Chapter 5
Jack
“ W e've checked the taps,” Carol calls out, nodding approvingly. “Eden's got the prep sorted.”
I wipe down the bar for the hundredth time tonight, trying to focus on anything except Eden's perfume when she brushes past me. It hits differently now I know how it lingers on skin. How it mingles with sweat and—fuck.
Focus.
“Soon-to-be stepsister's fitting right in,” Carol grins, stacking clean glasses. “Like she's been here forever.”
The word 'stepsister' lands like a punch to the gut. As if I need another reminder of how complicated this has become.
Not only did she ghost me after that night, but now she's completely off-limits.
I'd never hurt Robert like that, no matter how much I want?—
“We need to get our stories straight,” Eden says under her breath while reaching for a glass. “What happened the other night, never happened.”
I step back, creating space between us. I grab a fresh bag of ice, wrestling with the tight plastic. “What happened the other night?—”
“Never happened.” Eden's fingers brush mine as she grabs a bottle of vodka, her other hand working quickly with a sharp knife through a pile of limes.
“Look, we can't out ourselves. It's ridiculous. If they find out, it will cause complications and problems. This thing between us was never a thing anyway, and now it's definitely not going to be a thing. I mean, for God's sake, we're going to be family. I suggest we keep things professional.”
“Professional then.” I nod, watching her precise movements as she slices. A lime rolls off the counter. “Though you might want to stop staring at my arms then.”
A hint of pink touches her cheeks as she brandishes the knife. “I was not?—”
“You were.” I finally give up wrestling with the ice bag and throw it onto the floor. The crack of breaking ice under my boots echoes my frustration.
“Fine.” The knife comes down with a sharp thwack. “No staring. No touching. No mentions of... that night.”
The space behind the bar shrinks each time Eden's hip bumps mine as she squeezes past.
I stomp the ice bag again, crushing more chunks under my heel while she attacks another lime.
The tension crackles between us like static electricity, making everything feel charged and dangerous. We need to clear the air before this wedding makes everything even more complicated.
As if reading my thoughts, Eden's movements slow.
“About the wedding—” She pauses, voice lower. “Don't you think it's all moving a bit fast?”
“Dad's level-headed,” I say, grinding ice beneath my boot. “When he knows, he knows. And they're good together. Your mom grounds him.”
Eden's knife stills. “The more I know, the less I understand,” she mutters.
Carol passes behind us, grinning. “Look at you two, bickering like real siblings already.”
We both freeze. Eden's knife clatters onto the cutting board, and I kick what's left of the ice bag under the counter, the word 'siblings' hanging between us like a barrier.
The front door slams open, letting in a blast of cold air and loud voices.
“We’ll finish this later.” I gesture toward the door where my regulars crowd in, shaking snow from their boots.
She nods, professional mask sliding back into place. But I catch her watching me in the mirror behind the bar, that same heat in her eyes from the storage room.
I grab fresh glasses and start pulling draft beers, trying to ignore how natural she looks in my space.
How right she feels here. How wrong this all is.
I slide her another complicated order ticket. “Manhattan, extra dry, with a twist. And they want it perfect.”
Eden's eyes scan the slip, her lips curving up. The transformation is immediate – from flustered to focused.
She's hard to ignore when she smiles like that, all confidence and challenge.
Her hands move with practiced ease - spirits, bitters, vermouth. The cocktail shaker becomes an extension of her rhythm. She's got the timing down perfect—shake, strain, garnish.
“You're testing me.” She doesn't look up, focused on expressing the orange peel just right.
She's in my bar, in my space, making it her own. The way she belongs here hits me like a physical blow.
Having her this close, watching her pour drinks like she's always been here... it's torture of the sweetest kind.
“Maybe I like watching you work.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Eden arches an eyebrow, not looking up from the cocktail she's building. “Please. I could make these drinks in my sleep.”
I lean against the bar, watching her hands move with practiced grace. “That sounds like confidence talking, Princess.”
Her eyes flash as she sets down the shaker. “You think I'm too good for this?” She scoffs. “I grew up in this town, remember? You're the blow-in. Let me show you exactly what I've got.”
She grabs my best bourbon without breaking eye contact, plus three bottles I rarely touch and some fresh herbs from our garnish station.
