The Wind Blows in Treasures and Ugly Sweaters

Pipe smoke and clanking glasses sifted between the din of chatter. Saturday nights behind the bar were always insane. With Sunday being the only day Flygande closed, everyone flocked to get drinks, and Danny was grateful for the distraction.

Even if it didn’t help much.

His eyes drifted to the front door again. Ever since Ian had said Claire might show up, he’d been stupidly glancing there every five seconds.

She probably wasn’t even coming.

He and Ian scurried past each other, taking orders from those who sat at the bar and from Emelie and Fin.

Occasionally Ian had to calm Fin, whose periodic hyperventilating told him he may not be cut out for this kind of work in the long run.

“We should hire an extra pair of hands for the next few weekends,” Ian said when Danny passed behind him with three beers wedged between his fingers.

He handed them off to waiting customers. “Because your old ass can’t keep up?”

“Old ass—we’re both thirty.”

Danny smirked.

A shipping box plunked down in front of Ian.

“Truce,” a man said from behind it.

Ian peeked over the top and glared at the smiling, dark-haired little man. “I’m busy, Marco. Go away.”

“Macallan’s eighteen years with single malt, yes?”

Those badly worded whisky specifications got Ian’s attention.

“I brought this to make up for the uh,” he rolled his hand, “misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstand—”

Danny rammed an elbow into Ian’s ribs, and he bit his tongue.

Marco swung the same hand between them. “Yes, this is me trying to end a twelve-year misunderstanding.”

Danny swallowed a laugh. The Italian may be short, but he had balls. Ian’s veins were bulging on his neck. Danny clapped Ian on the shoulder with a hard squeeze, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Fine.”

“What was that?” Marco smiled and cupped his ear.

“Pushing it,” Danny said under his breath, but Marco only grinned wider.

“I said, fine.” Ian glared. “Truce.”

“Friends then?”

“Too far.”

Marco laughed and, with a wink, turned and whistled all the way out the door. Ian released a long, grumbling breath.

Danny fought a smile. “Proud of you right now.”

“Don’t start.”

“He brought a case of whisky?”

Ian grinned, moving the box to the back counter and tore it open. His smile dropped.

Danny barked a laugh. “Holy shit, he didn’t.”

“Oh, I think he did.”

Eleven bottles of Macallan, not twelve, filled the slots. In the twelfth place sat the same type of Chianti he’d left under the vat he’d tampered with. Attached to it was a note reading: For the last bottle, you have to come to De Luca’s for dinner sometime. Ciao!

A barstool scraped, and Danny did a double take. Not Claire. But the way the blond leaned her bulging chest over the bar and ate Ian up with her eyes, Danny had to stifle a laugh.

Ian hissed. “That son-of-a—”

Danny bumped his arm. “I think you’ve got an admirer.”

Half-scared, Ian slowly turned, swallowing.

“Can I get a Cosmopolitan, pretty boy?”

Danny coughed “pretty?” into his hand, and Ian’s boot tip connected to his calf. Danny didn’t stifle the laugh this time and started slowly backing away.

“Get your ass back here,” Ian whispered out the side of his mouth.

It’d been way too long since Danny had such a golden opportunity to harass his best friend. The local women knew better than to try to flirt with a man who’d already taken a vow of celibacy.

Not mainlander women though. So he’d happily take this distraction—he needed a distraction—to take his mind off things ... off her.

“A Cosmopolitan is this man’s favorite drink to make,” Danny said.

“Oh, really,” she said with a slow smile.

Ian’s head whipped toward him and didn’t move, openly glaring at him while mixing and pouring her devil’s brew with zero finesse. Danny’s shoulders shook as Ian kept his death-stare glued to him and slid the glass across the bar with one hand, holding up a middle finger with his other beneath the bar.

The woman’s hand slipped over Ian’s. “Wanna have some fun later?”

His eyes went wide and the teasing died in Danny’s throat. Clearly, she hadn’t caught Ian’s not-so-subtle hints of “not interested.”

“Look, nothing personal,” Danny said. “But a guy like him isn’t going to be much fun for you.”

Ian slid his hand from under hers, but she snatched it again.

“Oh,” she said. “I highly doubt that.”

“He’s a priest.”

“That’s okay.”

Dear God, this woman. “He’s celibate.”

She blinked.

“No sex.”

Her hand sprang open, and she coughed up her drink. “What?”

Ian nodded, wiping his hand off on his pants. Not bothering to correct the fact that he wasn’t a priest just yet. She stumbled off the stool like his unavailability was contagious.

