Chapter One

“I don't want anyone else,” the woman whined to her friends for the hundredth time that night.

“Girl, you need to get over him. It's been six months,” one of those friends said. “Come on now. We brought you here so you can see there's so many more men out there than that asshole. Take a look around. Isn't there anyone you find attractive?”

“No one will be as good as Craig.”

I rolled my eyes. As the owner of Hair of the Dog—a casual bar featuring craft cocktails in Spokane, Washington—I'd heard it all. That particular line had been said about a thousand times before, maybe more. And I wasn't including the extra times it had been said that night. Just remove “Craig” and insert the name of your choice. I blame it on hormones. Hormones do a number on us ladies. We can get fixated. Jackie, one of my wait staff, calls it getting dickmatized. But I don't think sex is the problem. We get obsessed with love. Usually, the idea of it.

One of the friends of the fixated woman was a regular. She spotted me and came up to the bar. “Hey, Amélie.”

“Hey, Julie,” I said. “Another round?”

“Yeah, um. Do you have any of the stuff you gave me that one time? You know, when I was getting over Jack.” She slid a hundred-dollar bill my way. “It really helped me, and my friend could use a little help tonight.”

I grinned and pocketed the money. Sometimes, I added a little magic to customer's drinks for free, but that was only when I saw someone in desperate need, say on the verge of killing themselves kind of desperate, or if I wanted to reel a new customer in. Yes, like a drug dealer. With the sort of extra service I offered, discretion was best, and clients needed to be vetted, usually by some intense observation on my part. But I'd been in Spokane long enough that word had spread about my specialty libations, and I rarely had to reel in newbies. These days, I only did that when I was inspired. As a witch, I always listened to my instincts.

“Sure thing.” I winked at Julie and pulled a special bottle out of my private stash—the cabinet I kept locked up so only I could get into it. The last thing I needed was a bartender grabbing the wrong bottle and accidentally dosing someone with magic they didn't need. But Julie's friend needed a little help. No doubt about it. I made Julie another round of mojitos and added a splash of Get Over It—a potion I enchanted to help the heartbroken—into one of the glasses. “Here you go.” I added a sprig of mint to the special one. “The mint's in hers.”

“Got it!” Julie beamed. “Thank you, Amélie. You're an angel.”

The words sent a shiver down my spine, though I didn't know why. I had no problem with angels, even if they didn't fit into the pantheon I worshiped. I was an old-fashioned witch, taught by my Greek grandma, on my mom's side, to worship the “true gods.” Her words, not mine. I believed that religions were more about beliefs than truths. If it was true to you, then go with it. But I'd also been influenced by my dad's family. They were Creole Catholics with a touch of Vodou thrown in. You'd be surprised how well Catholicism and Vodou mix. Anyway, I was cool with angels but whenever someone mentioned the word lately, I got the shivers. It felt like a premonition, but that wasn't one of my gifts.

“No problem,” I said as Julie headed off with the drinks.

I put Get Over It away and locked the potion cabinet, then slipped the key back into my pocket. The bar was packed since it was Saturday night, and I had to get back to work. My other bartenders were busy filling orders, and the wait staff was bustling back and forth between tables.

I prided myself on providing a safe, comfortable environment. The music was kept at a low level, promoting conversation instead of causing hearing damage, and the scattered tables had padded couches with wide chairs around them instead of wooden seats. We did have dancing and even some live music on occasion, but all that was done in the soundproof back room. Up front, everything was mellow with jewel-toned velvet upholstery, polished wood floors, and potted plants for hints of lushness. Hair of the Dog may have a dive bar name, but it was far from one.

Why not name it something classier? Something witchy? Because the name came to me in a dream, and when I woke up, I thought it was perfect. After all, I opened the bar as a modern way to offer the public my potions—remedies. Sure, people got drunk here, but only to a fun level. I had the Hair of the Dog special for anyone I spotted stumbling or getting too sloppy, and it was always on the house.

