Something Selfish (Sterling Springs #1)

Chapter 1

KELSEY

“Do you really have to do that?” I look at Monica, who rolls her eyes from the barstool next to me and continues neatly stacking the coasters she’s collected.

“You know I’m a neat freak and this bar is always a mess, even if I love it,” she scoffs. “Seriously, why do you still bother to come almost every Friday when you’re going to be such a downer?”

OK, that’s fair. The bar’s only a block away from the town square with all the fancy tourist restaurants, but the clientele here is largely Jackson, Wyoming locals.

“For your moral support,” I tease. “And because you wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I didn’t.”

“You know it’s tradition.” She levels a glare at me. “We have to keep it alive.”

I roll my eyes and give her a dismissive nod. “Yeah, yeah.”

I might give her a hard time, but it’s not just tradition—it’s also a necessity.

We both work at Cowgirl Coffee, the town’s favorite coffee shop.

Her grandma opened it decades ago, back when Jackson was just a small, off-the-beaten-path town only on the radar of diehard skiers in the winter or National Parks visitors in the summer.

Between the expensive rent in town and pricey drinks at the other bougie bars, Bridger’s fits the bill for us and our budget—literally.

Most of the touristy places also close early and this is one of the few bars around that’s both cheap and open this late.

Looking around the bar, I recognize more than a few of the resort workers and restaurant staff coming for after-shift drinks. Even now, in the summer time, when the ski resort has been closed for months, Bridger’s is still busy with people visiting the National Parks only a short drive away.

Monica flags down the bartender and orders our next round of beers before turning back to me.

“It might be tradition, but that also doesn’t change the fact that it’s slim pickings. I haven’t seen fresh blood here in weeks.”

“Are you really trying to find someone to take home tonight?” I quirk a brow at her. “Because that hasn’t exactly been working out for you lately.”

She groans before flattening her long blonde hair and smoothing out her short denim dress with embroidered sunflowers.

If someone didn’t see us come in together, no one would guess that she was with me.

My go-to black skinny jeans, lace up black leather boots, and a black cropped t-shirt don’t exactly go with her sunshine and perky disposition.

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’d at least like the illusion that I could.”

After so many people we grew up with left town, I’m glad that my best friend is still here. We’ve been roommates since we graduated high school, sharing the small apartment above the coffee shop. Thankfully, her grandma owns the building and gives us a great deal on rent.

Growing up in a small rural town, we learned fast that the dating scene isn’t exactly stellar.

The population is mostly transient, short-term residents—seasonal workers and tourists—leaving the pool of single locals pretty limited.

Dating has hardly seemed like a priority, even after I turned twenty-seven a couple of months ago.

Deep laughter erupts near the door of the bar, and Monica turns first to scope out the source.

“Speaking of illusions, do you see them?”

I don’t even bother responding when I turn around and see them. It’s impossible to miss the two men that just walked in, emphasis on men. They’re both tall, imposing, and utterly striking.

The taller one almost has a menacing presence.

Everything about him is intense and calculated.

From the perfectly styled hard part in his dark, almost black hair and neatly trimmed beard to the meticulous geometric patterns tattooed on both of his arms. Nothing is out of place.

Every little detail about this man has clearly been thought out.

Even his damned v-neck t-shirt is so clean and smooth it looks like it was ironed.

He looks like the physical embodiment of order and control.

The man walking in beside him is something else entirely.

He’s not quite as tall as Captain Control, but he still must be six-foot-two or six-foot-three.

He has the same inky dark hair, except his is unkempt and tousled, hanging just above his eyes.

He oozes that boyish, carefree charm that makes him look younger than the other one.

He definitely has that pretty boy-next-door charm going on.

“I think the word you’re looking for is mirage. And yes, I see them and they’re very real,” I say, taking the last sip of my beer.

She practically gawks as they grab a high-top in the corner, by the dartboard. They’re so similar—but equally different—two sides of the same coin. They must be brothers.

Captain Control turns to Pretty Boy and whatever he said makes Pretty Boy smile, revealing a set of dimples.

Yep. Pretty Boy is right. Those dimples are to die for.

I turn and find Monica still staring at them, mouth agape.

“If you keep staring, I’m going to have to wipe your drool off the floor.”

