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Dean scoffed, clinging to his exasperation. “Drama? When have I ever caused drama?”
Luke and Christie exchanged a look, and Dean had a feeling he was going to regret that question. Luke arched an eyebrow. “In recent memory? Let’s see.” He held up a hand, ticking his examples off on his fingers as he went. “My first wedding. Matt and Ellie’s engagement party. The family camping trip to Yellowstone. That time when—”
Dean held up his hands in surrender. Even though he’d asked, he didn’t need a litany of his transgressions. “Okay, okay. Point taken.” He met Christie’s eyes, and put his wounded ego aside to make the bride happy. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find someone to come with me on such short notice, but I sincerely promise I won’t cause any drama.” Dean didn’t make a lot of promises, but when he did, he was a man of his word. He held Christie’s gaze, hoping she could tell he meant it.
After a second, she nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She returned to her spot beside Luke, and when she looked at him, her eyes were bright. “I can’t believe it’s only a week away!” She held her hand out in front of her, gazing down at the diamond sparkling on her finger.
Luke slipped an arm around her. “Only a week until you’re Dr. Harmon-Grayson.”
She leaned toward him, pressing her forehead against his. “God, do I love the sound of that.”
Dean glanced away and took another sip of his beer, feeling like he was intruding. Something tightened in his chest as he watched them, something raw and wistful, and he wondered if he’d ever have anything like that. If he’d ever manage to find someone who didn’t scare him shitless when it came to commitment. He set the bottle on the table beside his chair and stood. “I should get going. I need to head to the bar.”
Christie gave him a hug and a pat on the arm before heading into the kitchen to put away the groceries she’d brought in. Luke walked him to the door. “We’re good?”
“Yeah, man, of course. I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.” A rock settled in the pit of his stomach at the idea that his family thought he was a thirty-year-old fuck-up-drama-magnet-manwhore. The rock wasn’t there because they thought that of him, but because he knew they weren’t wrong.
And that wasn’t who he wanted to be. Not anymore.
He drove through Cheyenne toward his bar, The Tipsy Bison. His father had opened the bar and restaurant over thirty years ago, and had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into it to make it the success it was. It was the only thing that had kept him going after his wife—Dean’s mom—had died over ten years ago, now. The ovarian cancer had been swift, taking her only months after the diagnosis, and leaving both Dean and his father completely bereft. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so it had just been him and his dad—and his father’s endless string of women—after that.
Dean had grown up working at the Bison, busing tables, washing dishes, and then bartending after he’d turned twenty-one. Over the past several years, he’d taken on more and more responsibility, and two years ago, his father had officially retired, handing the Tipsy Bison over to Dean. He took great pride in running it and making sure it remained successful. Professionally, he was fulfilled. On a personal level . . . maybe not so much.
After his mother’s death, he’d picked up his father’s habit of chasing girls to help him forget the pain of losing her. Of watching her waste away. Of watching her try to hide her pain. He’d found solace in connecting with a woman, but only physically. Any time things got emotional, he’d bailed, unable to deal with the vulnerability that came with it. After a while, the bailing had simply become habit. It was one he wanted to break, but fuck if he knew how. He’d been doing it for so long that it was ingrained in him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d stunted himself, and was past the point of no return.
Maybe it was the fact that his friends were getting married and having kids. Maybe it was the fact that he’d just turned thirty. All Dean knew was that he wanted more, even if he didn’t know how to go about getting it. He didn’t want to be the weird pervy guy still chasing women at forty. At fifty. Didn’t want to end up alone because he’d pushed everyone away out of fear.
As he drove, he replayed the conversation with Luke and Christie over and over again, his mood sinking with each turn. Manwhore. The word beat through his skull, interrupting his other thoughts, over and over again.
God, he just wanted to be . . . better. And happier, if he was honest with himself.
Step one: keep it together in Mexico so that he didn’t turn into Cockzilla and ruin his cousin’s wedding.
* * *
Carly Jensen ran her cloth over the gleaming cherry wood surface of the bar, polishing it more out of habit than necessity. The crowd was thin at this time of day, before the start of the dinner rush, but she liked to keep moving. Staying busy made the shifts fly by.
“Hey, darlin’, can I get another Miller Lite?” asked Tom, one of her regular customers. He sat in his usual seat, his eyes on one of the flat screen TVs over the bar.
“Sure thing,” she said, turning and pulling a cold bottle out of the fridge. She cracked the cap off and slid it down to him, then added the bottle to his tab. Working the bar wasn’t glamorous, but the Tipsy Bison’s atmosphere was warm and welcoming, and for the most part, the customers were friendly. The tips were decent, and the schedule was flexible, which allowed her to take last-minute or out-of-town gigs when they came up.
“You okay, darlin’? You’re lookin’ a little blue.” Tom frowned, his kind brown eyes studying her. Thinning salt-and-pepper hair covered his head, and he scratched at his stubbled cheek.
Unable to help herself, Carly sighed. “You know what, Tom? I’ve been better.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
She laughed softly, bracing her hands on the bar and arching her eyebrow at him. “I think that’s my line.”
He took a sip of his beer and smiled sadly at her. “You’re too young, too pretty, and too sweet to look so sad.”
Something in her chest softened at his kind, unsolicited words. She wagged a finger at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere, but you still have to pay for your drinks.”
“Well, shit. You figured out my master plan.” He shook his head, the smile still on his face. “So what’s gotcha down?”
She pulled her water bottle out from below the bar and took a sip, then wiped up a few drops of condensation. “Just life, I guess. Things aren’t going the way I’d hoped.”
Tom nodded slowly. “Sorry to tell ya, but that’s usually the way it goes.”
