Five Alarm Kiss (The Kiss Club #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Laurel Shepherd moved past the bouncer stationed at the door, tugged the baseball hat she was wearing lower on her forehead, and entered the noisy chaos that was Saturday night at Humpin’ Hannah’s. The bar was a crowded madhouse, with masses of people everywhere she looked. As usual, there was a decent amount of blue and orange. A lot of cities may not boast their college colors year-round, but this was Boise State Bronco country. Fans here in Idaho took school spirit to a new level. She wasn’t surprised most of the patrons appeared to be college students, since this was one of their hangouts. Unfortunately, that made her feel even older than she already did—like she needed help with that today.

This is a bad idea.

As far as bars went, Hannah’s was practically a landmark. It’d been there over forty years and was one of the largest and oldest bars downtown. As soon as she walked underneath the red brick arch looming above the threshold, she was reminded of how much personality the place had. There was a main bar—also made of bricks—on the lower level, and another on the second floor. A balcony overlooked the dance floor and stage where a live band was belting out 80’s tunes.

So many people were packed inside the place that, despite the large square footage, it verged on claustrophobic. Especially with all the stuff—there really wasn’t a better way to describe it other than garage sale items on fishing line, maybe?—hanging from the ceiling. Guitars, lampshades, clothing, chairs, bikes, a huge collection of bras, and a multitude of other things dangled overhead.

It must be a nightmare to dust.

Laurel was jolted from that troubling thought when a frat boy wearing a football jersey knocked into her. The force caused her to stumble-sidestep and bump into the table on her left. Her hand flew to her head, guaranteeing her baseball hat remained firmly in place. The last thing she needed was for it to fall off.

“Sorry,” the guy slurred with a drunken dialect. “My bad.”

She watched him stagger forward until he met up with his equally inebriated friends at the main bar.

Why people let themselves get so drunk, she’d never know. She had a wine cooler every now and then, but never in her life had she drank enough to lose control of her senses… or ability to walk in a straight line without bumping into poor, forced-by-their-friends-to-be-here, unsuspecting victims.

Something twinkling drew Laurel’s eye. She held onto her hat and looked up. A giant, fully-decorated, upside-down Christmas tree hung precariously above, regardless of the fact it was May. She drew a sharp breath and stepped back, right into the knee of the guy sitting at the table she’d just knocked into.

“Sor—”

His hand on her ass stopped her apology. She slapped it away with a scowl and started for the entrance.

Enough of this butter brickle!

She shouldn’t have to be tortured on her birthday. Especially this birthday.

She’d almost made her escape when a shrill whistle sliced through the clamor, followed by…

“Laur!”

Ugh. Laurel had hoped to sneak out before her best friend saw her. Then she could’ve texted her, faked sick, and backed out of the evening. Not that Skye would’ve believed her. They’d known each other since grade school. She could tell when Laurel was going to fib, even before she knew it herself.

“Over here!” Skye called.

Laurel decided to ignore her.

“Laurel!”

I don’t hear you.

“Laaaa-raaul!”

Nope. Not a word.

Another piercing whistle. “Hey, Slugger!”

That stopped her in her tracks and made her skin prickle. Skye knew full well she hated that nickname. She’d hated it from the moment her father had first christened her with it four years ago.

With a defeated whimper, she tugged her hat down further and headed toward where Skye was frantically flagging her down. Sometimes her best friend was a pain in the popsicle.

The place was so crowded, she hadn’t even made it two steps before someone ran into her from behind. She almost toppled over, but a large hand grasped her upper arm, preventing her from falling.

She looked up—way up—into the brightest, ice blue eyes she’d ever seen. She only stood five-foot-three, but the guy was probably close to a foot taller than her and how-in-the-world-do-men-like-him-exist-in-real-life hot.

“I’m sorry.” The deep voice poured over her like warm honey. “I should’ve been more careful.”

Staring at him with her mouth gaping open like a bass, all she could manage was a nod. She was too busy taking in his chiseled features, high cheekbones, short, blond hair, and eyes the color of glass that had been dipped in a clear summer sky. Her lungs forgot how to inhale.

He smiled, and her knees went weak.

Goodness, that smile should come with a health warning.

“Easy there.” He gripped her waist as she started to sink.

Mouth still hanging open, her gaze dropped to his hand indenting her jacket.

“You okay?”

An inarticulate sound escaped her lips as she continued to study his hand. It was huge compared to the narrow expanse of her waist.

“Are you okay?” he repeated. “Do you need to sit down?”

“What?” She lifted her chin and stopped breathing again when those eyes locked on hers.

A grin played at the corners of his mouth. “Where’re you sitting? I’ll help you.”

Finally, the fog in her muddled brain lifted. He thought she was… “I’m not drunk.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression resembling her own the time one of her first-graders had insisted his parents had told him to play video games on his tablet instead of paying attention in class.

