Chapter 1

“Hey, Brittany,” a familiar voice says. It’s deep and throaty, and it sends a zip down my back. Dammit.

“Whatcha drinking, Logan?” I ask as I turn to look at him.

He’s a beautiful bastard, tall with dark hair and a short beard that surrounds a mouth that’s kissed too many women. I know better than to fall for the charms of a handsome devil who talks a good game. Or at least I should know better.

The problem with Logan is that he’s not just any handsome devil. He’s my boss’s brother, so he practically lives here at Ziggy Brewery. He’s not someone I can avoid, so I’ve tried to become immune to him. It helps that he’s always with a different woman. My daddy was a cheater, and so was my ex-husband. It’s only been a little over six months since my divorce went through, and a year and a half since my no-good ex and I separated. The last thing I need is to get hung up on a man who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants.

“I’ll have the usual, gorgeous,” Logan says with a wink that makes me roll my eyes as he slides onto his usual stool. The brewery’s mostly empty tonight. We’re closing in on Christmas, and people are at home with their families or their partners. Even Cole, my boss, is off with his girlfriend and his daughter. It’s just me, Logan, and a few older folks who’re sitting by themselves, drinking, feeling the burn of being alone at the holidays. The brewery feels bigger than usual, and so empty it could damn near echo.

I’m happier than I should be to see a friendly face—particularly his friendly face. So of course I say, “Like I’m supposed to remember everyone’s favorite order.”

Logan laughs, like maybe he was hoping I’d give him a hard time. “The IPA, please and thank you.”

I pour it for him, then go check on the other folks, all of whom came in alone. When they first stepped inside, it occurred to me that it would be nice if they left as friends, which is a thought I only had because a romance novelist has been working at the brewery as research for the book she’s writing, and having her around has filled my head with fanciful notions. I even set out an old Bingo game someone left at the brewery, hoping they might feel motivated to get something started between them. The romance novelist in question, Ivy Anders, wouldn’t know customer service if it smacked her on the ass, but it’s been fun having her around. She’s not here tonight, though.

The other customers have full cups, or near enough, and I feel Logan’s eyes on me. I shouldn’t go around to talk to him—it’s like flirting with a fire when you’re wearing all acrylic fabric—but I always end up gravitating back to his stool. It’s like something invisible is tugging me back to him, pressing the point.

I’ve known Logan for a good portion of my life. He’s a couple of years younger than me, but we went to school together, smoked cigarettes in the same group behind the bleachers in high school. It would be ridiculous for me to suddenly have a thing for him.

But I notice the way his mouth curves up as I step in front of him at the bar, the way he leans in slightly, crowding my space. I’ve been noticing him more lately. Noticing, too, the way he seems to be noticing me.

A few weeks ago, he punched some asshole who barged into the bar all hyped up on testosterone and almost certainly steroids. The out-of-towner had tried to kiss me even though I’d made it clear that I wasn’t interested, and Logan had decked him in the face. Ripped apart the skin across his knuckles to do it.

It had felt a bit like a declaration…and when I’d pulled out the med kit, telling him ten different ways he’d been stupid to risk his safety to defend my honor, I’d felt the insane urge to kiss his knuckles.

I didn’t, of course, but the need was there, and that’s what scares me…

I want him. I want my boss’s aggravating, too-hot-for-any-woman’s good, player of a brother.

It’s stupid to feel that way, criminally stupid, and yet here I am doing it.

“What’s wrong?” Logan asks, his smile slipping away. “You look so serious all of a sudden.” He waves at the Christmas lights we hung up in the brewery for Cole’s daughter, Jane, who never met a holiday she didn’t want to hang tinsel on. “It’s the holidays.”

I laugh and grab a towel to rub the perfectly clean bar. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who enjoys the holidays.” I pause to tap my lips. “Unless it’s because it gives you an excuse to corner drunk tourists under the mistletoe.” I glance around theatrically. “You’re going to find the crowd pretty thin tonight, unless you have designs on poor Christopher over there.”