Within a month of opening, the locals had learned to go elsewhere for a hard night of drinking. But if they wanted a good time without worry, they came here. And guess who likes that? Women. And guess who likes women? Men (and lesbians). So, they all came to Hair of the Dog eventually, and most left in a better condition than they arrived in. But there was always an exception.

And there he was.

The man came striding in as if he were on a mission, and I mean that literally. With his short dark hair and muscular build, he looked like a military man. An ex-military man. Those bangs were too long to be enlisted. And if he had been in the military, he would have been in the special forces. Special and deadly were written all over him. The closest base was Fairchild Air Force Base, and I suppose he could have been a pilot, but that didn't feel right to me. He seemed too grounded. This was a man who liked prowling the earth, not shooting across the sky. No, Katy Perry could not convince him to be a firework, not in a million years. Set them off, certainly, but he'd never lose his control enough to explode . . . okay, I was taking that a little too far.

I cleared my throat and looked away. I shouldn't fantasize about my clientele. Especially not Mr. Dark and Brooding. He came to my bar for one reason and one reason alone—to get laid. Oh, yeah, the ladies were already sitting straighter in their seats, some surreptitiously checking their make-up. Even Ms. No-One-Is-Better-Than-Craig took notice. Although, that could have been my potion starting to work. Maybe a combination.

One look at him sent hearts atwitter, but I knew better. I knew his type. Not his type of woman, but the type of man he was. He didn't have a type of woman. He was an equal opportunity man-whore. That being said, he had high standards. Only the most beautiful women would do. But as long as she was beautiful, he didn't care what color her skin, hair, or eyes were. Or how tall she was. Or how fit. He liked pretty women. Period.

As I said, he was an exception to my usual clientele. He came in and left in the same condition. No better or worse unless you counted the company he gained. He never drank alcohol, only soda, and he rarely bothered with food. He just wanted the women. Not that he ever took home more than one at a time. And believe me, he could have. So, there was that, at least. I guess that meant he had some morals. He also had rules. He never took home the same woman twice.

I'm not saying he was a one-and-done kind of man. From what I'd heard from the women he'd been with, he usually stuck around for a week or two before he told them it wasn't working out. That could be another point in his favor. He did put some effort into starting relationships. So, it wasn't merely about sex for him. But those relationships never lasted long.

I concluded that he either got bored easily or he was searching for “the one.” I'd met a few men like that. They had a list of qualities they wanted in a mate, and if a woman didn't check off everything on the list, they moved on. Actually, I'd met some women like that too. So far, this guy taken home of the most beautiful women who frequented my bar. He was going to run out of the cream of the crop soon and either have to settle for someone not up to his standards or he'd have to find fresh hunting grounds.

Sure enough, he looked around, frowned, then his broad shoulders moved with a deep sigh. The hottest women in the room had already been in his bed. Then that gray stare shifted to me.

I froze like a fucking rabbit.

The guy had never looked at me. I got the feeling it was one of those don't-crap-where-you-eat kind of things. But the predator had killed all the good game and was ready for a nice, satisfying poop. Oh, that's awful. I apologize. But he did have an air about him that said he'd be moving on after he got through with me. I scowled at him.

His stare widened and his lips parted. Those gray eyes caught the light from the bar and glittered, turned silver.

Holy. Shit.

Retreat!

I swallowed past the dryness in my throat and pulled out my key. In a rush, I bent and opened the potion cabinet like a soldier rapidly trying to reload. I needed something to boost my willpower because this guy was about to test it. Just a little dash of Know Your Worth should do the trick. Men only got the better of you when you lost sight of how special you were.

I disappeared below the counter and swigged straight from the bottle. I had just finished capping the potion when I heard the thud of someone settling on the bar just above me. I put the bottle back, locked the cabinet, and closed my eyes as magic rushed through me. I know I made a comparison to drugs, but magic isn't drugs. It's not addictive and a dealer taking her own product isn't a bad thing. All those new age “witches” who chant things and dance around trees naked don't have real magic. So when they say shit like “You should never use magic for personal gain,” they don't know what they're talking about. What would be the point of having magic if you couldn't use it for yourself?