“Truly,” she said, worming away from his grasp. “I’m not.”

He smiled, and she instantly regretted not having his hands steadying her because that smile melted her bones and made her dizzy.

“I believe you.” His gaze flicked to her pink baseball hat.

She quickly pulled it down so far it touched her eyebrows. She’d never felt more self-conscious in her life. “Good.”

“Laurel!”

Skye was waving her arms again. She looked like she was trying to flag down a rescue plane.

“I’ve got to go.” The last thing she needed was Skye coming over and starting up a conversation. Laurel had to get away from the sexiest man she’d ever seen in person before he studied her too closely and noticed. She’d die if he noticed. “Have a good night,” she mumbled, hustling straight to the table Skye occupied with their friend, Britt.

She heard his “You too, Princess” as she scurried away.

Princess?

Skye pounced as soon as Laurel sat down. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know.” Why did he call me Princess? “Some guy.”

“That,” Skye pointed to the gorgeous hunk of hotness who had rendered Laurel mute with one look, “is not just ‘some guy.’ ‘Some guy’ delivers your mail. ‘Some guy’ rotates your tires. That?—”

“Is perfection on a plate,” Britt supplied, finishing the sentence. “And I should know.”

Britt had graduated culinary school a few years back and was now working as a sous chef under a James Beard nominee at Shades Restaurant a few miles away. She’d taken the night off to be here.

Laurel hadn’t known Britt as long as Skye, but they’d become close friends. Britt’s nephew was in Laurel’s class last year, and she used to pick him up after school for her brother. The two had started talking and hit it off. Skye got along with her too, so they’d basically become a trio.

Both of her friends stared at her with hurry-up-and-spill expressions.

“I told you. I don’t know who he is,” Laurel repeated. “He bumped into me, that’s all.”

Britt screwed her mouth to the left and shook her head in disapproval while Skye rolled her eyes and let out a noise that sounded like a motorboat.

“Did you get his number?” Skye asked.

“No.” That was laughable. No way she’d ask him for his number. It would be humiliating, not to mention pointless. Guys like him didn’t date grade school teachers. They dated supermodels.

“Why not?” Skye scolded. “He was checking you out.”

“Get real. He was not.”

“He was when you walked away,” Britt said. “He was totally staring at your ass.”

“You guys are delusional.” Laurel shrugged off her coat. She stood up for a moment to lay it over her stool, since there wasn’t anywhere else to put it, before sitting back down. The place was so packed, the other half of their table was occupied by a couple of girls they didn’t know.

Laurel guessed them to be in their early twenties, and both were dressed—or rather, barely dressed—in lingerie tops. At least, they looked like lingerie tops. One wore a strapless red bustier with black boning and the other a tank top so thin you could see her bra through it. Didn’t they know it was in the forties outside?

Glancing around the bar, she realized most of the women were dressed similarly, like they were on the prowl… which they obviously were. Even her friends’ outfits were a little sexy, albeit in a classy way. Britt had on a light blue wrap-around dress that showcased her perfect, lithe figure, and Skye was wearing a deep purple shirt that matched the color of her hair, topped with a flowy boho-chic embroidered blouse, and black yoga pants.

Looking down at her own bulky tan sweater, faded jeans, and tennis shoes, Laurel felt completely out of place—which she was. The bar scene had never been her style. Neither was wearing next to nothing to snag a guy.

As if on cue, Skye plucked at the sleeve of Laurel’s sweater. “Why did you wear this?”

“It’s warm.”

Skye cocked her head and gave her “that look” she’d perfected. “It’s May, not January.”

“I still get cold.”

“You look like a schoolmarm.”

“I am a schoolmarm.”

“No,” Skye countered. “You’re a hot teacher. You just hide it under stuff like this.”

“Why didn’t you wear the red dress I lent you?” Britt asked.

“I never asked to borrow it,” Laurel pointed out. She couldn’t wear it in public, anyway. It was stunning, but skin tight. She’d never be able to pull off that outfit without looking ridiculous. Just the thought made her queasy.

“And what the hell is this?” Skye asked.

“No!” Laurel desperately grabbed for her baseball hat, but Skye beat her to it, snatching it off her head. The canary yellow mess that used to be her naturally brown hair spilled out.

Skye’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

The girls sitting next to them looked over and snickered.

“Oh, darlin’,” Britt drawled—her southern accent always became more prominent when she drank. She touched her fingers to her lips, a you-poor-thing expression in her eyes.

Mortified, Laurel yanked the hat away from Skye and quickly put it back on.

“What the hell did you do?” Skye asked, pulling Laurel’s hair out from underneath her sweater to study. Even though it was only shoulder-length, it was too thick to stuff it all in the hat.

“It’s your fault.” Laurel pushed Skye’s hand away, and tried to tuck her hair back into the neck of her sweater. “You made me do it. If it wasn’t for that stupid list?—”

“You were supposed to bleach it blonde, not yellow.”