She glares at me over her shoulder. “I don’t believe you. I think I need to confirm they’re actually real, and not figments of our horny imaginations.”

I roll my eyes as she gets up, knowing full well she’s going right for Captain Control because her neat freak tendencies don’t end with stacking coasters. And while she might be Miss Sunny-and-Bright compared to my dark and gloomy, she always seems to like the intense ones.

I don’t know if they’re lost tourists or what, but they’re the best looking men we’ve seen here in months.

Although I haven’t exactly been looking for anyone for a while.

After my grandma passed away a few months ago and my parents left Jackson for a town almost an hour away in Idaho, I’ve been in a funk.

This week was especially tough because the estate finally closed on Grandma’s house.

I loved that old farmhouse, the one Mom grew up in and I dreamed of living in one day.

It’s only a couple blocks away from the town square, but after it was sold to some out of town investors it might as well be in another world.

I loved that house growing up and had so many special moments there.

From baking pastries with Grandma in the morning or sitting with her and Monica having a tea party on the balcony upstairs, that old house owns a piece of my heart.

More recently, it was watching episodes of the Housewives of Honeycomb Ranch.

Grandma loved that show and in her honor, it’s my new Friday night tradition to keep watching it—after going to Bridger’s of course because apparently all my traditions involve Friday night.

While Mackenzie, the bartender, gets my beer, I pull my phone out to make sure tonight is a new episode and not a rerun.

When she comes back with my drink, I set my phone down on the bar.

I grab the cool bottle and take my first drink when I feel a presence at my side.

I turn and sure enough, Pretty Boy is standing right next to me, holding out two fingers in an attempt to flag down Mackenzie.

His eyes stay focused on the end of the bar, where she’s helping another customer.

“She’ll be back in just a second, Pretty Boy.”

No. No, I didn’t just spew out verbal diarrhea from my clearly way too horny and bitchy subconscious.

I feel my cheeks heat from embarrassment. Normally, not having a filter is one of my favorite qualities but I instantly regret saying that. I don’t even know this guy and he hasn’t said a word to me.

I look away hiding my now rosy cheeks, but still peek at him from the corner of my eye. To his credit, he just snorts a laugh and smiles, not looking at me.

I take him in while he’s still less than arms reach away.

Up close, his charming, boy-next-door looks are even harder to ignore.

His medium length dark hair is mussed in a way that looks like it was infuriatingly easy for him to pull off, like he rolled out of bed looking like that.

His stubbled cheeks still show just a hint of those dimples as he smiles in the direction of Mackenzie.

He leans over the bar on his elbow, propping his chin up on his fist.

With the sleeves of his black and blue flannel shirt rolled up, I can see the mosaic of tattoos on each of his muscular forearms. There’s an assortment of food related tattoos, all in a traditional old school style with bold colors and timeless black lines.

I see a wine bottle near his wrist next to a sliced tomato, a trout on a bed of greens, a chef’s knife on his upper forearm and is that…

? No. That can’t be… a box of children’s cereal?

Filling the gaps between them are little stars and an assortment of bright and colorful tulips. There’s even a piece of pie on a plate with a ribbon over it that says Gloria and looks as delicious as he does.

Mackenzie comes back with two beers and hands them over to him.

“Thanks,” he says. I wait for him to turn and leave, but seconds later I still feel him near me.

I turn back to find that he’s looking right at me, smiling.

“He might look scary, but he doesn’t bite. At least not hard anyway,” he says with a deep and raspy voice that does nothing to help cool my still heated cheeks.

I quirk a brow at him and hum in question. “Who doesn’t bite?”

His soft smile spreads into a grin that pops those dimples. He cocks his head toward the high-top where Monica is with Captain Control.

“My brother, Slade. I saw the way you were watching your friend. He’s totally harmless, at least to her anyways. He’s more of a Brooke than a Caroline honestly.”

“To her? And who are Brooke and Caroline?”

“Yeah, that didn’t sound great,” he says wincing. “I meant he’s harmless, as long as you’re not his idiot little brother that works for him.” Then he dips his chin toward my phone. “And I was talking about HHR. Brooke’s all bark and no bite. Caroline’s the villain.”