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Speaking of knowing the people I've known a long time, take Sage Landon, for that matter.
She grew up around here. Her parents run the Dock Holiday Guesthouse and Charter Boat Tours, and the Landons made use of their three bright and attractive daughters as help for the family business. Worked out great for the oldest, Sara, who got a degree in accounting and still does all the books. And it looks like the baby, Sammi, is set to transfer her community college studies to Montana State soon.
Sage is the black sheep of the family. She had a troubled adolescence, if "troubled" is the word for mildly rebellious attitude. She didn't quit school, do drugs and get pregnant, but she went rogue for a couple of years. Dyed streaks of pink in her dark blond hair, wore more eyeliner than Avril Lavigne, rode a skateboard around town, snuck into her friends' parents' houses and stole their cooking sherry. Posted rude limericks in her distinctive handwriting on the town bulletin board. Went joyriding around the ski resort in Judge Miller's golf cart. Refused to go to college. Dated a lot of guys--some of them townies, some of them only in the area for vacation.
None of this was really bad behavior, of course. It just made her an outlier in that family. I could relate. My own teenage years were a little rough, since my dad dipped out without a forwarding address when I was about twelve, and I spent some years figuring out what it means to be a man.
Hint: being a man does not require getting drunk every weekend, or doing stupid shit like stealing Jimmy Fenroy's motorcycle and racing it around town before returning it, lighter in the gas tank but unharmed. Or climbing the fence to go skinny-dipping in the lake after hours. Or...you get the idea.
I caught Sage and some of her friends skinny-dipping in the lake one night when she was a teenager. That must've been ten years ago, before I met Lisa. And even then, Sage had a gorgeous body to go with her Slightly Bad Girl persona. She kept flaunting it at me, until I managed to throw a blanket in her direction. The other girls in the group were squealing, floundering around to cover themselves with their clothes, but not Sage. She looked me dead in the eye, all blue eyes and don't-care attitude, all creamy-pink skin andI dare you to starebravado.
It might still be the sexiest damn thing I've ever seen. I dream about her sometimes.
And here she is in the flesh. Black tee with the name of the bar on it, the letters curving over her tits. Jeans snug over those round hips and fitted to her gorgeous legs. Kickass boots. Her long hair is pulled up in a loose gather on top of her head, and it shows off the little moon-and-stars tattoo at the nape of her neck. She's pulling a draft beer and laughing at something her coworker said, and I get a flash of the tattoo on her inner wrist.
Makes me wonder where else she's got tattoos. Makes me jealous of the coworker.
Which just makes me rethink this whole stupid crush thing. Crushes are for teenagers, not divorced men with some fucking mileage on them like me. For fuck's sake, I'm a dozen years older than she is.
Trouble is, I can't explain that to my dick.
Zane and his girl, little Sammi Landon--Sage's sister--come to the table with bottles of IPA and the girls' drinks. I say hi to Clint and his girl, pretty Gabi who often delivers us rangers our lunch from one local takeout place or another. Clint and Zane get their beers; the girls get their drinks, leaving me to stare that damn bottle of IPA and try to keep my face from sneering. That's not beer, that's beer-flavored herbal tea.
"Be back in a mo'," I say. "Get myself a real drink." Clint hoots with laughter, shaking his head, but then he pulls Gabi closer for a kiss so I know none of them are really going to miss me while I'm at the bar.
"Hey, Holt. What can I get you?"
Damn, even her voice is sexy. It doesn't help that I can see her nipples perk up under her shirt.
"Whiskey ditch. Maker's Mark, if you have it."
She pours the whiskey and adds a little water to open the flavor. "Should I add this to the table's tab?"
"Nah. I can't drink that IPA shit."
She smiles, setting the glass down on the bar between us. "Just between you and me and the gatepost, I agree with you. I like a nice brown ale, but I find IPA too bitter."
"Exactly." I pull out my wallet and hand her a twenty. When she goes to make change, I wave it away. "Nah, keep it. Get yourself a drink."
She shoots me a sidelong glance. "I don't like to drink when I tend. I could go for a lemonade, though. And thank you."
"No trouble." Some part of me is relieved that her underage drinking was only a phase for her. I sip my own whiskey and tell myself that I cannot, no matter the provocation, just lean across the bar and take one of those tight nipples into my mouth through her shirt. I should go back to the group.
"Saddle up and chat a minute, won'tcha?" Sage says. It seems there's a brief lull in people ordering drinks at the bar, and she leans on the bar while I try to eradicate lustful thoughts from my head.
It wouldn't hurt to stay a moment, though.
CHAPTER THREE
HOLT
Itake a bar stool. "How long you been working here?" I ask, idly. I don't know if I can come back here often if she's going to be a walking temptation around the place. Don't want to make a nuisance of myself.
"Three months," she says, swiping a fallen strand of hair off her face with a hand graced by three silver rings. She leans a little closer to me, and my jeans get tight at the scent of her. It's not that the smell of lemons and oranges is that sexy in itself...it's that it's her smell. I'd probably be hard even if she smelled like, I dunno, axle grease. "But also just between you and me and the gatepost, I'm looking for somewhere else. I think this place is doing well now and I'd like a challenge."
I nod. "Sure seems busier than it used to be around here for a Wednesday, even during tourist season."
Sage's pink lips curve into a smile, and damn if that doesn't make me even stiffer. "Yeah. That's due to me."
