Unexpectedly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #1)

1. Clover

I've never understood people who can't keep their shit together.

"Vodka soda, two whiskey neats, and a margarita with no salt," I repeat back to Mr. Wall Street with his watch that costs more than an entire year of my student loans and his eyes that never quite reach my face. It’s because they’re on my boobs, but I like to think he’s got a small dick and this is the most action he’ll get this month.

See? Keeping my shit together. Snapping at the guy’s only going to mean losing out on tip money, I need more than my dignity.

He barely nods before turning back to his friends, but I couldn't care less. The less interaction, the better.

Friday nights at Ember are always pure chaos. I can't mix cocktails fast enough, and despite the upscale vibe of our trendy Portland bar, these suited professionals turn into animals after their third-ish drink. My hands fly over bottles and shakers and glasses and ice so fast, I don’t even have time to think. Good thing all I need is muscle memory.

My fingers are sweaty, and the margarita glass slips in my grip. I grit my teeth and flex my fingers to hold on. They ache, but I save the potential disaster at the last second. I’m tired as hell, and not as sharp as I should be after the double shifts I've pulled all week. But I’ll rest when I’m dead. There’s no time for weakness or sleep when you’ve got goals as big as mine.

"Your eye’s doing that twitchy thing again," Navy says as she slides past me behind the bar, her electric blue hair tips catching in the light. "The one that only happens when you’re in your 'I'm running on fumes and spite' era."

I touch the corner of my eye reflexively. Yep, it’s totally twitching. "It is not."

"You know I have eyes, right?” She grabs three bottles of tequila without looking, her movements so graceful it's annoying. "When's the last time you had fun? And making to-do lists doesn’t count."

"Wednesday." I lean forward to deliver drinks to Wall Street and flash him my pay-my-rent smile. He adds an extra five to the tab, his eyes dropping momentarily to my not-at-all-sluttily-displayed cleavage before I straighten up. What can I say? The system works. "I alphabetized my spice rack by region and cuisine. You have no idea how satisfying that was."

Navy's laugh follows me down the bar. "God, you're hopeless. You need to get laid before your vagina seals shut."

"No, what I need is to pass Business Analytics," I counter, already mixing a Manhattan for a woman in a killer dress who's been waiting with the patience of someone who knows what it's like on this side of the bar. "My final project is due Monday. I have quarterly projections with Theo tomorrow, and somewhere in all of that, I need to do laundry because I'm officially down to my emergency underwear."

"Emergency underwear?" Navy perks up. "Please tell me it's something slinky and black you've been saving for a special occasion. Like…" She taps her black tipped finger against her lips as she pours a draft beer one-handed. “Getting railed in the bathroom at work by one of these random suits.”

I snort. "It's the five-pack of ugly briefs I got at Target because I keep putting off laundry day." I slide the Manhattan across the bar with a genuine smile. The woman winks at me and I sigh. She’s who I want to be when I grow up. Someone with tons of confidence who knows exactly what she’s worth. People don’t walk away from a woman like that.

For the next three hours, it’s just me and the booze and the neckline of my tank top getting progressively lower and lower as people get drunker and looser with their wallets. C’mon, douchebags. Give up your money. Mama needs to open her bar.

I pour, shake, and serve on repeat until my brain feels like it’s been through a blender. My mental to-do list scrolls on a loop while I try to figure out a plan for how I’m going to get it all done over the next forty-eight hours: four-hour study sesh minimum (kill me now) to prep for my final, tackle laundry mountain, go on a journey to the grocery store (this is literally what it feels like to me, a whole-ass epic quest), do enough meal prep so I don’t die of starvation this coming week, and of course, the inventory spreadsheet, which might be the only thing I’m actually looking forward to. Maybe if I skip breakfast tomorrow (because who needs food?), I can cram in another hour of Business Analytics before my meeting with my boss.

By the time the last stumbling, slurring mess of a human finally clears out, my feet feel like they’re bleeding. I must look about eighty with the way I’m hobbling around while I close out the register.

We crushed our previous Friday night record, and despite how exhausted I am, I get a little rush knowing it was the changes I’ve implemented that did it. That quarterly bonus might just be enough to toss another sad little crumb into the gaping maw of my "Clover's Bar" fund. Five years of this grind, and I'm still just inching my way to freedom, but goddammit, I will make it happen.

"Alright, that’s it. Operation: Get Clover Laid and Slightly Less Stressed is a go." Navy leans against the sticky, liquor-soaked back bar, already changed into her non-work clothes in skin-tight jeans and a crop top that barely contains her awesome octopus tattoo—those tentacles look like they’re climbing up and down her torso and I’m kinda jealous she was brave enough to get it. "We’re going dancing. Right now."

"Are you high?" I keep wrestling with the mountain of cash from the register and the pile of rubber bands beside it, not even glancing up at her insane suggestion. "Some of us have actual adulting to do and can’t afford to be hungover or sleep until two tomorrow.”

"All of us have responsibilities. Some of us just remember we're twenty-six, not dead." Navy yanks the elastic from my messy bun, and my dyed-black hair tumbles down around my shoulders, suddenly making me feel even grungier. When did I last wash my hair? Three days ago? Four? Shit, I can’t remember. "Live a little, Clover. The world won't spontaneously combust if you have fun for one damn night."