“Well, clearly it didn’t work,” Laurel fired back. She didn’t usually lose her temper, but embarrassment had frayed her typically controlled demeanor. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden burn of welling tears.

Don’t you dare cry in the middle of a bar full of people!

Skye inspected the hair on the sides of Laurel’s head where the hat didn’t reach low enough to cover. “How long did you leave on the bleach?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you leave it on the full time?”

Laurel huffed out a breath. Like it mattered at this point. “I left it on until it looked light.”

“I told you to leave it on the full time,” Skye lectured. “You obviously didn’t.”

“What difference does it make?” Laurel knew her voice came out clipped, but she was beyond embarrassed.

“Obviously, a lot,” Skye said. “If you rinse it out early, you get this.” She held up a wayward strand that had escaped the hat. “You have to leave it on the entire time to get blonde.”

When a waitress materialized at their table, Laurel stuffed the lock of hair back under her cap and covered the side of her head closest to the waitress with her hand.

“Can I get you guys something?”

“Yes,” Britt said. “Refills for us, and a tequila shot for her.”

Without looking up, Laurel knew Britt was pointing her way.

“Two shots,” Skye corrected.

The waitress left to fill their order.

“I’m going home,” Laurel whimpered. She started to get up to retrieve her coat, but Skye pushed her back down.

“You’re doing no such thing. It’s your birthday, and you’re going to stay and enjoy yourself.”

“Really?” Laurel pointed at her god-awful hair. “How do I enjoy myself looking like Big Bird?”

More giggling from the girls next to them.

Kill me now.

“You just do. Nobody cares what color your hair is.”

Yeah, right. The laugh fest next to them proved otherwise.

“Laur…” Skye placed her hand on Laurel’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll fix it tomorrow. Tonight, we have fun.”

The waitress returned and placed their drinks on the table. “Add it to your tab?”

Skye nodded, then pointed to one of the shots and held up a finger, before pushing the glass in front of Laurel. “Drink.”

Knowing her friends would full-on tackle her if she tried to leave, Laurel accepted her fate and downed the shot in one gulp. The light gold liquid burned a painful trail down her throat.

“Gah!” She cringed and coughed at the same time. “That’s awful!”

Skye handed her the second shot. “Again.”

Laurel seldom drank hard liquor, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She threw back the second shot. It burned worse than the first and turned her stomach, but with any luck, maybe she’d black out and be able to forget the monstrosity that was her hair. She knew her friends wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

“Yuck!” Laurel put the shot glass back on the table and pushed it away. “How do people drink that stuff?”

“Here, take this.” Britt held out a lime. “It’ll make it better.”

As soon as Laurel bit into the lime, she regretted it. The citrus did dull the tequila taste, but also made every one of her taste buds freak out at once.

“Better?” Britt asked.

Laurel pinched her face into a grimace. “Yeah… no! ”

Britt laughed.

Eventually, the burning in Laurel’s gut changed to warmth and spread throughout her body. Little by little she started to relax.

“How ’bout now?” Britt asked.

Laurel shrugged.

“She’s better.” Skye turned to Laurel. “Now back to Mr. Not Some Guy.”

The warmth in Laurel’s body pooled low. It had nothing to do with tequila and everything to do with ice blue eyes and the man they belonged to. The drink must already be affecting her because it was categorically impossible for merely thinking about someone bumping into you to make your panties damp. Wasn’t it?

“Can we change the subject?” Laurel asked.

“We just got onto the subject,” Skye argued.

Britt started scanning the bar. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Stop looking around!” Laurel ordered.

“I don’t see him,” Skye said, perusing the bar, as well. “Do you?”

“No.” And Laurel wasn’t going to look. She was embarrassed enough already, but if he’d seen her hair, she’d have to become a recluse and never leave her house for fear of running into him.

“There he is!” Britt pointed to a table on the far end of the bar, close to the dance floor.

Laurel slapped her friend’s hand down. “For the love of fudge, stop pointing!” Still, she couldn’t refrain from stealing a look.

The most mouthwatering man on the planet was sitting with his back against the wall, talking to a big, burly, tatted guy, another man, and a woman. They were engaged in animated conversation, the big one miming what looked like tossing something over his shoulder and climbing. Everyone laughed except her guy. He shook his head with a grin and took a drink of his beer. Then he?—

Wait. My guy? Where did that come from?

“Go ask him to dance,” Skye ordered.

Laurel spun on her chair to face her. “Are you crazy? No way in bells am I asking that man to do anything!”

“I’d ask him to do everything, ” Britt said, biting her thumb—an unconscious habit she had whenever she concentrated.

So would Laurel, if truth be told. At least, she would if she was the type to chase a man and throw probable rejection to the wind.

