiveled on her barstool to survey the prospects for the night.
That was right—tonight she was going to take home one lucky SOB, ride him as if the world was going to end tomorrow, and then when the first tender rays of light hit the windowsill, she’d send him on his way with a cup of coffee and a boot print on his hindquarters.
It was a helluva plan.
“Killing yourself with booze and bad choices isn’t going to bring her back,” Russ said.
Miranda scowled. “Play bartender psychologist with someone else, Russ. I’m not interested in your counsel right now.”
Russ shook his head. “Always so filled with piss and vinegar. Girl, someday you’re going to have to rein in that acid tongue of yours.”
“So they say,” Miranda quipped. She had plenty of people telling her she needed to try tact once in a while; she didn’t need her bartender to join the chorus, too. “But not tonight. Come on, Russ. Stop crashing on my buzz. I need this.” Besides, contrary to Russ’s opinion, Miranda thought her plan of action was far better than the alternative—curling up in her worn recliner, nursing a bottle of Jack. “Today has to be up there as one of my worst days in a long time.”
“Yeah? What made it so bad?” Russ asked, polishing a glass, his dark eyes serious. Russ knew about the anniversary—for God’s sake, the whole town knew and never let her forget, seeing as it was everyone’s favorite go-to gossip topic—but he was asking about the less-obvious reason she wanted to blot out her brain with booze. She almost waved off his question, not sure she wanted to share, but she did anyway.
“I didn’t get the job,” she answered, her chest tightening again as bitterness followed. “Apparently, I’m not management material.” She tapped the bar with the shot glass for another round. “So, whatever.”
“Did they say why not?”
“Nope. I was just thanked for my interest in the position and politely informed that the department had chosen to go in another direction.” She looked pointedly at Russ and waggled her glass at him. He sighed and refilled it. Yep. This was a much better plan.
Done talking, she swiveled her chair away from Russ and surveyed the bar. Slim pickings to be sure. The bar was filled with the usual nightlife but the place stank of fish, which meant the men probably had wet socks and frozen toes because they were all in port from their commercial fishing outfits scattered throughout Alaska.
She recognized a few familiar faces, Johnny, Macho, Heff—all working on the halibut fishing boat The Arctic Maiden—and certainly not contenders for her purposes tonight. Miranda scanned the room and found a decided lack of options. So much for cutting up and losing herself in a night of debauchery she’d likely regret when she sobered up. For a brief—nanosecond-brief—moment she considered Luke Prather, but the last time she’d taken him to bed for a one-nighter he’d fallen head over heels in love with her and it’d been no fun whatsoever trying to scrape him off her doorstep for weeks afterward. That had been awkward and irritating. No, thanks. Her personal brand of misery did not include ducking the lovelorn. She mentally crossed Luke from her list.
What happened to all the raw, randy men built like cedar trees with big, beefy hands that were worn and tough like old shoe leather from working hard since the day they were big enough to swing an ax or cast a line? Too bad the AnnaMarie wasn’t in port this month. The AnnaMarie’s captain was always down for some unattached wild times.
Well, maybe getting laid wasn’t on the agenda tonight but getting stone-cold drunk certainly was. She turned to Russ with a morose sigh. “And it just keeps getting better and better,” she murmured in frustration. “Another round and stop skimping on the tequila.”
“You’ve got that look in your eye, kid,” Russ said with knowing. “Maybe you ought to just go home and watch television.”
“I don’t have a television,” Miranda said, motioning for her fourth round, which Russ plainly ignored. She made a face. The last thing she needed was Russ passing judgment on her choices. She had her mother for that. “Come on. Are we going to play that game? I’m no kid and I’ve earned the right to get snot-faced drunk if I please.”