The challenge in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin - it takes everything in me not to drag her into the back room right now.
Instead, I watch her hands move, quick but precise, as she builds something I've never seen before.
“This,” she says, adding a final flourish of flame to the garnish, “is my specialty.”
Word spreads fast in a small bar. News about me having a sister travels even faster. She's drawing a crowd now, my regulars abandoning their usual beers to watch her work.
Every protective instinct in my body goes on high alert watching these guys lean in closer, even though I know they're harmless.
Eden handles herself with the kind of confidence that makes my chest glow with pride and something darker, more possessive.
My regulars press closer, but I shift my stance, creating a buffer between them and Eden.
Mine.
The word pounds in my head with every beat of my heart. Someone whistles as she slides the drink across the bar to its lucky recipient.
“Holy shit,” the guy breathes after his first sip. “That's incredible.”
“Right?” Eden's smile could stop traffic.
The crowd grows, and we fall into a rhythm, moving around each other like we've done this for years.
When she reaches for ice, I'm already sliding the bucket closer. When I need lime wedges, she's cutting fresh ones.
It's a dance we shouldn't know the steps to, but somehow do.
“Behind you,” I murmur, my hand grazing her hip as I pass.
Eden shivers but maintains her smile. “Professional,” she reminds me, but her voice has gone husky.
“Behind you,” I murmur, my hand grazing her hip as I pass.
Eden shivers but maintains her smile. “Professional,” she reminds me, but her voice has gone husky.
The rumble of motorcycles cuts through the night. Eden tenses, but I touch her elbow lightly. “Wait for it.”
The door bursts open, and Hawk and his MC brothers swagger in, bringing cold air and leather-jacket attitude with them.
Unlike the weekend tourists who sometimes pass through, these guys know how to wear those cuts they're sporting.
“Jack!” Hawk bellows. “Line 'em up!” His eyes catch on Eden, assessing. Not threatening, just careful. The way he looks at everything in his territory.
“They're good guys,” I murmur, noting how Eden's shoulders stay tight. “Run a youth mentoring program, believe it or not. Hawk here keeps the town council from pushing through that casino development they've been drooling over.”
“And Jack keeps us from burning the council building down when they piss us off,” Hawk adds, settling onto his usual stool. His leather creaks as he leans forward. “So, new blood behind Jack's sacred bar? Must be special.”
“Let me guess—” Eden's voice carries that edge she gets when she's pushing past discomfort. “Straight whiskey, no frills?”
Hawk's weathered face breaks into a grin. “Something tells me you've got a better idea.”
Eden rolls her eyes in my direction. “Jack, your regulars deserve better than well liquor and flat beer.”
The guys burst out laughing. Snake, Hawk's right hand, raises his glass. “I like her. She's got more bite than your usual hires.”
“You should've seen her earlier,” I say. “Created some fancy French thing that had everyone ordering cocktails.”
Eden pops a hand on her hip. “You boys brave enough to try something besides whiskey?”
“That a challenge?” Hawk's eyebrows shoot up.
“Only if you're scared of real flavor.”
The guys hoot and lean forward, drawn in by her confidence. Eden starts pulling bottles with practiced grace. I concentrate on restocking glasses, pretending not to notice how naturally she handles them.
Eden slides him her latest creation. “Try this.”
Hawk takes a sip, his eyes widening. “Damn, brother. Where'd you find this one?”
“She found me.” I grab whiskey for the rest of the crew, trying not to think about how true that is. “Though I'm starting to wonder if that's a good thing.”
Eden slides him her latest creation, something amber and smoky that makes Hawk's eyebrows shoot up at first sip.
“Damn, brother.” Hawk looks between us.
“Jack's mad because I'm showing him up.” Eden winks, but there's something softer in her voice now.
“That right?” Hawk watches us work together, his eyes missing nothing. The way Eden and I move around each other like we've been doing this for years. How I automatically reach for the garnish she needs before she asks.
“About time someone challenged him. Boy's too set in his ways. But he saved our asses when the clubhouse roof collapsed one winter a few years ago,” Hawk says, watching Eden's reaction.
Eden pauses mid-pour, her eyes finding mine in the bar mirror. “Jack helped rebuild it?”