For a second, Logan looks almost hurt, but then he grins. “What, Cole’s not around to take the piss, so you figured you’d step in?”

I sling the dish towel over my shoulder. “Someone’s gotta do his dirty work.”

“And it’s usually you,” he adds, studying me with eyes that see more than I’d like. “You’ve been working a lot of long hours this month, huh?”

I plant a hand on my hip. “The fact that you’ve noticed suggests you spend too much time here.” Then I shrug. “Your brother’s got himself a life, finally. I want to encourage it. Holly’s good for him. For Jane too.”

Jane was little more than a baby when her mama died. Her mama, Millie, was my best friend in this whole world, and her death had torn something apart in me—a grief my ex-husband had struggled to understand—but she’s been gone a long time now, and I’m happy to see Cole find joy. Jane too. I’ve always been of the mind that the more’s merrier when it comes to finding people who love you.

And yet you’re still alone, a voice in my head whispers.

I’ve dated some since the divorce, but none of the men have stuck. None of them had made me care enough that I’d minded losing them, either.

“And what about you?” Logan asks as if he can read my thoughts. “Isn’t there some place you’d rather be?”

I shrug it off. “No. It just so happens I like it here. I’d rather be here than anywhere else.” Even as I say it, I realize it’s sad, to prefer to be at work at this time of year than at home. But the only thing waiting for me at my apartment is the television or an old stack of paperbacks. And as far as my family goes, I’ll be seeing enough of them in a few days on Christmas Eve. I don’t want more than my fill.

His mouth purses to the side. “You don’t like the holidays, Brittany?”

“I never had a thing for big guys in red suits,” I hedge.

“No?” He glances down at his red thermal shirt. My eyes betray me by noticing the way he fills it out. You’d think a man who spends so much time in a brewery would have a gut, but he rarely has more than a couple of beers, and most of the time he’s not here or under the hood of a car, he’s working out. I’ve heard women gossiping about it at the bar, talking about seeing Logan Garrison at the gym and admiring what’s under his shirts. And I’ve dreamed about it. I’m ashamed to admit I dream about it a lot.

He clears his throat and peers back up at me, his eyes a molten, reddish brown, fringed with long lashes. “What about big guys in red shirts?”

I toss the towel at him, and he catches it. “You, Logan Garrison, are a scoundrel and a flirt.”

“Nah,” he says, putting the towel down on the bar. “I think I’m going to turn over a new leaf. Isn’t the new year all about reinventing yourself?”

“You got two weeks left.” I smirk at him, and he smirks back. I feel a tingling that settles between my legs and tells me I’m not doing so great at developing an immunity to him.

“Call me an overachiever.” He glances around at the mostly empty tasting room. “It looks like the plague hit. Is this just the usual light holiday crowd, or are people flipping their shit over the storm?”

Snow’s supposed to roll in tonight. They’ve been talking it up on the radio all day, and every single person who’s come in has wanted to give me their expert take on it, it feels like.

“I suppose,” I tell him, leaning my elbows on the bar. “You knowhow it goes. Every time people buy up all the milk and bread, we don’t get more than a dusting.” Call me a cynic, but I’ve found it to be true.

I catch his gaze dipping to my chest—only for a second—but heat radiates through me. I look away.

You’ve known him for years, I remind myself.

That’s true, but for most of those years, I was married to Tommy. Although I’d noticed Logan—everyone notices him—it was in a different way from how I’m noticing now. I’ve never had a wandering eye.

Maybe it’s time to find another boyfriend. Someone non-threatening who’ll keep my attention diverted from Logan.

“Hey,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “You got something right—”

He reaches out and touches my face, his finger callused but gentle.

Heat shivers through me, but I force a laugh. “Did you just clean my face in this bar like you’re my mother grooming me?”

“I wasn’t thinking I was your mother, Brittany, no,” he says, sounding a bit annoyed.

“Oh, come on. My mama is a total babe.”