“Are you sneaking a drink under there?” a deep velvety voice asked, a twinge of amusement in it.

I grabbed the glass of ice water I kept under the bar and stood up. By the time I faced him, I had a cool grin in place and a layer of magical armor over my heart. No one would get through unless they were worthy. And this guy wasn't worthy.

Still, that didn't stop me from noticing how much his looks improved by proximity. With most people, it was the opposite. The closer you got, the more you saw their flaws. This man had no flaws. Believe me, I tried to find one. Just one goddamn flaw. Nada. He looked as if he'd been made by the Gods, every hard curve smoothed by a divine hand. His complexion was even, his pores invisible, and he even smelled like heaven—a masculine, musky heaven for angels who liked to get naughty with demons.

I lifted my glass of water at him before I replaced it. “Hydration is important.”

“Ah, yes.” His stare slid down, over my T-shirt with the bar's logo, and further, as if he could see through the polished wood countertop. “And here I was thinking you were naughty. What a shame.”

Damn. The man was a slick talker on top of all that? That just wasn't fair. But my potions are top-notch, and his sexy voice and sexy words and sexy . . . everything didn't affect me. Well, not enough for me to get past his past behavior.

“What can I get for you?” I asked.

He reached across the bar and touched my face. I was so shocked that I nearly jumped back, but before I could, he slid the errant curl off my cheek and over my ear. “Looks like the heat is getting to you.”

“Excuse me?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

He grinned and even with the potion in place, my heart raced. It was a hell of a smile. “I was trying to politely point out that your hair is sticking to your sweaty cheek.” He chuckled. “Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

“You shouldn't have touched me,” I said in a cool tone. “Don't do it again. That's your only warning.”

He blinked, his whole demeanor going blank. It was as if his programming had failed. In a way, it had. I was probably the first woman to react poorly to his flirtation.

The thought had me doing a mental jig, and I barely held back my grin. The celebration was for both my potion and for putting him in his place. If only I had dosed the women he had targeted before he'd gotten to them. But I'd done the next best thing and helped them get over him afterward. I should thank him. He'd made me a lot of money.

“Ouch,” he finally said. “Have I offended you?”

“Not personally. But I don't know you. Why do you think it's acceptable for a man to touch a woman he doesn't know so familiarly?”

“Well, we're in a bar.”

“ You're in a bar,” I corrected, waving at the counter separating us. “I'm behind a bar. Working . Not here to hook up. But even if I was one of the women here who was interested in some action—which shouldn't be assumed merely by my presence in a bar—you don't have the right to touch me without permission.”

“My mistake. I thought I saw some encouragement in your eyes.”

“In the whole thirty seconds after you walked up and accused me of drinking on the job?”

He laughed. “So, I have offended you.”

“No, I'm not offended. I'm aware. This is my bar, and I've seen you around, heartbreaker. I've seen the women you target after you're through with them.”

“Target?” He lifted his brows.

“Yeah, target. You don't know me, but I know you. Your sort. And I'm not interested in anything on your menu. So, would you like a drink, or are you going to wait for your next victim to offer to buy you one?”

“Harsh,” he said. But instead of getting upset or walking away, he slid onto the bar stool and set his perfect, corded forearm on my bar.

Damn. I love a good forearm. And his was beautiful. Just the right amount of muscle creating channels under that bronzed skin and only a sprinkling of dark hair. His hands were good, too. Manly, but not dirty or calloused. Clean nails. Strong fingers. Shit! Why was I noticing so much after taking a dose of Know Your Worth? But then again, that potion wasn't about making you immune to a man's charms. It was about making you strong enough to resist someone bad for you. I could look, but I knew better than to touch. Unlike him.

“I could make assumptions about you, but I haven't,” he went on. “Yet, you assume you know me from merely watching me interact with a few women?”

“First of all, you did make assumptions about me, not the least of which was your assumption that I wanted you to touch me. Second, it's more than a few women. I've seen you go through the crème de la crème of my patrons. Every beautiful woman who drinks here has gone home with you at some point.”

