Chapter One

Holly

H ere lies Holly Everly. Age twenty-four. Died of embarrassment.

I can almost picture the words on my gravestone. They’d be hardly visible, seeing as they would be covered by dust and moss from the fact that no one would visit me since I’m going to die all alone.

Some might say I’m being overly dramatic, and others would blame my third drink of the night. I blame the fact that I’ve been sitting on this hard, wooden stool for over an hour, waiting for a guy I’ve never met, who still hasn’t arrived.

Being stood up is bad enough, but being stood up by a blind date my best friend and her husband set up takes the cherry. There are three people now involved in my failure of a love life, four if you include the asshole who never showed, and somehow it becomes even more pathetic the more I think about it.

Laughter fills the bar when the door opens again, and I glance back for the umpteenth time tonight, locking eyes with a guy who just walked in. Dark brown hair, a seemingly attractive face, looks around my age. Hope builds in my chest as I smile at the man, but when his eyes flick away from me and I see who I assume is his girlfriend walking alongside him with their hands intertwined, I slump in my chair and turn back around to glance down at my glass that’s as empty as my hope for this evening.

Fuck it. If I have to be here alone, I might as well get out of my mind wasted and have some fun.

“A refill, please,” I say, sliding the empty glass toward the bartender.

“Another?” he asks, his deep, rumbly voice making me lift my head to look at him. It’s the first time I’m really looking at him since I was a little preoccupied with my date who didn’t show the whole night. My eyes rake over his face, taking in his scruffy beard, dark hair, and sunken eyes that soften as he glances down at my glass on the bar. “You’ve already had quite a few tonight.”

I attempt to shake my head in denial, but in doing so, the whole room spins like a washing machine, and… crap. Did I take my clothes out of the washing machine today? Henry gets kind of annoyed when he has to take my clothes out. Apparently having to touch my thongs traumatizes him or whatever—such a big baby. I don’t know what Olivia sees in him. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d—

“Are you okay?” The voice breaks me out of the thoughts rambling away in my head, and I look up to see the bartender’s thick brows furrowing at me. “You spaced out for a minute there,” he says. “Either that, or you’re going to be sick.” He shakes his head curtly, just two shakes before his brown eyes glare down at me. “I don’t do sick. Not inside my bar.”

Jeez. Ray of sunshine right here, I see. “I’m fine,” I tell him. “Definitely not sick,” I say, sliding my glass closer to him, tilting my head slightly, watching him. “I just need another drink.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, eyeing me warily. “You’re a tiny little thing, and you’ve had three drinks in the space of an hour.”

I arch my brow at his comment and lift my shoulder in a shrug. “And yet I feel nothing. Are you even putting alcohol in there or skimping me out?”

His eyebrow raises, matching mine. “You might be able to handle more than I thought,” he says before grabbing my glass. I keep my eyes on him and watch as he mixes the different alcohols before pouring the pink drink into my glass. I think I only just realized exactly what goes in a Cosmo, and there’s a lot more alcohol than I expected it to be.

As soon as he places it down on the bar, I reach for it, bring it to my lips, and take a sip, feeling the sugary drink slip down my throat as the alcohol leaves its burn behind.

When I place my glass back onto the bar, the bartender is still looking at me, and our eyes lock. “Enough alcohol for you?” he asks, his face free from emotion. Does this guy ever smile? I highly doubt it.

“Much better,” I say, though I didn’t taste a difference between this and the other drinks I gulped down. “This will do the job. ”

His brows rise an inch. “Are you waiting on somebody or are you here alone?” he asks, his eyes drifting down to my glass again.

Drumming my fingers on the bar, I glance up at him. Do I really want to announce to the hot bartender that I’ve been stood up?

Wait a second. Did I just call him hot? Maybe I’m drunker than I thought.

“I’m waiting for someone,” I admit, crimson painting my cheeks as I gulp down the embarrassment heating my body. “I don’t think he’s going to show, though.”

He presses his lips together, his eyes flicking away from mine when he grabs a rag and begins wiping down the bar. “How long have you been waiting?”

“A little over an hour.”

His gaze snaps back to me, and I blink at the expression on his face. It’s the most movement I’ve seen from him yet, and my face screws up. “That’s bad, isn’t it?” I ask.

There’s a chuckle beside me, making me turn my head to see an older guy, looking to be in his forties, shaking his head. “Honey, it ain’t good,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement.

My shoulders slump even further, and I wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. My eyes slide across the bar, seeing some other guys holding a beer in their hand, and their eyes on me.

The bar is pretty empty, with only a couple of people hanging around in the booths, but the stools are full with what I assume are regulars, and they all just heard that I’ve been stood up .

“Shouldn’t you be heading home?” the bartender asks him, narrowing his eyes.

The guy beside me scoffs, downing his beer. “I’m under no one’s thumb,” he replies.

The bartender raises an eyebrow as he crosses his arms. “Are you sure your wife would agree with you?”

He lets out a low laugh and shakes his head. “Alright,” he says, finishing off his beer before he places the empty glass on the bar and lifts himself off the stool with a groan. “You play dirty, Mark,” he grumbles, pulling out a bill from his coat pocket and tapping on it twice before he leaves.

“Don’t listen to him,” the bartender—Mark—says, sliding the bill toward him. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“It’s fine,” I say with a low laugh, though my stomach twists into a million little knots. “I mean… he’s not wrong.”

