His to Keep

1. Scarlet

ONE

SCARLET

“This seat taken?” I ask, glancing up at the god of a man posted up at the bar, a lone bottle of beer in front of him.

He’s built like the freaking Hulk, with muscle on top of muscle.

His blond hair’s cropped close on the sides with a long, unruly strip down the middle.

He’s the definition of rugged, dressed in ripped jeans, a white tee, and a black vest. Oh, and his beard…

don’t even get me started on his freaking beard.

Too bad he’s not interested—at least, if the scowl pointed my way is anything to go off.

Okay, then. Let’s pivot, because I need a damn drink or three, preferably on someone else’s dime.

I toss my hair over my shoulder and slide onto the barstool beside him anyway—it’s not like he can actually stop me from sitting here. He doesn’t own the seat.

It’s Friday, and The Creek, our local bar for the under-sixty crowd, is practically at capacity. I’m dressed to kill in a pair of ass-hugging jean shorts and a tank top that shows off exactly what I’m working with—so, who cares if this guy isn’t interested? Someone else will be.

I twist around in my seat and scan the densely packed space. There’s a group of guys at a high top that looks promising. They’re all decked out in plaid shirts, well-worn jeans, and work boots. They’re exactly my type—at least for tonight, because god knows I’m not looking for forever.

I’m just about to abandon my stool in favor of the guys at the high top, when the bartender slides a tall glass garnished with a lemon twist in front of me.

“Creek water for the lady.”

“Oh.” I glance up and down the bar, in case he’s mistaken me for someone else. “Um.”

“It’s what you usually order, right?” he asks, a subtle blush creeping across his cheeks.

“It is.” I nod, curling my fingers around the cool glass. “How’d you know?”

“Good memory.” He taps his temple and shrugs, averting his eyes before slowly bringing them back to me.

I can’t help but wonder if he’s this attentive to all of his customers, or if I’m somehow special.

“Well, thank you,” I murmur, offering him a small smile as I reach for the crisp twenty-dollar bill I tucked into my bra—my just in case money.

His cheeks go from pink to red, the neon beer signs overhead only serving to amplify the glow. It’s kind of adorable the way he flip-flops between self-assured and shy. “This one’s on the house.”

Well, it looks like my night’s already turning around. “Aren’t you a sweetheart…” I glance down at his nametag. “…Clint.”

He winks and heads off to help one of the many other patrons waiting to order.

I keep my gaze on the bartender for a long moment before finally taking a sip of my drink. It's ice cold, and I relish the tang of the lemon juice with the bite of the bourbon as I swallow it down.

Once my glass is nearly drained, I swivel my stool around and discreetly check out the guys I have my eye on. Out of the six of them, one is a hard no thanks to the thick, silver wedding band he's proudly rocking, three are doable, and the other two are absolutely fuck-hot.

“You are a badass bitch,” I whisper to myself before tossing back the last of my drink and fluffing my hair.

The hulking, silent man next to me snorts a laugh, and I whip around to glare at him. “Something funny, asshole?”

“No, no.” He waves me away as if I’m nothing more than an annoying little bug before taking a long pull from his beer. “As you were.”

“You clearly have something to say,” I hiss, rattling the ice in my now empty glass.

He looks me up and down before smirking. His silence is infuriating. I'm tempted to tell him off, but, before I can, someone crowds into my left side.

A mouthwatering and familiar scent invades my nostrils, and I know exactly who’s behind me. Ellis fucking Wilder. It’s unfair for someone so unpleasant to smell so good. Like cedarwood, clove, and a hint of patchouli… like temptation and bad decisions.

“Who let you out of hell for the night?” he asks, his deep voice closer than I expected, causing me to shiver, despite the overly warm room.

Tall, dark, and shitty attitude snorts into his beer, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Why are you here, Officer Jackass?” I ask, without turning to look at him.

“You know, I'm starting to worry about your memory, Scar,” he murmurs as he flags down the bartender. “You seem so forgetful these days.”

I scoff, prepared to rain down hell on his obnoxious ass, but in typical Ellis fashion, he doesn't let me get a word in edgewise.

“I mean, we've been over this... I'm not a cop anymore.” He speaks the words slowly, like I’m a toddler, and I swear to god, it makes me want to smack the stupid, smarmy smile off of his stupid, smarmy face.

“Yes, I know,” I reply through gritted teeth as I ball my hand into a tight fist to keep from acting on my urge to smack him. “And we’ve been over this before, too… you’re just a jackass now. So, maybe you’re the one with memory problems, you dick.”

From the moment we met, here in this very bar, Ellis and I have butted heads.