“That's not true.”

“Oh, yes it. I just watched you walk in, look around, and realize it for yourself, Romeo. That's the only reason you're standing here, talking to me. You ran out of options. And I hate to break it to you, but I'm not an option either. So, will you be moving on to a new bar now?” I lifted a brow and smirked at him. “I'll be so sad to see you go.”

“There you go assuming again,” he drawled. “I meant that it isn't true because you are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

I guffawed. Not just laughed or giggled. I guffawed like an old man, slapping the wood of the bar for emphasis. The guy was not thrilled. His pretty lips turned down.

“You don't know you're beautiful?” he asked. “Don't you own a mirror?”

“Oh, darlin',” I drawled. “I'm fucking gorgeous, and I don't need a man to tell me so.”

“Then what's so funny?”

“That cheesy line and the fact that you think I'll fall for it after all the shit I've just given you. Are you just a sucker for abuse?”

“Maybe I see something in you that I haven't seen in anyone else.”

“You all right, boss?” Ralph—AKA Wreck-It, our bouncer/bartender—leaned over from where he was pouring a beer on my left to ask. He scowled at my stubborn suitor, then looked back at me.

“Oh, yeah. I can handle this guy,” I said.

“Just holler if that changes.” Ralph glared at the man, then took the beer over to a waiting customer.

“You can handle me, eh?” Mr. I-See-Something-In-You asked. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Nope.” I pointed at him. “Not a challenge. Don't go getting all into me because I'm telling you no. This is not a game, this is a rejection. Now, shoo.” I waved him away. “I'm working. Go find another woman to call sweaty.”

The man roared with laughter and his bellow was nearly as ungraceful as my guffaw, but it was still damn sexy. If a lion laughed, it might sound like that. Everyone stared, men and women alike. Even my potion couldn't hold out against that. My willpower started to wither.

At last, he settled into a grin and stretched his hand across the bar. “I'm Darius.”

Grudgingly, I shook his hand. It was just bad manners not to. “Amélie.”

“Of course you are,” he murmured, his stare lifting to the ceiling before he shook his head.

“Why do you say that?”

“No, it's nothing.”

“What?”

“It's my favorite movie.”

“What is?”

“Amélie. Have you ever seen it? The one with the cute French girl.”

I blinked. What the fuck? “You've seen that movie?”

“As I said, it's my favorite.”

I just stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“You just made that up because of my name.”

“At least you'll never be a vegetable,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Even artichokes have hearts.”

I gaped at him. Then I growled, “Rude!”

Darius laughed again. It wasn't so booming this time, but it sent the same shivers down my spine that the word angel had earlier.

“It's from the movie,” he said, still finishing his laugh. “Amélie. It's a quote.”

I cleared my throat. “No, it's not.”

“Is too. Google it.”

I pulled out my phone and googled it. “Well, shit.”

“I try not to lie,” Darius said.

“How honorable,” I drawled.

“Naw. It's just easier that way.”

“Um, could we get another round, Amélie?” Julie asked as she stepped up beside Darius.

She slid him a smile, but he didn't even glance at her. Julie was attractive, but not Darius-attractive. Cold, but true. Frankly, I didn't think I was Darius-attractive.

“Sure thing,” I said to her and started making three mojitos. “How's your friend doing?”

“Getting better.” She tore her gaze away from Darius to answer me. “Thanks for the pick-me-up.”

“Anytime.”

She cleared her throat. “Are you a friend of Amélie’s?”

Darius finally looked at Julie. “Just met. But we're getting closer by the second.”

I snorted. “Yeah. All right.”

He grinned and focused back on me. “Aren't we? I thought I was doing well.”

“That's what you got from our conversation?” I set the mojitos on the bar. “Wow. You're pretty, but you're dumb.”

Julie gaped at me as she slid me a twenty. “Um, keep the change.”

“Thanks, Julie,” I said warmly.

