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Tempting me.
Because Icould.
Why not? I hadn’t been home to Hart’s Ridge inyears. And in those years, I hadn’t taken a single vacation. Not one. As part of the ballet, I had traveled to Mexico and France and all over the U.S., but I had been working the entire time. I hadn’t even gotten to see theMona Lisa. What was the point in going to Paris without seeing theMona Lisa?
If not now, when? This opportunity wasn’t going to come around again—at least, I truly hoped not. My ankle was already healed. In January, I was expected to return to full duty as a principal dancer. I certainly wouldn’t have more time then. And as much as I loved New York, I wanted to see this postcard-perfect town I had grown up in, but somehow never reallyexperienced.
Now that I was seriously considering it, I felt almost breathless with excitement. My chest squeezed painfully tight again, but this time I knew. It was a good pain.
“Actually, Emma, I can. And I will.” I strode to the door, wrapping my scarf around my neck to brace for the frigid temperatures outside.
“Really?” Emma asked excitedly. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes, really. I’m coming home.”
Chapter 2
Luke
Isetthebeeron the bar with a grin I well knew could melt the panties off any woman between the ages of twenty-one and fifty-eight—and probably outside that range, too, although I didn’t aim to find out. I liked to think I had a little thing called ethics. Standards, if you will. All I asked was that the woman be single, old enough to shoot a whiskey, and young enough not to die from that the next day.
Fortunately, the blonde on the receiving end of the drink and smile met those requirements. On the other hand, so did the two brunettes at the other end of the bar, showing a pleasing amount of skin in defiance of the snowflakes I could see falling outside the window, openly appraising me with approving glances. I didn’t recognize any of them.
Once that would have been a rarity in Hart’s Ridge, North Carolina, where the cows outnumbered people. But with our tourism numbers ticking up, it was becoming a more frequent occurrence.
That suited me just fine. Goat’s Tavern was the kind of bar that prided itself on simultaneously being the local watering hole where everyone knew your name and the quintessential dive bar where no one did. The dividing line between the two was where you were from and where you were going.
Where I was from was Hart’s Ridge and where I was going was…nowhere, generally. But that was going to change soon. I hoped.
I had lived my entire thirty-three years a mere hundred feet from the bar, which for several generations had been a large, ramshackle barn on the Buchanan farmland. Farming the land had ended with my grandparents’ death, but the old barn had good bones, and I had spent the better part of two years renovating it into a bar. Business had been steady ever since, both from the Hart’s Ridge locals and the Appalachian Trail thru-hikers who came down the mountain in a steady stream from May through August.
And then there were the people who made the drive from the other towns that dotted the mountains of western North Carolina, who had drinking establishments of their own but were starving for new faces. They came to Goat’s Tavern looking for fun, not forever.
Judging from the look she was sending me, the blonde fell into that category. And I was more than willing to take her up on that offer. I had far too many familial burdens to willingly saddle myself with the romantic kind. No, thank you.
“So.” I didn’t lean forward so much as sprawl, giving her a show of muscles beneath the tight Henley I wore. “Can I get you a refill?”
Her gaze ate me up greedily. “If I have another, I might not be able to drive myself home tonight.”
My grin widened. I knew an invitation when I heard one. “Well, I think I can help you out there.”
“Absolutely not.” Jasmine Mendes, employee of Goat’s Tavern and, until that very moment, one of my favorite people, slapped a calendar on the bar top next to my elbow. “You’re not doing anything until you fix the schedule for December.”
“I did that already,” I protested.
Jasmine put her hands to her hips and stared me down. “No, you didn’t. You have me down for double shifts every day the week before Christmas. Do you remember what I said to that?”
I sighed. “I believe your exact words were fuck no.”
“That’s right.” She jabbed one long red fingernail, filed to a sharp point and topped with a silver snowflake, at the schedule for emphasis. “Fuck. No.”
I sighed again. Years ago, I had slept with Jasmine and liked it so much that I did it again. After the fourth time I found myself in the predicament of wanting to keep her in my life but very much not wanting to take our relationship from casual to committed. I had solved the problem by hiring her at Goat’s Tavern, a decision I was now regretting as I watched the blonde turn her attention to a man who, presumably, wasn’t distracted by schedules and calendars.
“I’m working doubles, too,” I pointed out.
Her expression informed me she did not care one iota for my selflessness. “The difference being that you own the place and I do not. Which makes staffing ityourproblem, not mine. Now, if you want to share fifty percent of the profits with me for the month, then we can talk.”
I grunted a denial, scooped up the employee calendar, and gave it a hard stare, willing it to magically work itself out. Which, due to my lack of magical powers, it did not. No matter how much I glared, the holiday schedule remained the same: understaffed.
