Cowboy and Candy Hearts

Chapter 1 A Not-so-Happy Valentine’s Day

A Not-so-Happy Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day is a bad day to be working at a dive bar.

All the loved up couples are at fancy restaurants or eating home cooked meals in domestic bliss. The singles, meanwhile, head to their local dive for two main reasons: to drown their lonely sorrows at the bottom of a glass, or to pump in some liquid courage to try to get laid.

Either way, it makes for a messy night when you’re the one slinging the drinks.

No judgment on either variety of patron. God knows I’ve been on both paths on Valentine’s Days past.

Yes, I’ve cried into my cups over countless shitty exes.

Yes, I’ve woken up in someone else’s bed on February 15th after a few too many tequila shots, spending the night before looking for love and settling for an encounter where I could pretend someone touching me meant they cared.

“Maddie girl, why aren’t you out with some nice young man tonight?”

I look up at Sylvia’s question. She’s an old timer here at Mad Dog’s. That’s the biker bar my dad owns and practically my home away from home. I grew up hanging out at Dad’s office when I was little, doing little chores here and there when I was old enough. Then waitressing. Now bartending.

What a meteoric rise.

I’m not one of those fancy mixologists that works in the bougie hotels downtown. The fanciest thing I mix up most nights is a Jack and Coke.

Tonight, nobody’s even bothering with the Coke.

I pour Sylvia another shot of whiskey and slide it across the bar.

“I’m done with men,” I tell Sylvia.

Her grey eyebrows shoot up. “At your age? Nah, honey. You gotta get it while the getting’s good.”

“That’s the problem,” I say. “The getting is not good. What you get these days is an emotionally unavailable manchild who thinks jackhammering a girl for fifteen minutes straight is her one-way ticket to orgasmic heaven.”

She sighs. “I guess men never change.”

I pour myself my own shot of Jack. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“But at least the handsome ones are something nice to look at while they’re doing it,” she offers.

I clink my shot glass to hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

As I drink, I make my own private toast in my head.

A toast to being older and wiser. To spending Valentine’s Day earning cold hard cash instead of wasting my time and energy on some loser who’d just as soon drain it from me.

It’s a damn good thing that I’m older and wiser now. Damn good that I’ve sworn off men forever.

Because when the door swings opens, and the handsomest blue-eyed devil I’ve ever seen walks inside, my stomach does a little flip. That oh shit, I could totally have his baby flip that’s gotten me in so much trouble over the years.

Luckily, not the actual baby-having trouble yet. Thank God for condoms.

But because I’m older and wiser now, I ignore that tummy flip. I look back down at the limes I’m slicing like I barely notice him, like he’s not the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.

After all, it’s Valentine’s Day. He could be here meeting a girlfriend.

Or a boyfriend.

Hell, knowing my luck, he’s here meeting his polyamorous situationship, of which I’ll be asked to be a part of for one night to spice things up.

Is it so wrong that I don’t want to be anyone’s spice? That I want to be the appetizer, main course, and dessert all rolled into one?

Shit, that reminds me. I missed my lunch break. My stomach growls as I catch a whiff of barbecue coming from the kitchen. Billy better have saved me some ribs for staff meal.

These curves don’t make themselves, after all.

When I glance up at the stranger, my tummy does another little flip.

Our eyes meet.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t raise a flirtatious eyebrow.

No, he looks away.

And if I’m not mistaken—which I may well be, given the pink twinkle lights I put up in honor of Valentine’s Day—the handsome stranger’s sharp cheekbones redden in a flush.

Okay, I’m actually kind of charmed.

That’s when I know I’m in trouble. The man hasn’t even said a damn word and my heart’s already fluttering.

Stupid Valentine’s Day.

I go back to slicing the limes. The citrusy scent floats towards my nostrils on the wave of a scent that’s even more delicious, something woodsy and deep.

It’s the handsome stranger. He’s sitting down right across from me now. Of course he just has to smell good too, like a subtle cologne that only makes me want to bury my face in his neck.

Not that I’m thinking of doing that.

I glance up quickly, real casual. Except that he’s looking at me already, and the way he’s looking at me—so serious, almost thoughtful, like my face is something he wants to study—makes my hand freeze midmotion.