Something shifts in her expression – recognition maybe, or understanding. Something that makes my chest tight.
“Spent weeks getting everything perfect before starting the renovations here. Boy's got magic hands with broken things.” Hawk drains his glass. “Don't let the rough edges fool you. Man's got a good heart. Just needs someone?—”
The crash of breaking glass snaps all our heads toward the pool tables. Some drunk asshole is squaring up to John, my weekend bouncer.
Eden tenses beside me, and my body moves on instinct, angling to shield her.
“Stay here,” I growl, already moving toward the commotion.
“Like hell,” she mutters, following right behind me.
The drunk whips around as I approach, pool cue still gripped in his fist. Dean something - a long-haul trucker who's been causing trouble up and down the I-80.
Got word from Pete over at The Thirsty Moose in the next town that he'd been banned for hassling their new waitress. We bar owners keep tabs on guys like this - small towns, long memories.
His face is red, broadcasting the same attitude that got him tossed from three bars in the county this month alone.
“Your boy here says I gotta leave,” Dean says, tipping his head toward the bouncer.
“He's right.” My voice stays level, but I feel Eden move closer behind me. Every muscle in my body coils tighter. “Time to call it a night.”
“Fuck that.” He sways, jabbing the pool cue toward John. “I paid for my drinks.”
“And now you're done.” I step forward, keeping my movements controlled. “I'll call you a cab.”
“Who the hell does this guy think he is?” He turns to his buddy, another trucker who's trying to fade into the background. Smart man.
“He owns the place,” Eden says, her voice sharp and clear. “And I suggest you listen to him.”
“Well, look what we got here. Fresh meat behind the bar.”
When Dean’s bleary eyes fix on her, something primitive roars to life in my chest.
I move before I think, closing the distance between us. The pool cue clatters to the floor as I grip his collar. “Outside. Now.”
“Jack.” Eden's hand lands on my arm, but I can barely feel it through the red haze. “He's not worth it.”
Dean laughs, ugly and mean. “Better listen to your pretty bartender. Wouldn't want to start something you can't finish.”
My grip tightens on his collar. The bar goes quiet except for the jukebox playing some old country song.
“Come on, man.” His buddy tugs at Dean’s sleeve. “Route's long tomorrow.”
Dean shrugs him off, his glazed eyes fixed on Eden. “Maybe I'll stick around. Get to know the new help better.” He reaches for her face. “What do you say, sweetheart?—”
I don't let him finish. One smooth movement and I've got him pressed against the wall, my forearm across his chest. “Walk out that door or I call the sheriff. The HideOut's not your kind of place.”
John escorts them out while I turn to Eden. “You okay?”
“I'm fine.” She straightens her shirt, trying to look casual. “Nice to have backup though. Reminds me of that first night with Tommy.”
“Part of the job.” I shrug, but pride swells in my chest at her words. “You need to know how to throw a punch if you're gonna open a bar in a small town.”
“Yeah, I thought about it once.”
That catches me off guard. “What, opening a bar?”
The HideOut could use someone with her skills, her eye for detail.
“Yeah, but it was too dangerous.” She rolls her eyes. “Decided fashion was a better option. Much safer in the city - you just get to swim with sharks and deal with people stabbing you in the back instead of glassing you in the face.”
I laugh, caught off guard by her dark humor. “Any regrets?”
Something flickers across her face - pain, maybe regret - but it's gone before I can read it.
She locks down her expression, and I know that whatever just crossed her mind, she won't be sharing it. Not yet. But she will.
The certainty of that hits me hard. Whatever walls she's built, whatever's hurting her - I'll find a way through.
She shrugs, but I catch her pleased smile.
The night slips away in a blur of orders and movement, Eden fitting into my routine like she's always been here.
Like she belonged here. With me.
Before I know it, Carol’s voice cuts through the thinning crowd: “Last drinks, folks! Get 'em while you can!”
Eden catches my eye across the room as she collects empty glasses. Her cheeks flush and she quickly looks away.
The same electricity from earlier crackles between us, stronger now in the quieting bar. My body hums with awareness of her, every protective instinct firing as the night draws to a close.
Soon the place will clear out. Soon it'll just be us, alone with all these unspoken things building between us.
And this time, I won't let her run.