4. Sable
CHAPTER 4
sable
L ittle Sable Nees, who had never worn a brand-new dress—only hand-me-downs—until she got her first job; the same Sable Nees who held a steady bank job and married a nice dentist—that Sable Nees could never have imagined owning a bar.
The Wildflower Tavern was now mine.
I still couldn’t believe it.
It had taken a big chunk of my divorce settlement to buy it—but standing behind the bar on that first day, before opening, felt like I was stepping into the future I’d finally carved out for myself.
It had happened by chance.
After the divorce, I found myself going out more. I didn’t necessarily need to talk to people, but I liked being around them—especially at the tavern that had an almost home-like vibe to it. It didn’t hurt that the chef was excellent, and after cooking for Jack for eight years, I was happy to have someone else feed me .
Every time I was there, Ben Greyfeather and I talked. There was a connection between us. A few months in, he told me he was considering retiring, and that was how it began.
He was looking for a buyer.
I was looking for a change in my life.
I had wondered if I should just leave Aspen after the divorce. I could always get a job in a bank elsewhere, but I grew up here and had friends, albeit only a couple. I realized I didn’t want to change geography—I wanted to change myself.
Ben had been kind and generous, agreeing to terms that a proper businessman would’ve never gone for. But Ben said he knew this was the right thing to do.
“I’ve been running this place for thirty years.” His dark eyes softened as he looked around the tavern, the warm wood walls lined with decades of memories. “But the Wildflower isn’t just a business; it’s part of this community and its spirit. My grandfather always told me, ‘What you take care of will take care of you.’ And I see that in you, Sable. You’ll take care of this place. It won’t just be a job to you—it’ll be a home.”
I was caught off guard, unsure of how to respond. “Are you sure? I mean, you could probably get more money if you sold to one of those big companies that are always trying to buy local businesses. Or someone else. I don’t know anything about running…anything.”
I worked at a bank, so I got all the latest gossip on how large companies like Royal Hotel Group, Marriott, Hyatt, and others were always looking for single-owned businesses to buy and convert into branded properties. And then there was the fact that I worked at a freaking bank and knew nothing about running a business.
Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “Money isn’t everything, not in my culture, and not in my life. My upbringing taught me to believe that when you pass something on, it’s not just about profit—it’s about purpose. You’ve got purpose, Sable. The hell with experience—you have the guts to make this work.”
I didn’t know how he knew that when I didn’t. But as we discussed how to proceed and I began to share my plans for the tavern with him, he told me he was even more convinced that I was the heir to his business.
When we shook hands to finalize the deal, he’d squeezed mine gently. “One more thing, Sable. The name Wildflower—you know why I picked it?”
I shook my head.
“Wildflowers grow where most things can’t,” he told me with a small smile. “They don’t need the perfect conditions. They just grow. They bloom because they’ve got spirit. Just like you.”
The Wildflower Tavern was a local staple. It was quaint, a little dark and dingy, and desperately needed an upgrade. However, that kind of renovation would come later when I had the funds. For now, I was going for cosmetic and affordable changes.
Over the weekend before I officially took over, I spent the day with Ben and three other workers sprucing up the place.
Now, the wooden bar gleamed with fresh polish under the afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows. We painted the walls a nice cream instead of the beige that had gone sooty.
The old dartboard on the far wall remained, but the neon beer signs were gone. I’d swapped them for vintage jazz posters I’d picked up online: Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald.
Ben wholeheartedly supported my goal of turning the tavern into a jazz bar with live music, low lighting, and an atmosphere that made you want to stay for just one more drink while listening to good music.
There wasn’t anything like it in Aspen, which was all high-end après-ski lounges, high-end restaurants, and casual burger joints. I wanted the Wildflower to feel like it had history, like you could step inside and forget for a moment that you were in a mountain town.
I could see it already: a small stage for a band tucked into the corner, tables covered with soft candlelight, and Take Five, the jazz standard, drifting over the noise of conversation. It’d take time to get it right, but I felt it in my gut that I could pull it off.
I was deep in thought, stacking glasses behind the bar when the door creaked open. I frowned.
“We’re closed!” I called out.
“Good thing I’m not here for a drink.” Heath stepped in and then casually leaned against the doorframe like he freaking owned my place.
So, it felt wrong that just a few months after my husband and I separated, I was lusting after Alexa Vikar’s ex-husband. Now, everyone knew who Heath was—' cause Alexa had moved back after the divorce with him and their daughter—and people were gossiping until the cows came home about how the new GM of the Royal Ski in fact, four kinds were served: bubbly, rosé, red, and white, the grape be damned.
“I don’t know a lot about wine,” I confessed. “ But Ben said that it’s good for business, and he’d been meaning to do it but never got around to it. I have to learn about wine.”
“I can help you,” he offered.
“You can?”
