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Chapter One
Joslyn
Istare at the sweet old lady in front of me and breathe slowly so I don’t cry. I heard what she said, but there’s no way this is happening. The burn in my nose tells me the tears are going to fall whether I want them to or not, so I need to get out of this situation. As soon as possible. I nod, Mrs. Wilson keeps talking, and I don’t hear a word. What am I supposed to do now? Where do I go? Wilson’s Deli has been my home for three years, and I have nowhere and no one.
“Jossie?” Her wrinkled hand touches my arm and I sniffle. “Now we’re giving you a nice severance, but we just can’t keep up anymore. We’re listing the shop in three weeks but have some potential buyers. You can stay in our guest room until you get on your feet. We’d never leave our girl with nothing, you know that. I put some boxes up there for you and more at the bottom of the stairs. You know how my knees get and I can’t climb the stairs more than once.” Sweet Mrs. Wilson squeezes my arm. “We’ll lock up and close down. You go up and start preparing. And don’t forget that dinners are still at eight every Sunday. Moving out doesn’t mean you’re gone for good.” With those parting words, Mrs. Wilson leaves me standing in the middle of the deli, tears falling down my face. In a daze, I make my way between the barrels of candy and through the curtain blocking the steps up to my apartment. I grab the boxes and carry them up with me. My door is open, boxes piled in the entrance, and my few possessions are stacked on top. An envelope is taped to the door with my name in Mr. Wilson’s shaky script. I open it. It’s a check for fifteen hundred dollars. I have to find a place to live for fifteen hundred dollars. I also need a job.
My twin bed with the pink sheets the Wilson’s bought me when I moved in is shoved in the corner. The only other furniture are a desk with a mirror that I use for a vanity and a dresser. I have a few changes of clothes in the dresser. A stack of my favorite romance novels lean precariously next to my lamp, the dollar stickers still on front. And that’s it. I don’t own anything else. When my dad died and I knew I wasn’t going to stay to help my mom anymore, I got in the 1993 pickup he left me, packed a trash bag, and never looked back. I ran out of gas here, saw the help wanted sign, and never left. The Wilsons took me in, gave me a job, a place to live, and I haven’t needed anything else. That was three years ago and now I have no idea what to do with myself. I understand, I really do. They’re older, both in their eighties, the big grocery stores are taking all the business, and they’re ready to retire.
I spend the next hour packing my stuff, not that there’s much, and crying a lot. I put the check in my account with my phone and lay back on my bed. The slanted roof ceiling stares back at me and I sigh. My whole life fits in twelve boxes, minus my clothes and makeup. It’s not much, but I was so content with all of it. I have three weeks to find a place to live, which means my life outside city limits is probably over. No way will I find an apartment I can afford in the area, especially without a job. I love how quiet it is out here. In thirty minutes, I can be at Walmart or McDonald's, but I’m surrounded by rolling hills and dirt roads. It’s all crickets and cows outside of town, but my time here ends in three weeks, so I need to bite the bullet and start apartment hunting.
It only takes me fifteen minutes to be frustrated enough to throw my phone. Every apartment in my price range requires a job that I don’t have. I found a few people looking for roommates, but my fifteen hundred dollars will only get me so far. So, I switch to job listings. Surely even minimum wage is better than nothing. My job experience begins and ends with slicing meat and cheese and running a cash register. I’d barely graduated high school when I left home. My lack of experience means I can skip most of the job listings. Then I see one that catches my attention.
Administrative assistant needed. No experience necessary. Will train on site. Must be organized, good with people, and work well independently.
I click the link, fill out the application on the tiny phone screen and keep scrolling. Most listings don’t come close to something I can do. The next one that makes me pause is perfect for me.
21 and up. Apply in person after 5pm. Assistant bartender position available at O’Malley’s.
I glance at my makeup, back at my phone, then at my pile of clean clothes. I pull up my driving app and see that O’Malley’s is a twelve-minute drive and it’s seven o’clock. That’s plenty of time to inquire about the job, the worst they can say is no, then I can grab a drink and job hunt at the bar. It’s a winning scenario all around. Clothes fly as I dig through to find what I’m looking for. Black skinny jeans, my sequined red tank, and my red heels. They’re not designer, but they get the point across. I add a sheer black top and check the mirror, turning to scope my ass. If nothing else, I look damn good. I sit in my chair, dump the rest of my makeup out, and get to work. Ten minutes later and my brown eyes are smoky, my lips are cherry red, and my blond curls are up in a ponytail. I look both sexy and employable. Hoping they don’t ask for a resume, I turn off my lamp, grab the little cash in my desk drawer, my ID, and use my phone light to navigate down the stairs. The Wilsons will be watching TV, so I send Mrs. Wilson a text telling her I’m going to see about a job and tuck my phone away. Making sure I lock up, I get in my truck and start it up. Some days it takes a couple of tries, but today it roars to life, the radio blares an old love song, and I pull out of the gravel lot behind Wilson’s Deli.