“The bridge closing snow can’t come fast enough,” Ian said through gritted teeth as they watched her practically sprint to another table. “Thanks for nothing, dipshit.” He sucker-punched Danny’s arm.

“She just wanted some fun, pretty boy.” Danny dodged another fist with a laugh.

“Even though you’re an ass,” Ian cleaned his drink shaker and nudged him, “it’s good to hear you laugh again.”

Danny had nothing to say to that.

“Can’t believe there was a time we couldn’t wait to work here because we wanted that to happen,” Ian said.

Danny moved toward a man flagging him down for a drink. “Yeah, then Molly showed up and snatched you without even trying to seduce you.” Danny winced when he noticed the falter in Ian”s steps. He hadn”t meant to bring her up. He’d only wanted to distract his own mind from latching on to the last time he himself bar flirted.

“Psst,” Ian said, nodding toward the door.

Review Jackass from the other night strutted in, glanced at the bar, and bee-lined for a table of other young men dressed just like him. Lots and lots of polo sweaters and boat shoes.

Danny had seen it many times. Trust fund kids let off their parental leashes, wanting to have a bit of fun. All barely over legal drinking age with too much money in their pockets.

Ian let out a long sigh. “You should know, he needs to stay away from Emelie.”

Danny paused mid-pour of a cocktail, eyes snapping up. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Ian held up a hand. “Nothing she couldn’t handle. But he was a giant prick about it, and that’s why I cut him off last time. I’d be happy to throw him out again.”

“Throw who out?” Emelie ducked under the bar to snatch a few of Ian’s cocktail olives and a breather.

Why hadn’t she told him about it? Danny didn’t like the idea that people might be hiding things from him, thinking he was too delicate to handle it. He pointed an accusing finger across the room.

Her eyes snapped to the dining room before she eased into a casual shrug. “Wouldn’t be worth it. He’s leaving tomorrow.”

“He’s staying at the family inn?” Danny asked as he pulled an ale.

She scuffed the toe of her shoe. “Yep.”

“Did you tell Uncle Nils about him?”

“Are you kidding? Pappa would have brought you and Johan in for a massive Viking scare.”

“Aye,” Ian looked at the ceiling wistfully, “that would’ve been grand.”

Danny wasn’t buying the lighter tone in her voice. Nor did he think she realized her arms slid protectively around her middle.

“Let Fin take care of his table,” he said.

She uncrossed her arms. “I don’t need the extra testosterone to deal with him. I can take care of myself.”

“No one is questioning that.” He stirred an Old Fashioned. “But he’s not alone, and you should be free to do your job without worrying about harassment from a bunch of jackasses.” He nodded his chin toward the tavern room. “Tell Fin I want to talk to him before he goes over there.”

He let out a small breath when she didn’t argue and actually looked relieved.

“What’s up?” Fin came, panting and red faced. Ian handed him a water.

“See the table behind you?” Danny pointed, not caring if they saw him. “That man in the blue sweater was kicked out of here earlier for harassing Em. It’s your table now.”

Fin grew about three inches and suddenly wasn’t winded anymore. “He messed with Emelie?”

“Simmer down.” Ian snapped a finger in his face. “Ugly Polo is leaving tomorrow, and we just need you to wait on them so she doesn’t have to. I know it’s a bigger table than we’ve given you all night, but do you think you can handle them?”

He huffed and cracked his knuckles. “Hell yes, I can.”

Danny smirked, and Ian gripped Fin’s shoulder. “No need to do anything but take their orders for now.”

“But you see any one of them try anything with her,” Danny cut fingers across his throat, “they’re done. Ian and I will help.”

He nodded stiffly and broadened his lean yet toned twenty-year-old body as he marched over.

They watched as Jackass pointed to Emelie heading for the other side of the dining area and made cupping hands in front of his chest. His friends laughed and high-fived him.

“That better not have meant what I think it meant.” Danny’s voice rumbled deep in his throat, and Ian’s hands curled into fists.

Danny wouldn’t step in, though. Not unless he had to. Like the time that Seth prick put his hands on her.

Because he knew the reason his cousin felt the way she did about men. The way her father, but mostly her brother, treated her ever since their mother had a stroke. Like when Aunt Mathilde wasn’t able to speak anymore, they lost their guiding sail and fell back to the old hard-ass Larsson ways. Ways born out of years of hardship from a cold, isolated island.

Emelie’s father and brother, intentionally or not, were too hard on her, making her feel less than. And Danny would be damned before he made her feel the same way.

The table’s laughter abruptly stopped when Fin appeared, legs planted wide, arms crossed, dark hair hanging over glaring, green eyes. “Something funny to you?”

Their silence was beautiful.