“That’ll check off number five,” Skye said.

Laurel blanched. Who cared if asking a stranger to dance was number five. She’d never done that before and wasn’t about to start now. Especially not with him. “No way!”

“Yes, way,” Skye shot back.

Laurel ventured a glance at Mr. Not Some Guy, who, of course, chose that exact moment to look up. Their gazes held for a few seconds before her brain engaged, and fire ignited her cheeks. She did the deer-in-the-headlights thing and quickly looked down.

“And then on the dance floor,” Skye continued, “you can segue into number six.”

Laurel coughed out a strangled sound before blurting, “Oh good gravy! Absolutely not!” There was no way she was going to make out with a total stranger!

The cocktail waitress arrived with the third tequila shot Skye had ordered. As soon as the glass touched the table, Laurel grabbed it like she was in anaphylactic shock, and the shot was an EpiPen. She gulped it down, then shook the empty glass at the waitress.

“May I have another?”

“No, you may not,” Skye told her, while Britt sent the waitress on her way. “You’re cut off.”

“But it’s my birthday,” Laurel whined. “And I’m being harassed.”

“By who?” Skye asked.

“By you!”

“Whatever. Sit down.”

Laurel wasn’t even aware she’d stood up. Obediently, she sat back down. Not because Skye told her to, but because that third shot of tequila was already joining forces with the other two and making her a little woozy.

“I’m not asking him to dance. I don’t care what number it is. Besides, after number four—” She pointed to her head. “The rest of the list should be rendered null and void.”

Last year, Skye had come up with a list of things Laurel had to do by the time she turned thirty—things she wouldn’t do of her own volition. Skye was worried her buttoned-up best friend wasn’t living life to the fullest.

And maybe she wasn’t, Laurel conceded. Not in the way Skye meant, anyway. But Laurel was happy with her life. She’d always been one to color within the lines, and it suited her profession, figuratively and literally. Both of her parents were professors at the local college, so becoming a teacher seemed a natural fit. True, her mom and dad would’ve preferred she’d followed in their footsteps and had gone the collegiate way, but she’d always loved kids. Helping to mold little minds was what she was passionate about, so she’d chosen primary education and had never regretted it. It wasn’t “exciting” in the typical way most people defined the word, but it was to her.

Plus, having a plan and structure in her life made her comfortable. It worked for her. So, how her best friend had convinced her to agree to complete a to-do list, she’d never know.

Okay, that’s a lie. She knew. One too many wine coolers on her twenty-ninth birthday, that’s how.

She really needed to stop going out with Skye on her birthdays. Somehow, she always ended up tipsy… like right now. Her lips were starting to feel numb. That was a tell-tale sign.

Skye waved a finger in Laurel’s face. “No. You double-shook on it. No backing out.”

“Double-shaking” was something they’d come up with in grade school. After crossing their wrists, they’d hold each other’s hands. Then they’d shake up and down once, side to side once, and repeat. Yeah, super creative, but they’d been nine. Now that Laurel thought about it, that was more like quadruple shaking, but, again, they’d been nine.

Regardless, from that point on, “double-shaking” was like sealing it in blood. They’d never broken a double-shake pact.

“You’ve already crossed four items off the list,” Skye said. “Do these two, and there are only four more left.”

Skye’s list had ten items on it. Ten things Laurel would never in a million years consider doing, which is why her friend had chosen them. Number one had been eating a raw oyster. Skye had declared that was her “softball” item, but choking down lumpy snot was so far from easy, Laurel had almost puked.

She hadn’t done number two yet, but did finish number three, which was not planning and precooking her meals for the week. Sounded simple, but not for her. Even though she admittedly wasn’t a good cook, she’d pre-made dinners on Sunday for the coming week and put them into labeled Tupperware containers ever since she’d started teaching. It made things so much easier coming home and not having to stress about what she was going to eat. Plus, it kept her from grabbing junk food.

Her friend thought the practice was too obsessive, but Laurel liked being prepared for things. It made her super-organized self happy. As it turned out, she’d eaten cereal and boxed mac and cheese for dinner that entire week.

Number four on the list was bleaching her hair blonde, which obviously had been a colossal failure. She didn’t even want to think about how humiliating number five would be.

“Well, it’s already my birthday, so the list doesn’t matter,” Laurel rationalized. “I was supposed to have them done by my thirtieth birthday, and today is my thirtieth birthday.” Ugh, she hated the sound of that number. “It’s too late.”

“Yeah, nice try,” Skye said. “Not my fault you dragged your feet. The list stands.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Laurel looked to Britt for backup. She shouldn’t have bothered because Britt pointed to the table by the dance floor with one hand, and held up five fingers on the other.

Skye stood and pulled Laurel to her feet. She took her by the shoulders, angled her toward Mr. Not Some Guy’s table, and gave a little push. “Now, go check number five off the list.