Chapter 1
Chad
Present day.
My heart shatters as I watch the could-have-been love of my life clink champagne glasses with her new fiancé. It crumbles and spins out of my chest like clods of dirt coming off an all-terrain tire. Noelle. My broken heart sputters her name. Why him?
Sure, maybe Rom, the demon she’s betrothed to, held her eye for the entirety of his five-minute toast. He directed his every word to her and only her, but does that make him her best option, the right guy? Jury’s still out.
Every time I’m within earshot of Rom, I swear he’s muttering ‘ fucking Chad’ under his breath. So, not an all-around nice guy as far as I’m concerned.
But his most damning trait? Rom is an outsider. He may have been born here, but he moved away. He’s only recently returned, and if that’s not a red flag, I don’t know what is. Outsiders are flight risks, tourists who come and go. They may pretend to put down roots, but they don’t hold. She should know better than to tie her happiness to one of them.
The man with the mic calls for yet another round of applause for Rom’s speech. Three rounds for the same speech? Seriously?
I guess it was pretty epic, I admit begrudgingly. She flushed full-body red in front of the whole town. I scan the tables around me. Well, maybe only half the town made the guest list, but all of Winter Bliss is celebrating the engagement of Noelle and Rom in spirit if not here in person. Everyone but me.
“I can't believe she's marrying someone else,” I shake my head and mutter before I down the rest of my third champagne and start looking around for a fourth. The waiters are avoiding me.
From the seat next to me, Luís, my best friend and fellow park ranger, gives a long-suffering sigh. “She's happy, man.” He doesn’t understand my heartache. No one does. “She’s glowing like a Disney princess. Just be happy for her.” She does look like a princess—red hair, yellow dress.
“I am,” I say with a sigh. I am. Really. Noelle deserves every kind of happiness. “I can be happy for her and devastated for me,” I reply with a hitch in my voice and a brave smile. Now who’s long suffering?
Luís snorts a laugh so hard that it fluffs his big, bushy mustache. He’s way too proud of that thing. “Name one thing you love about her.”
“Excuse me? What do you mean by that?” I’m offended even though I can’t say why exactly. “Noelle’s great. Everyone loves her.”
“ Si, pero, what do you love about her—specifically? You’ve been bellyaching non-stop since their engagement announcement arrived, but I barely remember you mentioning her before that. Si de veras estas enamorado , what is it you love about her?” He lifts an equally bushy eyebrow at me in challenge. “It should be an easy question.”
It should be and is. “Noelle loves this place. She’s practically the spirit of Winter Bliss personified. That’s what I love about her.”
“Uh, huh. ?Qué más? Just one more thing.”
“Isn’t that enough?” I ask with a huff. What’s he trying to prove with these nonsense questions?
“Enough? That she’s the unofficial mascot for our beloved hometown? No, tonto . That’s nowhere near enough.” He gives me an incredulous look, followed by an expectant one. He’s waiting for more.
“Well, as the unofficial mascot, she’s never going to up and leave, is she? I really love that about her.” It might be my favorite thing about her, actually. “The volcano would move away from Winter Bliss before she would,” I say, jutting my chin west, in the direction of the active volcano that bears the same name as our cozy little town: Mt. Winter Bliss.
Luís is quiet for a moment. His eyes drop to his own champagne flute. “Not all women leave,” he says softly. “And your mom did come back. Eventually.”
He’s right, of course. “She did come back,” I agree. Ten years later. Hardly a word from her for a decade. Then a year or two after I graduated high school, suddenly she was back. No apology, no explanation. Not that I’m sore about that. Not anymore. It’s been another ten years since then, and there’s nothing to be upset about because it's all in the past.
I really need that drink. Dang it, still no waiter in sight.
“That’s all you’ve got? You’re madly in love with Noelle because she’s a permanent resident?” He shakes his head and mutters, “ ?Qué chingados? ”
I shrug. It feels like enough to me. I’m not picky. “We went out to eat together a few times,” I add. It was fast food, and we were in high school, but it still counts.
“A woman who will eat a meal with you is a low bar, man,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’m not picky,” I say out loud this time, slumping further in my chair. Someone local and planning on sticking around. That’s it. That’s all I’m looking for. It’s not too much to ask.
“Not picky?” he scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Do you know what your real problem is? You're like a dog with a bone. You hold onto things too tight.” He snaps his teeth together and clenches his fist in the air, squeezing it for emphasis.
I glare at him as I kick out my shined-up, snip-toe boots and cross my arms across my chest. I had a really good wallow going, and he’s ruined it by irritating me. Some friend, this guy. “If the bone’s not wiggling to get free, it won’t notice,” I grumble. I’m not trying to trap someone, but yeah, I want to hold on tight. So what? Someone’s gotta like that, right? Or at least not mind too much.