He’s got a ridiculously handsome face. Tousled light brown hair and just the right kind of facial hair, enough to emphasize a sharp jawline and sharper cheekbones.

Those eyes that, up close, seem to hover between green and blue, a shade like seaglass.

He’s built and fit as hell, his black t-shirt stretching over a muscular chest and sculpted biceps.

He’s got perfect forearms too.

Fuck, I love good forearms.

I tear my gaze away. I give up on the lime-slicing before I accidentally cut my own finger off and slide a napkin across the counter to him.

“Be with you in a moment,” I say, then force myself to turn away as he nods in acknowledgement.

I take out some new bottles of whiskey to stock behind the bar, taking that same moment to collect myself.

I’m not going to flirt with this guy. I’m not going to start something. I’m done with men for several very good reasons, and it doesn’t matter how pretty the packaging is on this one—the inside’s probably as rotten or hollow as any of the rest of the guys from my past.

I’m older and wiser and I know how to be happy and single on Valentine’s Day.

When I hear my dad’s grumbly voice behind me saying, “Appreciate you coming early” to someone, I ignore it. Tune out whatever conversation is going on behind me. Dad knows everyone in this small town. For how gruff he is, he’s pretty well-connected.

Probably because he used to be the president of the most notorious motorcycle club in Montana.

But, like me, he’s now older and wiser and not about that life anymore.

But then my dad says, louder, “Maddie. I want you to meet Luke, our new bouncer. Luke, this is my daughter, Madison.”

Sylvia chimes in, “But everyone calls her Maddie.”

I don’t even pause my restocking efforts. Every bouncer is the same, some huge meathead ex-biker with a tragic facial hair situation and a mouth full of chewing tobacco.

But then I hear the voice.

“Pleased to meet you, Madison,” the voice says.

Deep but soft, with a velvety rasp. It’s a very good voice. An incredibly sexy voice. And saying my full name like that?

Phew.

I turn.

And damn it, it’s the hottie sitting at the bar.

I have enough trouble with good-looking, bad-news kinda men outside work. The last thing I need is to spend my working hours with this hottie.

The hotter a man is, the badder news he’ll be.

It’s Maddie’s law.

By that logic, this guy is the worst news.

With a swallow, I stick out my hand. “Hi.”

He takes it. His hand is callused. Clearly, he does hard labor. He holds my hand in his for a moment while those seaglass eyes stare into mine.

My eyes drop down his body. He looks way too good in those faded wranglers and black cowboy boots.

Lord, give me strength.

I slip my hand away from his grasp and turn to my father. “Bad hire, Dad. He’s too pretty. No one’s gonna take him seriously.”

Quick shortcut to learning a guy’s true nature: say something insulting to his ego.

You’ll get very interesting results very fast.

My eyes slide back to the hottie.

Luke.

No. I don’t need to know his name. I don’t want to know his name. He’s a man, and that’s all the information I need. Nothing about him is my business.

I expect the guy to look offended. To puff his chest out and proclaim his tough-guy bonafides.

But this guy doesn’t do any of that. He’s still got that solemn, thoughtful look on his face, but something about the way his perfect lips quirk tells me he’s trying not to smile.

Interesting.

My dad folds his big arms across his chest. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong,” he says to me. “But we’re short-staffed, and we’ll find out quick one way or another.” He claps Luke on the back and tell him, “Try not to get yourself totally fucked up. My worker’s comp insurance is shit.”

As my father heads back to his office, I call out, “Great pep talk, Dad!”

The hottie’s looking at me again. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t.

Strong and silent type, I guess.

But then he says in that soft, deep voice, “See you around, Madison.” And walks away.

Why is it that a man saying goodbye to me and walking away only makes me want him more?

Older, I remind myself. Wiser.

And then I go back to massacring limes so violently that juice squirts in my eyes.

It’s not a “hearts in my eyes, box of chocolates in my hand” kind of Valentine’s Day.

It’s an “acid in my eyes, knife in my hand” kind of Valentine’s Day.

No matter what any stupid tummy flips and too-pretty strangers waltzing into my life have to do with it.

For Pretty Boy’s sake—and mine—I hope there aren’t as many fights tonight as usual.

But it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m not counting on it.