Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

“Morning, Dad.” She moved around the familiar space, pouring juice and setting the four-­top wooden table. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“It’s your home.” Her father turned from the stove with two plates of scrambled eggs layered with cheese and herbs. “I would have been here yesterday, but Lewis, he’s my new deputy, his wife just had a baby.”

“I managed just fine,” she said as he set a plate in front of her. She missed her father’s cooking. After the morning sickness and the initial oh-­shit-­I’m-­having-­a-­baby panic faded, she’d dreamed about coming home and eating at this table. But she’d dreaded the conversation that would follow when he saw her belly. He’d grounded her through half of high school only for her to show up pregnant once she went to college?

Dad, I think you were right about me. I think this whole town was right. I’m always going to be the girl who needs saving, the one who’s not strong enough to take care of herself.

No, she couldn’t say those words. So she’d tried to manage on her own. And still failed. She hadn’t been strong enough. Not even close.

“I saw your note,” he said as he claimed the seat across from her. “You’re working at Big Buck’s?”

“Noah gave me a job.”

“He’s a good kid. And he’s doing a fine job with that bar.” He stabbed his fork into the eggs. “It’s a big relief for his father having him home. Buck fell a few months ago helping his neighbor set a hunting stand up in a tree. He broke his leg and now he’s having a hard time getting around, from what I hear. Good thing his son had come home by then.”

She nodded and focused on eating. Was her father waiting for Dominic to come back? It didn’t seem likely now that he’d gone through Ranger School. He might have left for basic training at the same time as Noah—­and Ryan, the third in their trio—­but she suspected her brother was the only one who wanted to be there.

She glanced up from her half-­empty dish. The sound of their forks on the plates filled the otherwise empty kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re home,” her father said suddenly. “But if you came back because . . . If there is something wrong, I’d like to know. I want to help.”

Where do I begin?

“I just needed a job and a fresh start,” she said.

She couldn’t tell the man who’d spent years questioning her choices about the baby. He’d been right every time. But choosing the wrong guy and losing a baby? This wasn’t a mark on her record. It was an F for “failure.” It had broken her heart in ways she hadn’t imagined possible. She’d held herself accountable. She couldn’t bear to add his judgment too. Not yet.

“WAITING FOR THE cases of beer to count themselves?” Josie asked as she pushed through the door leading to Big Buck’s back room and headed for Noah. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the night the Summers brothers launched the hunt for the mysterious Caroline.

Four days had passed since her trial shift and Josie hadn’t learned anything more about the missing marine. But she knew Noah had made it his mission to find her. He was either serving drinks, searching the Willamette Valley for Caroline, or trying to do the inventory when he was too tired to count.

He glanced at her and then turned his attention back to the cases neatly stacked by the back wall. “This new citrus summer ale doesn’t sell. I still have . . . so damn much.”

“Five cases.” She reached out and took the clipboard and pen from his hands. She hadn’t slept much either between working through the weekend at the bar and getting up in the morning for awkward breakfasts with her father. But she’d rested long enough to count boxes. Unlike her boss. She scrolled down the list, found the summer ale, and wrote the number.

“Cases of this stuff and everyone wants Fern’s Hoppy Heaven IPA,” he muttered.

“So get that instead.” She scanned the rows of beer boxes before adding a few zeros to the inventory list. “And we also need light beer.”

“Only a few bars in Portland have the Hoppy Heaven on draft,” he said. “A bunch of the students drive up to the brewery once a week to buy a four-­pack. An hour’s drive to buy four cans of beer and they have to wait in line when they get there.” He shook his head. “I need to convince the brewery to let us sell it here.”

“I could help you,” she said, scribbling another zero on the inventory sheet. “I could take over the ordering.”

“Four shifts in and you’re trying for a promotion?” Noah said.

“Only if it pays more.” She moved to the kegs and bent over one to read the label. She scribbled another number on the list and waited for him to say something. Maybe a sharp “Not going to happen” or “It doesn’t pay a penny more.”

Silence.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she continued. “The tips have been great. It probably helps that I haven’t spilled a single drink since that first night.” She glanced up to see if he’d fallen asleep standing up staring at the beer.

Nope, still awake. And not looking at the beer. Not unless he expected to find a bottle buried between her breasts.

“I’m not hiding a can of that super special IPA down my shirt,” she teased as she stood up. “But you can stare at my cleavage all you want. Nothing is going to happen.”

Noah looked up from her chest and raised an eyebrow. “Never writing back to me, did that help you forget about the night you rode the bull?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I didn’t want to forget. Maybe take back what I said. But now . . . I can’t take another ride with you.”