“ Vamonos ,” he says, slapping my arm. “You’re dampening the vibe. This is supposed to be a party. Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where?” I ask. Then I perk up. “Under the Volcano?”
“What is it with you and that shitty bar? You've already hit on every regular at least a dozen times. Let's give it a rest for the night, huh?”
“Give it a rest?” I snort. He knows me better than that. Under the Volcano is my favorite spot. It used to be our spot before Luís got himself hitched. “Tourist season is picking up. There’ll probably be some new women there,” I say with a grin.
“You know damn well you're not looking for a tourist. You’re the most anti-tourist person I know.”
“Not every day is a game day,” I say. Flirting with tourists is like a low-stakes practice game. They keep me in top form, ready to hit a home run when I really need to. “I've got some new lines to try out.” I pat my pocket where my notebook lives. I carry it at all times in case inspiration strikes, and boy did it strike this week. An electric storm of brand-new pickup lines. “Some real gems,” I say with a grin as I snatch up my cowboy hat and place it on my head just so, with a slight downward rake for a bit of dramatic flare. The ladies love it. I’m up on my feet now, hand twitching impatiently to be gone. Luís rolls his eyes and takes his sweet time heaving himself up out of his chair.
“I can't believe I used to take advice from you on how to pick up women, buey .” He shakes his head. “You don’t know shit. The only one dumber than you was me.”
“My advice got you Babs, didn't it?”
“Because she has a soft spot for idiots, and the line you fed me was the most idiotic thing she’d ever heard. She and her friends still laugh about it,” he says with a grimace.
“It worked. You can’t argue with results,” I say, spreading my arms. “Let’s go.” With a clap of my hands, I start weaving my way through a sea of tables, heading toward the parking lot. My long legs pull ahead. I’m six foot four to Luís’s five seven. He never can keep up. “I’ll meet you there,” I call to him over my shoulder. He waves in acknowledgment, and I pick up speed.
A really good dive bar is an underappreciated thing of beauty. It has to hit a perfect balance: just trashy enough that no one feels obligated to be on their best behavior, but not so trashy that it invites chaos. It can’t be a seedy, ‘anything goes’ kind of place. That’ll scare away the ladies, and then what’s the point?
Under the Volcano Tiki Bar hits the bullseye.
I park my truck, and not for the first time, I feel a wave of contentment as I take in the neon lights, the wraparound porch, and the scattering of tiki masks that decorate the exterior. This is my regular spot. This is home field.
I snatch up my phone from the dash just as it buzzes, and I read the message.
Luís
Sorry man, not going to make it. Babs needs more cold medicine and tissues.
See you Monday.
Shit. He isn't coming.
See ya Monday.
Love to Babs. Hope she feels better.
It looks like I’ll be going solo this evening. Not how I prefer it, but I’ve been without a reliable wingman ever since Luís locked down Babs. With any luck, I won’t be at this too much longer myself. Despite Luís’s pessimism, there’s a chance the future Mrs. Chad Robins is waiting inside that bar right this very second, and she’s only one perfect pickup line away from realizing I’m the man she wants to spend the rest of her life with right here in the most beautiful place on earth. I hop out of my truck and hurry inside.
The noise hits me as soon as I walk through the doors. The TVs are on and the jukebox is blaring, but the pumped-in noise is drowned out by the raucous chatter of a boisterous Friday night crowd. Just the sight of the full tables and the line at the bar gives me a buzzy shot of energy. With this good of a crowd, it might be game day after all.
The bartender greets me with a friendly smile and a, "Hiya, man." He slides my beer of choice across the bar without needing to ask what I’ll have. Greg is another underappreciated treasure and one hell of a barman. He serves up my usual: a beer to start with a Scotch on the rocks chaser. The beer is just to loosen me up. The Scotch is what I’ll walk around with. It has an air of sophistication, and first impressions matter.
“How's it looking tonight?” I ask Greg, hoping for some good news.
The bar is hopping, but he gives me a grim shake of his head. "Not much home-team talent out tonight as far as I can tell. Sorry, man."
Damn.
Greg lays down a coaster and slides my Scotch across the bar just as the entry door swings wide and on a gust of chilly October air, in walks a glorious sight — a group of ladies with no men in tow.
"What do you think? Home team?" I ask Greg.
He gives them a quick once over. "Doubt it," he says, unkindly bursting my bubble.
"There’re five of them. One of ’em could be local," I say. Winter Bliss is a small town, but it’s not so small that I've met everyone.
"You never know." He gives me a noncommittal shrug.