"My Business Analytics grade might." I swat her hand away, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through my aching wrist. "Besides, I look like I rolled around out back behind the dumpster. I’m sweaty and gross."

"You look like a hardworking bartender who deserves tequila and some no-strings-attached fun to work out those kinks. Besides, you’ll only get sweatier when you dance, so no one will notice." Her eyebrows do a suggestive wiggle. “Lucky for you, tequila’s the first step and pretty soon you won’t care about the rest.”

The bell above the front door chimes, and my automatic "We're closed" is already forming on my lips. But the words die before they can escape when I see Kasen's broad frame filling the doorway, his expression tight and unreadable. My stomach plummets faster than the stock market during a crash.

"Kasen?" My brother never shows up here at this ungodly hour, at least not without us having plans. He’s got a look on his face I don’t like. That's his "someone's in the hospital" or "the brewery's on fire" look. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He tugs on his favorite black beanie, a nervous habit he’s had since we were kids. "Can't a guy just drop by to see his favorite sister?"

"I'm your only sister, Kasen, and you're so full of shit your eyes are turning brown." I narrow my eyes at him, already bracing for bad news. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The same look you had when you shattered Mom's favorite vase playing indoor baseball and tried to convince her the house was haunted and a ghost did it."

Navy snorts a laugh. "Alright, well, this is my cue to make like a tree and get the hell out of here." She grabs her jacket and keys. "Text me tomorrow, Clover. Or don't, if you're actually out doing something I would do. Bye Kase!"

Kasen waves at my bestie and then waits until Navy's out the door before sliding onto a barstool. "I need whiskey. The really good stuff."

Now my gut is officially twisting into knots. Kasen owns Timber, the brewery two blocks over. The guy's such a craft beer fanatic he practically breaks out in hives if someone even mentions Bud Light in his presence.

"Spill it, dude." I pour a generous two fingers of Macallan neat and slide it across the sticky countertop to him. I frown at it. I need to remember to wipe it down before I take off. "Whatever it is can't be as bad as that time you tried to brew that weird raspberry beer in your bathtub and flooded the entire floor."

He downs half the scotch in one gulp, then makes a face like he just swallowed battery acid. He’s so not a liquor guy and I laugh at the face he makes until his next words sober me right up. "I need a favor."

“Okay...” I draw out the word, shifting my weight onto one hip, my feet still throbbing.

“A friend of mine needs a place to crash for a couple of months.”

"A couple months ?" My eyebrows shoot up.

He avoids my gaze, fiddling with the edge of his beanie. "Three, tops."

The knot in my stomach actually loosens a little, and a laugh bubbles up. "That's it? Seriously? I was expecting you to tell me you accidentally stole someone’s baby or something. I can ask around at the bar—"

"No, I mean with you. At your place."

I blink, feeling like I've suddenly missed a crucial plot point. "My shoebox apartment? The one where I can stand in the middle and almost touch both walls? That place?"

"It's bigger than those glorified closets they call studios," he argues, finally meeting my eyes, a hint of desperation there. "And you're never even there anyway, between this place, your classes, and that library you practically live in."

"Who is it?" A truly horrifying thought worms its way into my brain. "Please tell me it's not that dude from your softball team who tried to mansplain to me why White Claw is basically the same as a hazy IPA."

Kasen takes another swig of scotch, looking anywhere but at me. "It's Banks."

The name hits me like a shot of cheap tequila—it burns going down and leaves you regretting everything. For a split second, I think I might actually stop breathing. “Banks Priestly?” My voice cracks, sounding way more panicked than I intend. “The guy with the ego the size of Mount Hood? That Banks?”

"The one and only." Kasen attempts this weak, hopeful smile that wilts under my death glare.

"Absolutely the hell not." I grab a bar rag and start scrubbing at the sticky counter. My brother’s best friend has always been like a goddamn splinter under my fingernail. Living with him? That’s a special kind of torture I will not be signing up for. "No freaking way. Never in a million years. Why can't he just crash at your place?"

"My place is still a disaster zone with the renovations, remember? I'm stuck in that tiny Airbnb by the river for the next couple of months. It’s barely big enough for me, let alone another person."

"He's a goddamn firefighter! He makes decent money. He can afford a freaking hotel."

My brother actually scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You have no idea what firefighters actually make, do you?” He finishes off his scotch and slides the empty glass back across the bar, like he expects a refill. Fuck him. "His entire apartment building got flooded thanks to some idiot upstairs and a burst pipe. There's black mold everywhere. His insurance is being a royal pain in the ass, and he’s been sleeping at the firehouse when he’s not pulling double shifts covering for some poor bastard who broke his leg. He needs an actual bed and a shower that doesn’t come with biohazards."

My traitorous brain immediately flashes back to the last time I laid eyes on Banks Priestly. Kasen's stupid birthday party three months ago. Me, four vodka sodas deep and feeling just a little too brave, letting my guard down for approximately two seconds to stare like an idiot while Banks laughed with his unfairly hot firefighter buddies. The way his plain white t-shirt stretched across shoulders that looked like they could carry a goddamn building.