“You never know,” Mark says, swinging the rag over his shoulder. “He might still show up.”

I shake my head, wincing when the room starts to spin again. “I doubt that.” My face falls, a frown pulling at my lips.

Mark lets out a sigh and grabs another glass. “Where did you meet this guy?” he asks.

“Uh…” I scrunch my nose. “I technically haven’t.”

He pauses, glancing at me. “Blind date?” he guesses.

I nod, pressing my lips together as I shrug. “I guess. My friend set the whole thing up. He’s her husband’s friend. ”

A low noise of agreement leaves his throat, and he turns around, filling the glass. “Is there a reason your friend needs to set you up on a date?”

I chuckle a little, fluttering my eyelashes at him when he turns back around. “Are you flirting with me?”

Mark doesn’t laugh, though. His face remains stone cold, a hint of a glare in his eyes as he places a full glass in front of me. “Drink this,” he says. “You need it.”

I tilt my head at the clear liquid. “What is this?”

“Water,” he says dryly.

“Sounds boring.”

His glare deepens. Boy, he’s grumpy. I pick up the glass and sip on the water, finishing the whole thing in one. My throat was starting to feel pretty dry so it was actually kind of nice, but I screw up my face when I place the glass back on the table. “It was awful,” I say. “Completely killed my buzz.”

“Not enough it seems,” the hot, grumpy bartender replies. “Why the hell did you agree to a blind date in the first place?” he asks. “Those are always awful.”

I let out a deep sigh, my eyes dropping to my blue-painted fingernails I spent hours doing for this date. “I guess I have a hard time finding a decent guy who’s actually looking for a relationship instead of just hooking up,” I admit, looking up at his hard face, unwavering. He’s like a robot or a statue. It’s kind of scary. I should be scared.

But for some reason, I’m not.

“You’re like twenty-five,” he grumbles.

“Twenty-four, actually,” I cut in .

“Even younger,” he replies with a sigh. “You have plenty of time to find someone. This was just one shitty date.”

“I guess,” I mumble, not wanting to let him know this is the third date I’ve had this month alone that has gone wrong. This night has been embarrassing enough, and I don’t want the hot, robot bartender to know how pathetic I am. “I just thought it would be nice if I had someone to spend the holidays with,” I admit.

My brows shoot up when I hear a bunch of groans coming from the other men at this bar that I forgot were here. “Don’t get Mark started on the holidays,” one of them says while the others laugh and shake their heads.

I blink up at Mark, who’s shooting the man a glare. “You don’t like the holidays?” I ask slowly, unable to believe that’s true.

“What’s there to like?” he asks, sliding his gaze to me. “Consumerism? Crying, ungrateful children? Disgusting holiday drinks?”

My mouth drops open as I blink up at him. “Please tell me you don’t actually believe that.”

He shrugs. “Hate to displease, sweetheart, but it’s the truth.”

My mouth clamps shut at the sound of the nickname spilling from his lips, but I quickly shake it off when I remember he isn’t human. “Maybe you are a robot, because what kind of person hates Christmas?”

He blinks. “A robot?”

“How can you not like Christmas?” I ask him, my words stumbling as I try to get them out .

“Maybe because I’m not a kid anymore,” he says, stepping away from me to grab a glass.

“Neither am I,” I reply. “But I still like Christmas.”

His eyes fix on me when he swings his head over his shoulder. “Are you sure about that?” he asks. “Are you even old enough to drink?”

“Seeing as it was my twenty-fourth birthday a few weeks ago, yes, I’m sure.”

Mark shakes his head and turns around, heading toward the end of the bar. I lift myself out of the stool and follow him. “I bet I could change your mind.”

“Christ,” he curses, glaring at me. “Quit following me.”

I shake my head. “Not until you change your mind,” I say, determined to make him admit there’s at least something he enjoys about the holidays.

“That’s never going to happen,” he says dryly, walking to the back room. I step around the bar and follow him inside as he turns to glance at me. “Are you seriously going to keep following me?” he asks.

I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “My date didn’t show up,” I say. “I have nothing better to do.”

“I’m starting to see why,” he murmurs, lifting a crate of beer.

My brows dip. “I heard that.”

I can tell he’s trying to get rid of me, and normally, I’d just turn around and leave. But this guy hates Christmas, and that’s just… blasphemy. There’s no way I can just let this go. “There are so many amazing things around the holidays. The lights, the gifts, the snow—”

“I hate the cold. ”

I press my hand against my forehead and let out a deep breath. “Of course you do,” I mumble to myself, starting to lose hope. “There has to be something you like about the holidays.”

He places the crate on the ground, underneath the bar, and straightens, lifting his arm to wipe the sweat on his forehead, and holy hell, I only just realized how tall he is. My neck strains to look up at him as he shoots me a dry look. “When they’re over.”

I shake my head, feeling utterly heartbroken. “You poor little grinch.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I actually agree with the guy,” he says before glaring down at me. “Now get out from behind the bar.”

My jaw drops. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he replies. “Only staff can stay behind the bar.”

“I mean about the Grinch,” I say, screwing my face. “Tell me you’re joking and you don’t actually agree with him.”

“I’m not joking,” he confirms. “He knew it was all a sham.”

“Oh god,” I say, placing the back of my hand against my forehead, feeling lightheaded. “I’m going to need ten more drinks.”