Well… that’s not exactly true.

When he swooped in and rescued me from the break-up-from-hell, he was a perfect gentleman. Charming even, whereas I was a crying, drunken mess.

For a minute, I thought there was palpable chemistry between the two of us. Laughable now, clearly.

But, hell, he was so sweet. He all but made me come home with them to sleep it off, which sounds creepy, but was actually so sweet. He loaded me up with Advil, water, and Gatorade before parking himself in the recliner—to watch over me, he said, in case I got sick.

He even went as far as settling the tab the dillhole I was seeing stuck me with—and it was not cheap. The loser apparently pre-gamed with his work bros and bought them all a few rounds of drinks before dumping me. In front of them all, I might add.

It truly felt like a white knight rescuing a damsel kind of situation, at least until the sun came up.

With the dawn came one helluva hangover and a very unwelcome dose of reality that I wish I could bleach from my brain. Unfortunately, I remember it like it was yesterday…

“Where in the hell am I?” I mutter, blinking myself awake as I take in the unfamiliar space.

It’s sparsely decorated and clean enough, but there’s nothing that gives away where I am or how I got here.

I quickly take stock of my body—I’m fully dressed, down to my shoes, which is fucking weird, and other than a splitting headache and a crick in my neck, I feel fine.

“Oh, good, Sleeping Beauty is finally up,” a gravelly, masculine voice says from somewhere behind me.

I jerk around so hard, I fall off the couch and smack my head on the coffee table.

“Shit, are you okay?”

“Where am I?” I ask, rubbing the back of my head as I push myself up into a seated position, resting my back against the table. “And who are you?”

“You don’t remember?” he asks, a small grin curling his lips.

I massage my pounding temples and groan as bits and pieces of last night flash behind my tired lids.

Eric asking me out to The Creek and then dumping me in front of his work buddies… and sticking me with their bill. Stumbling drunk outside. Hot and hotter swooping in to save me.

“Just kill me.”

“No can do,” he murmurs, his voice full of humor. “My roommate’s a cop, and I’m pretty sure even he couldn’t get me off a murder charge.”

A giggle slips out, and I slap a hand over my mouth.

“I’m Atlas.” Which makes last night’s rescuer his hot cop roommate. I wonder where he is… I’d really like to thank him for, well, everything. And maybe ask for his number.

“Scarlet.” I push up onto my knees and leverage myself against the couch to stand. “And I’m not usually such a mess.”

“Messes don’t scare me.” He turns toward the cabinet and grabs two mugs. “Coffee?”

“God, yes please.” I pad into the kitchen. “With lots of cream, please. And cinnamon, if you have it.”

“You’re in luck.” He winks, and while I wish I could say it did it for me, my reaction is lukewarm at best. Hot cop on the other hand… have mercy.

“Thank you.” I plop down onto a barstool and cradle the steaming mug to my chest while Atlas rifles through the cabinets.

“Aha!” He spins to face me, a bottle of cinnamon clutched between his thick fingers. “Here we go.”

I readily accept it and sprinkle some over the top of my coffee. “Mmmm,” I hum as I take my first sip. “So good.”

“So, how’re you feeling after last night?” he asks, his brown eyes shining with genuine kindness and concern.

I shrug, because while last night definitely sucked, I’m also not exactly surprised. “Let’s just say I have a tendency to go for Mr. Wrong.”

He nods like he gets it, which is laughable. Surely neither of the men living under this roof are single. “Well, I’d say I hate it for you, but then you wouldn’t be here.”

“True.” A small, surprised laugh bubbles up from my chest. I’m not used to men who are so… candid. “So, where is your—”

But before I can finish my sentence, he walks in, shirtless, his abs rippling and drenched in sweat. He looks like a freaking god, and, I swear, my mouth waters.

“Atlas, we need to tal—oh, you’re still here.”

My heart sinks to my stomach like a stone. He does not sound excited to see me.

“Oh, um, yes. Sorry?” I set my mug down on the island in front of me and clasp my hands together in my lap to stop myself from fidgeting.

“Why?” He narrows his eyes, taking in just how close Atlas is sitting next to me. “You two look awfully cozy.”

“Ellis,” Atlas barks, jerking his head to the side in a way that clearly says cut it out.

So that’s his name. Ellis. It suits him.

“I’m Scarlet…” I push back from the bar and hold my hand out to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

His lips curls. “You make a habit of going home with men you don’t know?”

I feel two inches tall. “No, I typically get their name first,” I quip, going for humor to lighten the mood, but judging from the way he glares down at me, it’s the wrong choice.

“I see.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”