The memory of that exact moment—how his eyes had locked onto mine across the crowded backyard, his annoyingly perfect lips curving into that smug, knowing smirk—still sends this unwelcome heat pooling low in my belly.

Three months later, and I can still hear his voice, all low and husky, when he caught me staring. The way he’d leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath tickle my ear as he whispered, "Take a picture, Freckles. It'll last longer."

The nickname had grated on my last nerve, almost as much as the involuntary goosebumps that had popped up all over my skin when his fingers had "accidentally" brushed mine as he took my drink from me and downed it as I watched. Accidentally my ass.

Heat crawls up my neck, making my face flush. I’d rolled my eyes and spun away, but the damage was done. He knew I'd been looking. And later, when I’d mentioned the business class I was struggling with…

"Still playing bartender until you find a real job?"

The casual dismissal of everything I’ve busted my ass to build at Ember, the assumption that my job is just some temporary pit stop—it had made me want to punch him in the face and then kick him in the balls just for funsies.

"No," I tell Kasen firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument. "Find someone else. Anywhere else." I lean forward, narrowing my eyes at him.

He's pulling out the big guns with the puppy-dog eyes, but I’m immovable. I will not be swayed. "He's got nowhere else to go, Clover. The fire station isn't exactly set up for someone to live there. They don’t have enough beds, and the guy’s running on fumes."

"Sounds like a 'him' problem, not a 'me' problem." I turn my back to him and start wiping down the back bar, needing to physically escape those guilt-tripping eyes of his.

"He'd do it for you."

A snort of laughter bursts out of my throat. "Banks Priestly wouldn't let me crash on his couch if I were homeless and bleeding in a blizzard with a pack of hungry wolves circling."

"That's total bullshit and you know it." Kasen's voice softens, and I hate everything about this. "He's always looked out for you."

"No, he's always looked down on me." I practically throw the wet rag into the sink, the splash echoing in the suddenly quiet bar. "There's a major difference."

"It's just until his apartment's livable again, I swear." Kasen pulls out his ultimate weapon—that earnest, pleading expression that somehow convinced our parents to let him keep that mangy, three-legged stray cat we found when we were kids. Even I’m not immune. "Three months, tops. Please, Clover. I wouldn't ask if there was any other option."

I cross my arms over my chest, racking my brain for any halfway decent excuse that won't make me sound like a total bitch. "My apartment only has one tiny bedroom."

"He can crash on the couch. It's surprisingly comfortable for a futon."

"I work crazy late. He works even crazier shifts. We'll be tripping over each other constantly."

"So, make some rules. You're practically the queen of rules." He’s got me there. "Consider it a massive favor to me. I'll owe you big time—like, do your laundry for a month big time."

I let out a long, slow breath, my resistance finally crumbling under the weight of Kasen's relentless pleading and, if I'm being honest, my own stupid bleeding heart. Despite everything that annoys the crap out of me about Banks Priestly and his smug face, the thought of anyone—even him—having no place to go makes my stomach clench.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s stupid hot.

“Why can’t he stay at the station? They have beds.”

“They also have liability policies that say he can’t be there when he’s off duty.”

"Fine," I snap, giving in with all the grace of a toddler denied a cookie. "But I have conditions."

The knot in my stomach tightens to the point I don’t think it’ll ever come undone, and my heart starts slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Banks Priestly. Taking up allmy space. The mere thought makes my skin prickle with this infuriating, unwelcome heat that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

Kasen's face splits into a relieved grin. "Lay 'em on me."

"Three months, and not a day longer. He stays the hell out of my way. Absolutely zero noise when I'm trying to study. He cleans up every single one of his messes. And absolutely, positively, no bringing random women back to my apartment." The mental image of hearing Banks doing the horizontal tango through my paper-thin walls makes my stomach churn like I just chugged a gallon of spoiled milk.

Nope. Nope nope nope.

"Done and done." Kasen rounds the bar and swoops me up in a hug, lifting me off my aching feet despite my undignified squawking. "You are officially the best sister on the planet. I'll text him and tell him it's a done deal. He can move in tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" I wiggle out of his suffocating grip. "I need at least a week to mentally prepare for this kind of torture—"

"He's been living out of a damn duffel bag for two weeks, Clover." Guilt, that sneaky little bastard, lands a direct hit courtesy of my brother. "His shift ends at noon tomorrow. I'll text you when he’s on his way."

Before I can even think of a decent argument, he throws a couple of crumpled bills on the counter (barely enough to cover the Macallan, the cheapskate), and kisses the top of my head before practically sprinting toward the door, clearly terrified I'll change my mind.

"Kasen!" I call after him, my voice echoing in the empty bar. He pauses with his hand on the door handle. "You seriously owe me so freaking big for this."

His grin is this perfect mix of gratitude and pure mischief. “I know. And hey, Clover? Try not to stab him in his sleep, okay? It’s hard to make new friends and I like this one.”

I flip him off and then he's gone, leaving me standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet bar, wondering what fresh brand of hell I've just willingly signed up for.