“So, that's how you sound when you're being nice,” Darius mused. “I think I prefer the bite.”

“Good. Cuz I'm all bite for you, sugar.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Julie stammered as she carried her drinks away.

Darius didn't notice. He was still staring at me, now with his head cocked. “Do I detect a note of Nawlins in your voice?”

I grimaced. “Dang it. It comes out sometimes when I get annoyed.”

“So, I'm annoying you?”

“Now, you're catching on.”

“Two JDs, a shot of Cuervo, and two Heins,” Jackie said as she set her tray down. “Hey, Darius.”

“Hey, Jackie,” he said absently. Then he focused on her. “I'm trying to hit on your boss here, but she's giving me a hard time.”

Jackie and I snorted together as I started to make the drinks.

“You're not her type, pretty boy,” Jackie, who was hardcore without the help of a potion, said. “Swing it somewhere else. Try those three over there.” She nodded toward Julie's group.

Darius chuckled. “What if I have to her? What if it's her or no one else? What would you recommend?”

Jackie and I both gawked at him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I finally demanded as I popped the lid off a bottle. “Go. Away.”

“No,” Darius said. “I think you're incredible, and I'm not leaving without your number.”

“Here's my number. It's easy to remember.” I flipped him a single digit. As in a finger. The middle one.

Jackie burst out laughing. “Told you. Just give it up. She's way out of your league. Wa-a-a-ay out.”

“Do you really think it's fair to judge me as you are?” Darius asked me. “Come on. Give me a chance.”

“Like you just gave Julie a chance?”

“Who's Julie?”

I snorted. “The girl that I made those mojitos for.”

Darius frowned. “I'm sorry. Did Julie ask me out?”

“Did you ask me out?” I countered.

“I'm trying to.”

“Are you though?” I asked in that dubious, mocking tone people used. “If you are, you're really bad at it. Just terrible.”

Jackie laughed again and sauntered off with her tray, tossing a, “Good luck, Darius,” over her shoulder.

“Will you go out to dinner with me?” Darius asked.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I'm not interested.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I don't like cocky men. Go. Away.”

“No.”

“That's it!” I growled and spun toward the sound system. I pushed a button and cut off the current song, putting the bar into silence.

Everyone turned to look toward the bar. Then Meghan Trainor's “No” came on. Women all around the bar started laughing and cheering. They knew the routine. Meanwhile, Darius scowled.

“Ladies!” I shouted as Meghan sang off her own persistent Romeo. “I'm gonna need your help here.”

They all cheered.

Along with Meghan, I sang out, asking what my name was.

All the women in the bar shouted at Darius, “No!”

I asked what my sign was.

“No!” they shouted again.

Then my number.

“No!” they shouted.

I kept singing, shaking my hand at Darius, telling him to let it go. We went through the whole song, rejecting Darius over and over, the whole bar getting in on it. Instead of walking away in shame, he grinned and nodded at the other patrons. And he watched me. He watched me as if he enjoyed every second of my performance.

When the song finished, the whole bar cheered and applauded, including Darius.

As everyone went back to their drinks, the mood high, and I set the music back to the original playlist, Darius leaned back on the bar and smiled at me.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I snarled. “You just don't take a hint, do you?”

“No,” he said gleefully.

“All right. You asked for it.” I narrowed my eyes at him, then called out, “Wreck-It!”

“You hollered?” Ralph came over with an eager grin. “Need some assistance, boss?”

“Can you help this customer with his drink order? I'm taking a break.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Ralph grinned at Darius. “Might I suggest tonight's special? It's called Walk Away, Asshole , and has a shot of loser liquor in it.”

Darius grinned at me as he said, “I'd prefer a shot of her.”

I pointed in his face and said, one last time, “No!” Then I turned around and went through the door that led into the back room. In other words, I ran away. But it was a hell of an exit.

Ralph's furious voice followed me, “Didn't you hear that damn song? She's not on the menu, moron. But my fist is. Would you like a free sample of my knuckle sandwich?”

God bless, Wreck-It.