8. Jana
Eight
Jana
F lint’s is packed full and rowdy, with the doors to the yard flung open and stars glittering in the night sky outside. Groups of hikers and bikers cluster around the wooden tables in the yard, slamming glasses down and laughing raucously. Inside is no better, with every booth and table crammed with people, and barely any room to squeeze past on our way to the stockroom.
Table service is a no go. Not when the crowd is packed so tight there’s barely room to breathe, and the noise is so loud you need to shout to be heard. No, Tess and I stay firmly behind the bar, sheltering in our pocket of personal space, serving drinks as fast as our bodies can move.
Periodically, Flint comes out of his office and slides behind the bar to help, glaring at the rowdiest drinkers. Once they settle down again, Flint pats us on the shoulder and stomps back to his office to wrangle numbers or whatever else he does in there.
There’s a radio wedged beneath the bar, next to a can of pepper spray, so we can call the boss for help if things get out of hand. Normally, that radio lies there for months, untouched and gathering dust, but tonight…
Yeah, tonight we might be calling for backup.
Something’s in the air. Maybe it’s the huge moon outside, pockmarked and hanging low above the treeline, or maybe it’s the pent-up frustration of waving goodbye to summer. Already, half the trees on the mountainside have turned russet and gold. The seasons turn quick in this part of the world, and before long the branches will be bare, our breaths will form little puffs of cloud, and the long, dark evenings will draw in and trap us inside with our thoughts.
Not yet, though. Not tonight. Tonight, the locals and tourists of Starlight Ridge are out in full force, gossiping and cracking jokes and stumbling from too much drink, nearly missing the bar with their glasses. Meanwhile, Tess and I are flushed from working so hard in this hot, crowded bar, as sweat slides down my spine beneath my polo shirt.
I’m gross. No two ways about it. Sweaty and rumpled and splashed head-to-toe in one sticky liquor or another. All I can think is thank god Stig will be asleep by the time I get back tonight, because one look at me like this and he’d slide that ring straight back off my finger.
God, please let me sneak a shower. Don’t let him smell the stickiness and sweat on my skin.
“Watch yourself.” Tess levers the dishwasher open by my hip, and a hot cloud of steam billows against my legs. My leggings are already soaked with sweat, but the extra moisture sure as hell doesn’t help. Still, it’s not Tess’s fault—what else is she supposed to do?
There’s barely room for the two of us to shuffle back and forth behind this bar. We’re lucky if we get through a whole shift without stepping on each other’s feet. If the dishwasher needs to open, then it needs to open.
My best friend leans down, her brown ponytail swinging over one shoulder, and sets about emptying the clean glasses and returning them to the shelves. Her polo shirt collar is flipped up on one side, and a pang of fondness shoots through me when I see it.
Tess always looks rumpled, no matter what she wears. Always.
She’s the nicest, most frazzled-looking friend I’ve ever had. And she proved that tenfold over the summer just gone, hosting me for weeks and weeks on her couch as I desperately scanned rental listings for somewhere to live.
Even when she fell in love and got swept off her feet by a handsome veteran. Even wrapped up in the cocoon of new love, Tess still made time and space for me in her life—and in her apartment.
I owe her so much. On shifts like these, I wish I could sit Tess in a corner with a big glass of ice water and do all the work, but she’d never go for it. Believe me, I’ve tried.
It’s gone midnight before there’s a lull. The yard has emptied out, the folks out there chased away by the autumn cold, but most of the booths inside are still full. Rock music thrums from the speakers on the wall, while the orders slow down enough that we can finally catch our breath.
“Holy moly.” Tess slumps over the bar, forehead pillowed on her folded arms. I fish for the spray bottle of water that we keep in the refrigerator, then mist the back of her neck. Tess groans with relief, shaking her head from side to side.
Then she stiffens. Pushes upright and fixes me with a glare.
“Wait. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Jana.”
My mouth is dry as I swallow, and I fight the urge to spray her in the face, vault over the bar and flee—because I know exactly what this is about. This is the first time I’ve seen Tess in person since I put on Stig’s ring.
