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“So I’m learning.” She wiped at the bar as she talked, finding comfort in opening up to a neutral party. “I’d been dating this guy, Mike. A doctor.”
Tom let out a low whistle. “A doctor. Very nice.”
Carly nodded. “Right? Might as well aim high.” She sighed, and waved a hand through the air, as though she could brush everything she was feeling away. “But it didn’t work out. We broke up a few weeks ago.” The ass. Just thinking about him sent anger burning through her.
“What happened?”
She kept wiping the bar, tracing the same circles over and over again as she unburdened herself. “He met someone else.” She shrugged and glanced up at Tom, wondering if he could see the bruise on her pride. She sure as hell could feel it. “Guess I aimed too high.”
She’d dated Mike for about three months, and God, she’d really liked him. Smart, funny, cute. A doctor, with a nice family. An all-around good guy. The kind she could’ve seen herself marrying, someday. But that vision had been completely one-sided, because he’d left her for a nurse at the hospital. And it wasn’t even so much the fact that he’d left her that stung—she hadn’t been in love with him so much as the idea of him. No, the pain came from the reasons why he’d found Ashley so much more appealing than her.
Prettier? Check.
Girlier? Check.
Not a bartender-slash-stand-up-comedian? Check.
Mike hadn’t been comfortable with her dream of being a comedian, or her lack of cooking skills, or her inability to walk in heels, and so he’d gone out and found someone with bigger boobs and a smaller nose who fit his definition of the perfect woman.
Like anyone, she had her insecurities, but damn, that had hurt. The rejection, the sense of failure, the worry that she’d never find someone to share her life with. That she simply wasn’t what men wanted.
“No such thing as aiming too high,” said Tom, bringing her back to the present. “Screw that guy. You’re a catch.” He winked at her and gave a nod, as though his word on the subject was final.
She slapped her towel down on the bar, mustering her confidence, and resenting Mike for the fact that she had to muster it at all. “Damn right I am. I just . . . I just want a man with, like, a decent job, and an apartment, or a house, with actual furniture and who’s good in bed and appreciates me. Someone funny, smart, and kind. That’s it. It’s a short list.”
Although, to be fair, Mike had fallen a little short in the good-in-bed department. A little vanilla, maybe. And his oral sex skills had left something to be desired. And he hadn’t seemed concerned if she came or not.
Okay, maybe more than a little short.
But the rejection still hurt. Probably would for a while.
The bar’s front door opened, bringing in a gust of fresh air along with Carly’s boss and friend, Dean Grayson. He tipped his head at her and gave a cursory wave before heading toward his office at the back. She watched him move through the bar, taking in his slumped shoulders and the way his brows were drawn together. He disappeared into his office, and Carly scooted out from behind the bar and to the kitchen.
“Hey, Greg,” she called to one of the cooks, who was in the process of chopping an onion at lightning speed. She had no idea how he could move so quickly. If she tried that, she’d end up without any fingertips. “Can I get two bacon cheeseburgers, extra bacon, with a mountain of fries?”
“Meal break for you and the boss?”
“You got it.” She and Dean often ate together, a tradition that had started not long after she’d started working at the bar two years ago. She’d been his first hire after he’d taken over the bar from his dad, and they’d struck up an easy friendship based on a shared love of cheesy music, comedies, delicious food, and a mutual hatred of the Colorado Rockies. Even though Denver was far closer, they were both Giants fans, all the way. Carly’s dad, a retired high school teacher, had grown up near San Francisco, and he’d imbued both her and her brother with a bone-deep love of the Giants.
Truth was, she’d always had a crush on Dean. Short, thick hair, so dark it was almost black. Light blue eyes that contrasted appealingly with his olive skin. Killer smile, chiseled jaw. He was six feet of hard muscles and had a masculine confidence that oozed out of every pore. Really, it would’ve been virtually impossible not to be at least a little attracted to him.
Or more than a little, in Carly’s case. But he was completely wrong for her, and she knew it. She wanted to find someone, a serious relationship someone, and everyone knew that Dean Grayson didn’t do relationships. Not to mention that crossing that line with him would jeopardize their friendship, and potentially her job. Not that he’d fire her, but things would be . . . weird, when it eventually came to an end, as all his flings did. And she didn’t want weird with Dean. So, she accepted all of that and didn’t spend any energy wishing their friendship into something it could never be.
Even if he did check almost every single box on her “Carly needs a man” wish list. Attractive? Check. Kind? Check. Smart? Check. Hardworking? Check. Fun? Check. Financially stable? Check.
Emotionally available? Questionable.
Able to commit? Inconceivable.
She moved back behind the bar, knowing it would be ten or fifteen minutes before her food was up, chatting with Tom while she took stock of the bottles behind the bar, making a note of anything that was running low. He asked about her family—he knew she’d gone to her brother’s wedding in Denver last month—and she filled him in on all the details. Her parents were happy in Fort Collins, where she’d grown up, and visited both her and her brother and his new husband regularly. Carly wound up in Cheyenne after attending the University of Wyoming in Laramie, and then getting a job with the local tourism board. It ultimately wasn’t a good fit for her, but she felt at home in Cheyenne, and had decided to stay.
The heavenly scent of French fries wafted through the air and her mouth watered a little.
“Order up, Car!” called Greg from the kitchen, and she waved Haley, one of the Bison’s servers, over to watch the bar while she took her break. She hurried to grab the plates and made her way to Dean’s office, knocking awkwardly with her elbow.
“It’s open,” he said, and she managed to push the door all the way open with her hip. Dean sat behind his desk, his attention on the computer screen in front of him. He smiled when he saw her in the doorway, minimizing the spreadsheet he’d been looking at.
“Thought you might be hungry,” she said, setting the plates down on his desk and dropping into one of the chairs facing it.