“I think I’ll give him a raise.” Danny stretched his neck until it popped and passed behind Ian to take a local’s drink order.

“Don’t you dare. It’ll go straight to his head.” Ian handed a different man a double McClellan, commenting on his good taste. “Besides—”

The door opened and Danny froze mid-pour of an ale. A head of honey hair stepped inside with bright-red lips.

It was like Claire stepped off the set of Casablanca, and Humphrey Bogart was about to come in behind her. A black, wide-brimmed hat dipped low over her right eye and a gray, knee-length wool dress was tailored to perfection over her hourglass form. Long, black gloves covered hands that held a small clutch against the simple front of the dress.

But then she turned, scanning the tavern room, and he blinked. The back was anything but plain. Almost like it was put on backward, the top was open to the middle of her toned back, where it met a row of wooden buttons that trailed over the curve of her backside, down to a flared hem. A pair of sheer vintage stockings snagged his eyes where a sexy black line tracked down the center of her calves. He swallowed hard.

Holy hell.

Ian cleared his throat. “I think ale tastes better in a glass than off the floor.”

“What?” Danny did a double take of his hand, empty of the glass and curling around air. Said glass lay shattered on the floor by his feet, and the ale he’d been pulling splashed against the drain and over the lip of the bar. “Shit.”

He released the tap and dropped behind the bar so fast the room spun.

Ian laughed, meeting him down there after replacing the man’s beer, and handed him some towels.

“Did she see me?” Danny picked up pieces of glass, deciding right then that he’d stay crouched for the rest of the night. Maybe his life.

“Nah,” Ian said. “Emelie found her and dragged her to the table you reserved by the fireplace.”

“You reserved it.”

“I’m your manager. I work on your behalf.”

Danny grumbled under his breath.

“So what’s the plan?” Ian said. “We hang down here until she leaves?”

“Thinking about it.” Danny glanced up, then added with a small smile, “Or at least until the urge to buy a fedora leaves me.”

Ian snorted and Danny smiled wider, sweeping up the rest of the glass from the floor.

“You need another minute?”

Danny nodded and dropped the mat. “Might as well check the keg levels while I’m down here.”

Emelie leaned over the bar. “Why you guys on the floor?”

Danny quickly ducked inside a storage cabinet and Ian shot up. “You need something?”

“Claire’s here.”

“Oh, is she?”

God, they were pathetic. Ian shifted on his feet, probably nervous about talking to his favorite author, while Danny stayed hidden inside the cabinets.

Emelie clearly didn’t buy their fake ignorance and slowly smiled. “You guys gonna come say hi?”

“Sure, sure.” Ian nodded and Danny kept crouched, opening more cabinets and rattling kegs.

“When can I tell her you’re coming to talk to her?”

“Who?” Ian and Danny said at the same time, like idiots. One winced, the other rolled his eyes.

“Can’t believe it.” She shook her head. “Two grown-ass men. One of you fan-girling so hard you can’t see straight, and the other dropping shit because one look at her turns him inside out.” She laughed. “Should I give you two some time to center yourselves, maybe take up meditation? I’ll go find out what she wants to drink.”

“She likes dry, Italian red. Grab one of De Luca’s imported Barolos,” Danny said, then froze when Ian and Emelie slowly turned toward him.

He cleared his throat. “Look at that. One keg’s nearly empty.”

Danny deserted the awkward moment, rushing away while rubbing the back of his neck. How many times had he told them it doesn’t mean anything—she doesn’t mean anything? And there he goes blurting what she likes to drink.

He grumbled curses all the way down to the basement where the kegs were stored.

“Get a grip.” He took another deep breath before he lugged the keg he needed. The stairs groaned under the weight.

With one last inhale, he entered the bar and overheard Ian saying to Emelie, “What did you mean I was fan-girling ... er boying?”

Emelie only smiled again.

Danny slid the old keg out and tapped the new one before he finally forced himself to square his shoulders and look Claire’s way.

He went still, and Ian and Emelie went quiet, following his narrowing gaze across the dining room where a bright-blue polo sweater plopped a chair next to Claire. Her eyes grew wide when his look-a-likes brought chairs to surround her.

Emelie hissed. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“I think he would dare,” Ian said.

“I think you need to leave.” Danny read Claire’s lips clearly. But Polo Man only moved closer. Feigning reaching for his beer, he grazed her chest.

Danny plowed under the bar.

“Oi, wait,” Ian said.

He didn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. The flame he thought died after Jessica’s bullshit licked up his insides. He may not be ready to feel some things, but this? This roiling anger filled every inch of him. This he’d happily feel.