She wanted to bring it up earlier, I could tell, her eyes bugging when she spotted the sapphire twinkling on my finger, but the orders came too thick and fast for us to chat with each other. Small mercies, I guess.
“What,” Tess says, lifting up my hand by the thumb, “is this?”
The sapphire winks against my brown skin, catching the bar lights.
“I thought it was just a rumor.” Tess turns my hand, squinting at the ring. “Just small town gossip. But you’re actually wearing it. What the hell?”
A customer chooses that moment to stagger up to the bar, and lord, I’ve never been more grateful to serve a whiskey sour. You’d better believe I take my sweet time doing it, ignoring Tess’s huff as I move as slow as I dare.
It gives me time to think; to wrack my brain for a good explanation.
The only problem? I don’t have one.
Because how can I explain the instant connection I felt to Stig? The invisible lightning that seemed to arc between us, waking up my dormant body? The immediate trust I felt in his company, like I was finally safe and could stop tensing up at last, always bracing for the worst to happen?
It makes no sense. I know it makes no sense.
And the fake marriage thing is a whole separate truckload of crazy.
“He needs a wife,” I settle on saying once the customer has gone, weaving back to his booth with uneven steps. “And I need somewhere to live. Win-win.”
Tess splutters, lost for words at how batshit I’m being.
I polish a glass and set it back on its shelf, avoiding her gaze.
“A wife ?” my friend bursts out at last, snatching the cloth from my hands and shaking it in my face. A bubble of humor bursts up my throat, but I choke it back down. “A wife ? You don’t need to—to sell yourself like that! You can sleep on my couch again. Even if it takes months, even if it takes years , don’t you think I’d prefer that than my best friend selling herself like cattle to some stranger?”
Another completely inappropriate laugh expands in my chest. Clearing my throat, I force my expression to stay serious, because Tess is right. She’s saying all the correct things, and I know she is. If the roles were reversed, I’d be freaking out too.
“It’s not like that.” A quick glance around the bar shows Flint’s office door firmly closed, the drinkers happily ensconced at their tables, and no one within earshot. Good. “It’s an arrangement—a marriage on paper only. Stig’s a complete gentleman, don’t worry.”
“Stig,” Tess repeats, her voice faint. She looks at the cloth in her hand, confused, like she can’t remember how it got there. “You have a fake husband and his name is Stig.”
“Fake fiance, technically.” I shrug. “For now. If it all works out, we’ll tie the knot after a month.”
Tess sucks in a long breath, and I hit her with my widest, most pleading smile.
Please trust me on this.
Please let me make this mistake.
Please don’t make me face reality just yet.
“This is… Jana, this is…” Tess gives up and shakes her head, tossing the cloth down on the bar. “There’s so much that could go wrong here. I’m seriously worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
Because how can I explain that the biggest risk in this whole caper is getting my heart broken? After only a few days of living in the cabin with Stig Hansen, it’s clear: the real jeopardy I’m in is the risk of my crush blooming into proper feelings. Feelings he might not return.
If I love Stig Hansen by the end of the month, there’s no way I can marry him. Not if it’s fake. Then I’ll be homeless again, and heartbroken to boot.
But that’s a whole other level of nonsense, and Tess isn’t ready to hear it. I can tell by the way she keeps tightening her ponytail, yanking roughly like she wants to tear her hair out at how crazy I’m being.
Another time, then.
“I want to meet him,” Tess says after serving another round of drinks with jerky, agitated movements. I’ve never seen my chilled-out friend wound so tight, and it’s strangely moving. Who knew she cared this much about little old me? “This Stig guy. I want to make sure he’s on the level.”
And I swear to god: it’s like her words conjure him, because before Tess has even finished her sentence, a familiar dark blond head ducks through the bar doorway. He scans the room and finds me quickly, hitting me with a crooked smile.
My whole body flushes hot. Tingles race over my skin beneath my clothes, and I grip the edge of the bar to keep myself from swaying.
“You can meet him,” I say faintly. “You can meet him right now.”
Stig Hansen has entered the building.