Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

“Hero’s welcome here, Lena. Anytime.” Noah offered a soft smile. “If you’re planning on sticking around, you’ll want to get him soon.”

“Thanks.” Lena looked relieved. “Josh is meeting us here after work. He ended things with Megan.”

Josie studied the woman’s model-­like features and tried to remember if they’d met five years ago when she’d lived in the Willamette Valley. She came up blank. But the charming man, flashing Lena a grin designed to lead to the bedroom—­she knew him. He was older than her for sure. But that smile . . .

“My brother claims he wants to settle down,” the familiar man added. “And Megan made it clear she wasn’t interested in long-­term. Beats me why she stuck around this long if she wasn’t.”

“Chad,” the picture-?

?perfect Lena, who needed a ser­vice dog in crowded bars, said.

She was still a mystery, but hearing that name, Josie remembered.

Chad Summers.

Half her high school class had had a crush on him. She knew girls who’d driven over to Independence Falls just to watch him play pickup baseball games in a field. She’d been too busy mooning over Noah. And later, Travis Taylor, the boy she’d mistakenly believed could fill the good-­guy-­football-­hero void in her life. Except Travis failed the good-­guy test when he’d unleashed his temper on her instead of saving it for the field.

“First step to keeping your job,” Noah said, walking over to the ser­vice end of the bar and setting down the filled drinks. His smile had vanished. “Stop drooling over the customers.”

“I wasn’t . . . I recognize him,” she protested.

“Chad’s engaged now. Or will be soon,” Noah continued. “To Lena. Don’t even think about messing with her. I’ve seen her shoot.”

“You’re still visiting the gun club?”

He nodded grimly. “Every chance I get.”

He hadn’t lost his smile. But doom and gloom seemed to be his default in her company. Maybe if she made him laugh—­

“To Noah,” a man who looked a decade or two older than her father called out. “For his ser­vice.”

Four men, one wearing a vest covered in badges, raised their glasses. “To Noah!”

“Trying to work, Frank,” Noah growled. And she swore his cheeks turned pink. His grip tightened around the third drink and she wondered if the martini glass’s delicate stem would snap. But instead the tension rippled up his arm to his bicep. The muscle bulged and the red “Semper Fi” tattooed on his arm expanded.

“Sore subject?” She rested her elbows on the section of bar designated for the waitresses to pick up drinks. “Dominic bristles when ­people try to give him a pat on the back too.”

“Yeah?” He remained focused on the last of the cocktails she’d ordered.

She nodded. “He says some of the things he’s done don’t deserve a toast. And recognizing that keeps him closer to the good-­guy side of the murky grey space between ISIS evil and hero.”

“Dominic said all that, huh? When was the last time you saw your brother?”

“Three years ago. He stopped by Portland while home on leave,” she admitted. “But we email.”

He shifted the drink to her end of the bar. “Wasn’t sure you knew how, seeing as you never wrote back to me.”

“You ran out of that barn . . .” She loaded the drinks onto her tray. “You wrote a long, drawn-­out apology. But I wasn’t sorry. I’ve made a lot of stupid choices, especially in high school.” She looked up at him, straight into his blue eyes. “That night wasn’t one of them.”

Now, if she landed back in his barn, naked and ready to hand over her heart a second time, that would be a mistake.

He shook his head and a patron called for a beer. “Planning to tell Dominic that you’re working here?”

“There’s plenty I don’t share with my brother.”

“Like why you need the money?” he asked, his expression still set to doom and gloom.

“That too.” She picked up the tray and walked away, praying it wouldn’t spill. She made it to the booth and served the drinks. The blonde girl who’d turned twenty-­one last week—­Josie had checked her ID when she’d ordered, seeing as the bouncers didn’t arrive until eight—­handed her an extra five bucks.