Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

“Some still do.” And they gave him hell for telling his dad to remove the mechanical bull. Five years and the ­people born and bred in this town still missed the machine that had put the “country” in Big Buck’s Country Bar. Some dropped by to visit the damn thing in his dad’s barn. But he’d bet no one had ridden it like Josie in the last five years.

He closed the folder and held it out to her. “Why are you so desperate to serve drinks?”

“I owe a lot of money.”

Another fact. But this one led to a bucket of questions. “Your father won’t help you?”

She shook her head. “This is my responsibility. He’s giving me a place to stay until I get back on my feet.”

The don’t-­mess-­with-­me veneer he wore like body armor cracked. If someone had hurt Josie . . . No, she wasn’t his responsibility. Whatever trouble she’d found—­credit card debt, bad loans—­it wasn’t his mess to clean up. He’d spent most of his life playing superhero, first on the football field, later for his family, and then for his fellow marines. But his last deployment—­and the fallout—­had made it pretty damn clear that he wasn’t cut out for the role.

He couldn’t help Josie Fairmore. Not this time. And he sure as hell couldn’t give her a job that would keep her underfoot. He couldn’t pay her to work for him and want her at the same time. It wasn’t right. Maybe he was a failed hero. But he still knew right from wrong.

“Look, I need experienced waitresses and bartenders.” He stepped away, ready to head back to the peace and quiet of his empty bar.

“So you haven’t filled the positions?” she asked.

“I—­”

“Please think about it.” She removed her foot, offering him the space to slam the door. “If you can’t help me, I’ll have to take Daphne up on her offer to serve topless drinks at The Lost Kitten. And I’d rather keep my shirt on while I work. But one way or another, I’m going to pay back what I owe.”

She turned and headed for the red Mini. He stared at her back and pictured her bending over tables. One look at her bare chest and the guys at The Lost Kitten would forget what they planned to order. He hated that mental image, but jealousy didn’t dominate his senses right now.

He’d witnessed a woman sacrifice her pride and her dignity for her job. He’d fought like hell for her and he’d failed her. He couldn’t change the past. What happened to Caroline was out of his hands now. Even if he wanted to help, he couldn’t. She’d disappeared. If and when Caroline resurfaced, she’d be the one charged with a crime. Unauthorized absence. And his testimony? The things he’d witnessed? It wouldn’t matter.

But Josie was standing in his freaking parking lot.

“I’ll give you one shot,” he called. She stopped and turned to face him. Her full lips formed a smile and her eyes shone with triumph.

“A trial shift,” he added. “If you can keep up with a Thursday-­night crowd, I’ll consider giving you a job.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Come back around four. And don’t get too excited. Your babysitting experience won’t help with a room full of college kids counting down the days until spring break.”

He closed the door and turned to face the dark interior of his father’s bar. Giving her a shot didn’t make him a hero. But it would give him a chance to figure out why she needed the money.

Chapter Two

BY FIVE O’CLOCK, Josie had learned one valuable lesson in cocktail waitressing—­wear cowboy boots, sneakers, or flats. Even flip-­flops would have been better than the two-­inch black high-­heeled strappy sandals she’d selected for her first shift. The shoes matched her fitted black shift dress. The low-­cut neckline was designed to entice without screaming, Hooters, here I come!

But her feet ached.

Noah—­the man she’d dreamed about throughout her teenage years, transitioning those innocent what-­if-­he-­asks-­me-­out scenarios to X-­rated daydreams after their ride on his mechanical bull five years ago—­moved behind the bar, pouring beers and mixing drinks.

She headed to the waitress station and keyed in an order. Thank goodness Big Buck had upgraded to computers when they took out the bull. She hit enter, heard the ticket print behind the bar, and turned to scan the room. College students milled about the space, filling the booths and high-­top tables. But the dance floor with its large stacks of speakers remained empty. Noah had told her the music would start at 9pm. A Seattle DJ was spinning tonight and another bartender would arrive then too.

She glanced at her future boss—­well, he would be if she passed the trial without kicking off her heels and running around barefoot taking orders—­and caught him grinning from ear to ear. “There’s your smile,” she murmured.

Noah twisted the top off a beer bottle with his bare hands. He held the drink out to a man with movie star looks wearing a Moore Timber T-­shirt.

“Planning to visit the range anytime soon?” Noah asked, only he wasn’t talking to the man who oozed charm as if it were a habit he couldn’t quite break. Noah had turned to the woman with the cover-­girl-­ready face and long blond hair on the stool beside him.

“I’m always game,” the man jumped in. “But I’m not ready to move beyond the viewing area.”

“Safest place for you and the dog,” Noah said with a laugh. He’d picked up the drink ticket and was mixing the college students’ fancy cocktails while he spoke. “Where is Hero tonight?”

“In the truck for now,” the woman said, her smile fading. “When it picks up a bit, I might bring him in if that’s OK with you. I have his ser­vice dog vest.”