“Sure,” he says. “Everyone in town knows that.” And he means it too—Highland Hills is the kind of small town where pretty much everyone who’s chosen to stay knows each other’s business. Meaning he knows all about my ex-husband Tommy, too, even though they’re not friends. Lord only knows why not since they’re both ladies’ men who like to drink and talk sports. Maybe Logan’s a better judge of character than I am, and he knew at a glance that Tommy was a bag of hot wind without more than a handful of thoughts in his head.

“Well, thanks, I guess.” I feel awkward suddenly, so I glance down the bar. A couple of the older strangers have started chatting, and a warm glow fills my chest. That’s the power of community. Some people, my mama being one of them, think breweries are dens of iniquity, but they’re not seeing the bigger picture. Ziggy’s is a place where people go to connect. I’ve got ideas about how to make it even more of one, and now that Cole’s taking a step back to spend more time with Holly…

Well, maybe the new year will be a time for me to make some changes.

I want to start having regular games nights. To add a cocktail menu. I want to make this the go-to place in town for people to meet up and make friends.

“You’re welcome, I guess,” Logan teases, following my gaze down the bar. “Whatcha looking at? Is Ivy here?”

I’m horrified by my knee-jerk reaction to that question.

Jealousy.

Thirty’s come and gone for me, four years ago, and our resident romance author, Ivy Anders, is a pretty young blonde thing who’s only seen twenty-five years. Maybe twenty-six. Of course he wants to know where she is. I’ve been a fool to think this draw I’ve felt is anything but one-sided.

I reflexively glance in the mirror above the bar. My dark hair is pulled back into its usual tight, efficient ponytail, my eyes so dark the pupils nearly blend in with the irises.

My last boyfriend had told me that I could be so pretty if I only put a little effort into it. After the door slammed into his ass on his way out of my life, I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I put on a full face of makeup, same as my mama had taught me to do when I was a girl. Then I looked at the beautiful stranger in front of me and started crying, the tears making tracks through the powder.

Maybe I’m going through something. It’s been a long time since Tommy and I split, but my friend Midge says the first divorce takes the longest to shake.

“That there’s your junior divorce,” she told me just last week. “Don’t you fret. By the time you get to your next one, you’ll be golden.”

She’s been divorced three times, so I suppose she’d know. I’d prefer to keep it to the one. Even though I fell out of love with Tommy a long time ago, I kept hanging on, same as my mother had. Same as she probably will until she meets her grave.

Love is a choice, she’d always told me when I’d come to her with a complaint about Tommy. I used tobuy it, hook, line, and sinker, until I found confirmation that Tommy had been making other choices—ones with names like Rachel and Maria. His Instagram messages were very enlightening.

“You checking yourself out, Brittany?” Logan asks, pulling me back into the moment.

Emotion balls up in my throat, raw and uncomfortable. “Why not?” I ask flippantly. “Someone’s got to do it.”

“I’ve been trying, but you refuse to notice,” he says. Amusement lights his eyes, though, and I know this is just rote for him. Flirting with women is what he does, and he couldn’t turn it off if he had a mind to. I’m guessing he doesn’t. Logan likes charming people, and why shouldn’t he? It comes so easy, people fall into his lap.

“Ivy’s not here,” I snap. “Might as well go on home before the snow hits.”

He lifts his hand. “Didn’t mean to piss you off. I thought you liked Ivy.”

“I do. I—”

I don’t know how to finish that sentence, so I wave a hand at him and go check on my chatters. One of them, Christopher, an older man in a busboy hat who reminds me of my grandpa, needs a refill. I thank God I have something to do with my hands, because I can feel Logan watching me.

“Is that Bingo?” Christopher asks with sparkling eyes, nodding to the game I’d set out on the counter.

“Sure is,” I say, putting a hand on my hip. “I thought y’all might enjoy a game. It’s a bit of a dismal, dull sort of day in here, and I figured we could use some excitement.” I glance at the two men who’ve been making nice with him. “What do you say?”