“Yeah. I’m a trained sommelier.”
My eyes widened. “Like a master sommelier?”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t showing off, just stating facts. “My first job was in the hotels’ F my kind never did. From my drunk father to the men my mother fucked for drugs to foster fathers who tried to slide their hands where they didn’t belong—Jack had been the first decent man I’d been with. Sure, he was dominating and controlling, but he was, for all practical purposes, the kind of normal that I’d desperately wanted. When Jack had asked me out after we met at a bank event, I’d decided to be everything he wanted so I could pretend I wasn’t stuck in the trailer park, always choosing men who were bad for me.
I’d been hiding my whole life. Donning a new mask for Jack had been easy—the easiest thing in the world so I could be safe, live in a nice house, continue to have my respectable job—wash that Woody Creek taint away.
After all that, he’d left me anyway. He’d discarded me for a younger and fertile woman. No matter how I carried myself or faked that I was fine , I wasn’t. Jack’s betrayal hadn’t caused any new wounds but had opened all the old ones. I was once again the girl people whispered about and pointed fingers at.
When did you finally grow the fuck up? When did that stuff stop affecting you? According to Hillary, it never happened—she was married to her high school sweetheart, and sometimes, she felt that she’d never gotten past anything. The only saving grace was that they didn’t live in their hometown of Boulder; she joked that she’d be breaking out her pompoms, and her husband would try to fit his potbelly into his old QB uniform.
“What constitutes a date these days?” I asked, pretending nonchalantly. “I haven’t dated in a decade.”
Girls like me didn’t date boys like Heath.
But you’re not a girl, and he’s not a boy, Sable. You’re a woman, and this is a man.
“Sable, it will just be two people spending time together to get to know one another.”
“That sounds like something people did in the good ol’ days.” I wanted to lighten the mood so that I wouldn’t feel quite so discombobulated. Seeing Jack around town with a heavily pregnant Molly was like a knife through the heart—not because I loved Jack, I didn’t, not anymore, but because I was once again where I’d hoped I wouldn’t be, alone without anyone who gave a damn about me.
“I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
I felt chained to him, his voice, his demeanor, his charisma, until I broke free and cleared my throat. “I thought you were here to unpack glasses, not flirt with me.”
“Can’t I do both?” he asked, his panty-melting smirk back in full force.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling.
He leaned forward, his face close to mine. “We don’t have to do the traditional dinner and movie.”
“So, what would we do?” I wanted to kiss him, I realized. That mouth of his looked delicious, and it had been a while since I’d had anything tasty. The last man I’d slept with had been Jack, and that was millions of emotions and days ago.
“I haven’t dated in a long while, either. Actually, you’re the first woman I’ve asked out since I moved to Aspen.”
“You’ve been here…a year!”
“I’m aware.” He ran a finger over my hand that was holding a wine glass. I almost dropped the fragile thing. “Do you know, when I saw you for the first time, I thought you looked like Bambi? In fact, in my head, I call you Bambi.”
I busted out laughing.
“So, what do you say, Bambi?” he cajoled.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”
“And charming,” he added.
“Debatable.”
“But you’ll say yes?” he pressed, his grin widening.
I thought about it. I thought about how I’d spent years stuck in a life that didn’t fit me, how I’d promised myself that I’d start saying yes to the things that scared me.
“We’re closed on Mondays.”
“Perfect.” He straightened. “How do you feel about the great outdoors?”
“I live in Aspen,” I replied.
“And how do you feel about skiing?”
And here was the Grand Canyon-sized divide between us. I may have grown up in Aspen, but I didn’t know how to ski. I couldn’t afford it when I was growing up, and once I was all grown up, I was too embarrassed to learn.
“I don’t ski,” I whispered, feeling a tinge of shame.
His smile turned devilish. “You will after Monday.”
“More arrogant than charming.” He was like no other man I’d ever met in the best way possible.
“How about arrogantly charming?” He held out his hand. “May I have your phone?”
I opened my phone with facial recognition and gave it to him. He worked on it and then checked his phone. He showed it to me and said, “You’re in my contacts.”
He had listed me as Bambi.
It was sweet and sexy at the same time. I’d never had a nickname before—unless trailer trash counted, which it most definitely didn’t.
“Message me your address. I’ll pick you up around eleven.”
“That’s early,” I remarked and looked at his contact information on my phone. He’d listed himself as Charming Heath .
“I’m a planner, Bambi, and I’m going to need time to make this date so good that you’ll say yes to the next one.” He brushed his lips against my cheek.
Now, I’d walked the earth for forty years and didn’t believe in things like instant lust. But then maybe that was because I’d never met Heath Falkner before. A shiver ran up my spine at his light kiss.
I watched him leave my tavern; my panties wet for the first time in years for a man who wasn’t Charlie Hunnam.