The group of ladies takes a table behind me, and I play it cool, pretending not to notice them.
"You’ll never guess what he said to me! Just try to guess," the one with a blond ponytail says to her friends. I scoot down the bar to better eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s a strategic move. I’ve got to get the lay of the land before heading in.
“Who?” one of her friends asks.
“The tennis instructor,” she says. Then without waiting for any guesses, she continues, “He asked me how long we'd be staying at the resort. I told him through the end of the week.” Greg was right, they’re a visiting team. “And he gave me this flirty smile and said he could see us becoming ‘good friends’ by then. I said ‘yeah, maybe,’ because, I mean, hello tennis-pro bod, but then he came back with, ‘Well, if we're going to be friends, then I have to ask, if something came up between us, would you hold it against me?’”
“I don't understand,” her friend on her left says.
“Me either,” the one across from her says. “Is he going to fight you?”
The blond ponytail repeats the line, slower this time. “If something came up between us,” she extends a finger, miming a pinky-sized erection, "would you hold it against me." She snuggles her pinky to her face.
Her friend across the table falls forward, burying her head in her hands, and laughs so hard her shoulders shake. “Seriously?” she all but shrieks.
“Eww,” the friend on her left pulls back. “What a fucking Chad .” I wince at the sound of my name. I know she’s using Chad as a term and not talking about me, but still. It stings. “Gross. That puts me off tennis.”
All five agree so adamantly that I almost feel bad for the guy, whoever he is. He might be a tennis pro, but he's clearly an amateur when it comes to hitting on women. Would you hold it against me? I snort. That's got to be one of the oldest lines in the book. Outdated and inelegant. It took me all of two shots to retire that line in my teens. How is he still using it as an adult? Doesn’t he know that ladies expect a little poetry in their pickup lines these days, a little something special to set off that magic spark and make their hearts go zing! He’s the one .
I take a sip and grimace. Scotch is an acquired taste, I remind myself, and it’s only been a year or so. It’ll grow on me.
My hand drifts toward my pocket. I’m about to pull out my notebook and choose my first line of the night, but before I can, one of the five ladies gets up and heads to the bar, opening up an opportunity for a practice round, and I don’t want to miss it. Time to score where the tennis instructor whiffed.
I wait for her to place her order, then sidle up next to her. “Hello there,” I say, leaning on the counter, tipping my hat and swirling my drink so that the clinking cube of ice draws her attention. As soon as I have it, I swing for the fences. “You’re prettier than a night sky full of stars, and I should know, I practically live outside.”
She grins, but there’s too much amusement in it, bordering on a laugh. It’s definitely not the swept-off-my-feet smile I was hoping for. “I’m not here to meet people tonight,” she says, still grinning. “But thank you.” She walks away, and as she goes, I replay the line in my head. It was the ‘living outside’ bit that sank it. I was picturing myself wearing my park ranger uniform when I said it. I’m outdoorsy, not chronically unhoused. The uniform would have cleared that up. I’ll test it again another time.
I push off from the bar and head into the crowd. I’ve got a dozen more lines to try and no time to mope.
“I don’t usually strike up conversations with strangers.” Not true. “But there’s an undertow pulling me right to you, and I simply couldn’t resist.” I get a fairly nice reaction to that one, but she says she’s here with someone, so I mark it with a little star and a question mark in my notebook and move on.
“You ought to be careful. The way you’re heating up this place, you’ll make our volcano jealous.” It’s a dud. She’s not amused, flattered, or interested. I scratch a line through it. Damn.
It’s somewhat of a mixed bag with the rest of my lines, but in general, they all underperform, some worse than others. I can’t figure it out. The beauty of the natural world felt like the perfect wellspring. It knocks my socks off on the daily, and I was sure I had some gold this time. Why didn’t it pan out?
It’s not even nine, but I’m done. My notebook is nothing but scratched out lines, one star, and two question marks. Time to pack it in. I head back to the bar to settle my tab.
When Greg comes back with my card, he presents me with a drink I didn’t order. “Is this Scotch?” I ask. It looks like Scotch, but I’m confused by the presence of a twist of orange and a skewered cherry.
“It’s bourbon, an old fashioned, compliments of the stunningly gorgeous demoness at the end of the bar.” He nods his head in the direction I should look and says, “Cheers man,” with a toothy grin.
The bar is still crowded and half or more of the patrons are demons, so it takes me a second, but the moment I see her, I know it. Stunningly gorgeous is no exaggeration. She’s got a sleek, slender build, and from the cut of her slinky black top, I’m picking up an edgy vibe. Her double set of horns gives the impression of a crown with their sinful curves. Her hair is short, dark, and tussled, and her eyes. My breath catches. Most demons have black eyes, but hers don’t register as darkness or voids. They’re magnets, pulling me in with their long lashes and gold liner that glimmers against her deep blush of reddish-pink skin. She winks at me.