Christopher’s eyes have lit up, like he’s a tot on Christmas morning, and I want so badly for the other men to say yes. I can feel the word in my chest.

“What do you say, gentlemen? A friendly game?”

“Winner gets a Ziggy’s shirt,” I blurt, and again, I can feel Logan watching me. Observing.

“Well, now,” says one of the other men—bald but for a few strands swept sweetly over his head. “I’d like to get in on that.”

My heart warms as Christopher takes out the game and starts to set it up, and I can’t help it. I glance across the bar at Logan, taking in the shape of him. The way he’s grinning at me.

He makes a little gesture—a come here gesture—but I don’t let myself go to him. I want it too damn bad.

I don’t know what it is about tonight, maybe that Christmas is just three days away, maybe because Cole isn’t here to make me see sense, but that pull I’ve been feeling toward Logan is cinching in tighter—a lasso that makes me feel I’m splitting in two.

I stay on the other side of the bar longer than I need to, fussing over the Bingo bunch, and by the time I give in to the urge to check on Logan, he’s finishing his beer.

“You’re leaving?” I ask, feeling dismayed by it suddenly.

Does he have a date? A woman who’s invited him to brave out the storm with her?

“It was nice of you to set up the old timers with that game. You’re always looking out for people.”

I glance at them. “The one in that hat reminds me of my grandpa. I miss my grandpa.”

“You would have done it anyway.”

He’s right, so I don’t offer any further objections.

It’s only then it occurs to me that I should have included him in the game—that maybe we could have both played it. There are so few people in the bar that there’s no need to stick to the assigned roles. To bartenders and patrons. Behind the counter and front. But I didn’t do it for a reason—because if I start crossing lines, it’s going to be hard to know when to stop.

He slaps some money down on the counter, then his eyes find mine and hold. “Don’t stay too late. I got a buddy who says the storm’s going to hit hard, and he’s usually right about that sort of thing.”

“He got a trick knee?” I ask, my lips tipping up.

“He’s a weather reporter from the next town over.” His expression is unamused. “You’d do best to listen, Brittany. There’s only a handful of people here. You won’t be doing anyone harm if you shut down early.”

I’m not so sure he’s right about that, though. The Bingo buddies are deep into their game now, feeling the magic that turns strangers into friends. Sure, you could give the credit to the alcohol, but give it to where it’s due—the place where they’re doing the drinking. It takes a warm, friendly atmosphere to get people to open up.

“We’ll see,” I say tightly. Then, because I can’t help myself, “You rushing off to a hot date?”

“Maybe I am,” he says, his expression closed down as he runs a hand along the edge of the bar. He helped sand it himself, years ago. Millie and I watched him and Cole do it. “What better way to get through a storm?”

If I’m hurt, then I only have myself to blame. I’m the one who had to ask.

“Well, don’t keep her waiting, lover boy.” I try to keep my tone light, but I hear bitterness bleeding through. It makes me hate myself a little, just like I did when I looked into that mirror after putting on a full face of makeup.

“Goodbye, Brittany.” He catches my gaze as he says it, and I’m wishing he didn’t, because I can feel it in every part of my body.

God gives his gifts the way he sees fit, my mama likes to say, and I’m guessing he saw fit to give most of them to Logan.

“Night.” I turn my back, fussing with some glasses, because I can’t look at him right now. Especially not if he’s going off to spend the night in some other woman’s bed.

When I turn back around, he’s gone, and there’s a little wrapped package sitting on the bar.

Did he forget a gift for his lady friend? I lean in a little closer, though, and see the tag.

To:Brittany

From:Santa Claus

My pulse poundsfaster as my eyes find that closed door. I want to run out into the cold and stop him—to tell him…

What, exactly?

He still doesn’t want a girlfriend.

And what business would I have with dating my boss’s little brother?

I pride myself on being sensible, and the least sensible thing in the world would be to fall for Logan Garrison.