Thirteen minutes later I’m pulling into the paved lot of O’Malley’s in the center of town. Classic cars, pickups, and Harleys fill the lot across from the bar. It’s wedged between a smoke shop and an empty building just a block from the city’s main drag. Tall buildings and parking structures loom in the distance without quite touching this place. A few people stand outside, clouds of smoke swirling in the night air. I park between two other trucks, hop out, and check my appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, I cross the street. My palms start sweating the closer I get, and my heart starts doing weird things. I take a deep breath and blow it out. So, this place isn’t the same quiet job as the deli, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. I can totally handle working at a bar. I expect to flash my ID as I walk in, but a giant man in a leather jacket and work boots opens the door for me with a wink. I thank him over the noise erupting from inside. When the heavy wooden door closes behind me, I hesitate to take the place in. Inside is wood everywhere, high ceilings, an old school jukebox, and a lot of rowdy patrons. Everything is hazy, a few TVs hang on the walls, and everyone seems happy. It could be worse. I make it to the thick wooden bar and find a seat out of the way. I pull the stool up, tip my head at the bartender after I see a woman in leather do the same thing, and he nods back. After filling a few glasses with amber beer, he comes to my end. He’s a good-looking guy, tall, intense eyes and a smile.
“What can I get you, gorgeous?” He winks at me.
“Whatever’s on tap and I wanted to ask about the job.” I lean in, raising my voice to be heard.
“You want a job here?” He grabs a glass, flips it into the air, and catches it before filling it. “How old are you? Eighteen?”
“Twenty-one,” I correct him, taking a sip. He shrugs and pulls a paper out for me. I take it and thank him. He smiles at me, and I watch him go work the rest of the bar. This is not my scene. Even before I moved, I never went to places like this, but I don’t hate it. Everyone is loud, and it’s obvious the people here work hard and drink harder. I fold the application and slide it into my back pocket with my money and ID. No way can I fill out a job application here, so I’ll have to come back.
I nurse my beer, watching one table in particular. It’s a party of some kind. Huge men in jeans and work boots laugh and cheer. The man at the head of the table has one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen in his lap. She’s petite and curvy with flame red hair. The couple acts as if no one else matters but each other, and it’s sweet to watch. He’s a huge, muscled guy being gentle with his wife. I know it’s his wife because I can see her huge ring from here. Then my attention is grabbed by another man at the table; the one everyone is toasting. He’s kicked back in the chair, white shirt bulging around his biceps, and the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen on his face. He’s strikingly handsome with a sharp jaw and sandy hair. I wish I could see his eyes through the haze. Every time I look away, my eyes go back to him like a magnetic pull. I gesture for one more beer and the bartender sets a basket of pretzels in front of me. Watching that man laugh and talk makes the trip here worth it entirely, whether I get the job or not.
Chapter Two
Dax
O’Malley’s is the kind of bar you go to after a hard day of work. Everyone in here is dusty, dirty, and wearing work boots. Except Morgan, but her man is dirty enough for both of them. My boss and his woman decided that my last day on the site, and last day with him, should be celebrated properly. To send me off, they found a sitter and threw this party. I’ve worked on Everett Jennings’s crew for three years now and been his right hand man the whole time. Construction is good work, great money, and satisfying as hell, but cars are where my passion is. I’m more at home under the hood with grease on my hands than anywhere in the world. My three years with Everett gave me the chance to save up enough for my own garage and house. My dream home is a four-bedroom farmhouse with a wraparound porch. The garage is through a patch of woods next to the house and has every state-of-the-art piece of equipment ever made. I even bought a wrecker with my garage name on the side.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ miss this guy, but I’ll be damned if I’m not proud as hell.” Everett raises his glass, and the rest of the crew does too. I shake my head at the drunk men around the table. Not only was today my last day, but it was Everett’s last day on his and Morgan’s newest project. After suing her dad and his company, Morgan came away with enough money to build a children’s home, so that’s what they did. No way I wasn’t staying for a project like that.
I watch Morgan press her forehead to Everett’s, and he kisses her. Now that’s the life. Great job, big house, and a good woman to fill it with love and babies. I lift my glass and something behind them catches my attention. I straighten in my chair to see over them. There’s a woman at the bar, and she definitely doesn’t belong. I can barely make out her features from where I sit, but I can see the blond curls, curves, and pouty red lips. She runs a finger around the edge of her half empty glass, staring off across the bar before turning and facing the bartender again. He says something funny, and she laughs. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m outta my chair and striding across the bar. Everett says my name, but I just shake my head and keep walking. When I get to the stool next to her, I pause to take her in. Tight ass jeans, a sparkly top, and curves for fucking days. Turned toward the bartender, she doesn’t see me, but he does. He gives me a chin tip before vanishing and I lift one leg over the stool to sit next to her.
“Now don’t take this wrong, but you don’t really fit in here.” I lean in so she can hear me.
“No, not really.” She turns to me, and I’m hit with big, chocolate doe eyes and even fuller lips than I imagined.
“How’d you find yourself in O’Malley’s alone?” The bartender appears with another beer, and I thank him.
“A job.” She shrugs and mirrors me by lifting her glass. A job. No fucking way this little thing could make it in this place. The patrons would eat her alive. I bite back a laugh. “But I don’t think he’s very impressed.” She nods to the man delivering drinks across the bar. I think his name is Drake, but I don’t remember.
“Anyone not impressed with you is blind or wrong.” I wink at her and she smirks, still nursing the same beer.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hitting on me.”
“Good thing you know better.” I put out a hand. “Dax.” She slides her small, soft hand into mine.
“Joslyn. It’s very nice to meet you.” Before she slides her hand from mine I run my thumb over her knuckles, reveling in the softness.