My heart stops for a second, then picks up again, pounding in my chest like it’s ready to run. It’s not my usual reaction to a beautiful woman, and I don’t know what to make of it. Probably not a good sign though.
“Are you gonna go talk to her?” Greg asks, and I can tell from the way he asks that he’s surprised I haven’t made my way over to her already.
“No,” I say, tearing my eyes away from her. “No. She's not my type.”
“You have a type? That’s news to me,” he says with a grin.
“She’s not local. There’s no way she lives around here.” I take a drink, hoping the spirit will steady me, but one gulp, and I pull back in surprise. “Huh.”
“What do you think?” Greg asks with a tilt of his head. The bartender in him is genuinely curious.
“It doesn’t taste like bandaids,” I say. It’s the one Scotch tasting note I’ve ever picked up on.
Greg chuckles. “Should I make this your new regular?” he asks.
“No.” I put the glass down with a firm thunk and push it away from me. “I’m a Scotch guy.” This is not my drink. It’s smooth and balanced, with a toasty-sweet finish and a nose of citrus from the twisty peel. It doesn’t taste right.
“You hate Scotch. You grimace your way through it like you’re sipping on turpentine. Why not drink something that suits your palate a little better?” Greg asks.
I glance at her again. She’s still watching me, one eyebrow lifted, amusement drawing her perfectly gorgeous lips into a hint of a smile, and my head spins. “I know what suits my palate, and it’s not this,” I say with firm conviction. “This is…” I search for something wrong with the drink. “It’s too easy. I could chug a dozen of these without batting an eye. And then what?”
“I’d have to peel you off the floor,” Greg says.
“Exactly. It’s a dangerous drink. I’ll stick to Scotch.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs and clears the glass from the bar. “See you next Friday,” he calls to me as he wanders off to help other customers. I lean against the bar, feigning a casual pose and keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead while, out of the corner of my eye, I watch the demoness. It takes a while, but eventually, she leaves. I give it a few minutes, then I make my own exit.
I step out the door, and there she is, standing on the porch under a neon sign. I freeze in my tracks. Now that she’s standing, I can see that she’s head to toe in black, from her stilettos to the leather mini skirt to her satin top so deep cut that it’s instantly clear she’s not wearing a bra. My heart starts racing again, full gallop.
“That’s not something I see every day,” she muses at me.
“What?” I ask with a hard swallow.
“A rabbit on the hunt.” The corner of her mouth twists in amusement, and when she smiles I see a flash of her pointy teeth. A warm flush creeps up my neck. There’s something wrong with me, probably the bourbon. I pull on my collar and look around for a rabbit just to be sure she’s not being literal. Nope. She’s referring to me. How am I a rabbit?
“Do you mean my teeth?” I ask. Is that what she’s referring to?
She leans in to take a look, and without thinking, I open wide, showing her my teeth.
“I hadn’t noticed them, but you do have some big, square chompers,” she says, then returns to leaning against the post. I close my mouth. “I was referring to your over-eagerness in there, hopping from table to table. And your nose. It moves when you talk, like a little rabbit.” It does not , I think but don’t say aloud. “Except you weren’t foraging. You were hunting. A lot of shots taken with nothing to show for it. A pity.” She gives a little shake of her head. “Luckily, the night’s still young.”
There’s a suggestive purr in her voice as she looks me up and down. An electric-filled quiet stretches between us, and the hair on my arms tingles with the unmistakable feel of a storm building.
A warning sounds in my head and rings in my ears. I shouldn’t be near this woman, and at the same time, I want to pull closer.
“No pickup line for me?” she asks with a disappointed pout. Hairbrain that I am, I take the bait, looking right at the bottom lip she’s pushed out, round and full of temptation. I’m ensnared. The soft pillow presses up against the deep bow of her top lip, and just fuck me . She’s made up of sharp edges, from the high arch of her eyebrows to the pronounced jut of her ankle bones. Those lips might be the only soft part of her, and I’m dying to taste them.
My boot scoots forward all on its own, scuffing against the wood planks. I pull it back and replant it firmly in place.
No.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. No. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she’s not for me. If I’m a rabbit, she’s a wolf.
She slinks toward me, a bedeviling glint in her eye.“Come with me.” She takes my hand.
Run to your burrow and hide, you dumb bunny , I tell myself, but when she tugs me forward, I follow.
“Where are we going?” I ask, a noticeable rasp in my voice. She smiles over her shoulder, but she doesn’t answer.