Chapter 2

Dallas

"You gonna stand there and stare at her all night, or are you actually going to do some work?"

Penn, my younger brother, pushes himself off the bar and shoves me as he walks past. "I wasn't fucking staring at anything."

"Yeah, just keep telling yourself that," I mutter as I wipe the counter down.

"Fucker," he grumbles as he pushes through the door that leads to the back of the bar, leaving me out here all by myself.

Luckily, it's not very busy yet, which gives us a little bit of time to stock the front before the rush begins, and plenty of time for me to give my brother shit for his unrequited crush.

Astrid comes over, brushing her bangs from her eyes with her forearm. "Everything okay, Dallas? What's wrong with Penn?"

"What's not wrong with Penn?"

She rolls her eyes. "I swear you two fight more than you get along."

"Mostly."

She sets her tray down on the counter and moves to the computer to input an order. "We still have fish and chips, right?"

"Yeah, plenty. Harold made quite the catch this morning, so we should be good for a few days at least." Harold is a long-time Carrington Cove resident that brings in fresh fish for all of the local businesses, especially mine. And his luck today means more money in both of our pockets.

She nods. "Perfect."

My eyes carry over Catch Release, my bar and restaurant that has been prospering over the past four years, the windows in the front of the establishment offering a breathtaking view of the cove that is our town's namesake, which draws in tourists from the beginning of spring through the end of fall.

After leaving the Marines and returning home twelve years later, I wanted something that I could pour my heart and soul into, a place that would keep me busy and leave me with little time to think since my mind loves to torment me if left to its own devices.

Bill, the former owner, was looking to sell and retire around that time, so I jumped on the opportunity. I had no idea how to run a restaurant or bar, but I picked it up quickly and have kept this place thriving since I took over. Although an established clientele and the booming tourism in Carrington Cove definitely helps too.

Catch Release is the quintessential coastal bar, everything inside decorated in a nautical theme—fishnets hanging from the walls with starfish and seashells scattered throughout, old anchors mounted to the walls' wooden slats, and navy-blue booths and padded chairs at each of the dark wooden tables. Steel lamps hang above each table and the bar is edged in the same steel, lining the surface made of reclaimed wood.

It's rustic and familiar, perfectly capturing the essence of our town in the décor and the hospitality we offer, an experience that keeps people coming back for more.

Penn returns from the back of the restaurant a few minutes later, carrying cases of beer and liquor.

"Is Dallas giving you shit again?" Astrid asks when she returns from her table, leaning against the bar as she smiles at my younger brother.

Penn just stares at her, much like he does any time the woman is in his view. I'm sure even a kindergartener could pick up on his crush. Thankfully, he finds his voice quickly. "When is he not?" he grunts as he moves around her.

Astrid shakes her head at us and then steps to the soda fountain to fill drinks. "You two are so much alike sometimes that it's frightening." She pushes glasses against the metal triggers as soda fills each one up.

"I take offense to that," I counter, slapping my rag on the bar.

"Yeah, so do I," Penn adds.

Astrid glares at us over her shoulder. "I do not have time to referee you two today. I have money to make, and you're both in my way." She stands in front of us, a tray full of beverages filled and waiting to be delivered, her eyebrow arched as she waits for us to move.

It's a look I've also seen our mother give us a time or two and Astrid nails it flawlessly.

Penn and I part and let her by.

"Her children must be downright terrified of her," I say jokingly.

"She's a good mom," Penn replies under his breath, restocking the bar.

I slap my hand on his shoulder. "Hey, I don't have time for you to mope tonight, all right? We have that reservation of twenty people coming in for a birthday party, and we're down a server. Sally called out."

Penn shoves me off. "I'm not moping."

"Ha. Okay." I decide to drop it. There's no use in poking that bear anymore, or he won't be any use to me at the bar tonight.

It's a Friday night and that always means business will be good. Between people coming in for the fresh fish and chips special, celebrating the end of another work week with a drink or two, or tourists arriving for the weekend, there will be no slowing down until the bar shuts down in the wee hours of the morning.

It's nights like this that make me grateful I live above the restaurant in the small apartment the previous owner built when he bought the building. It's perfect for a single guy like me and makes the commute to and from work a breeze. However, sometimes I feel like I never leave this building, but hopefully that will change soon.

Buying a house is in my future plans—I'm just waiting for the right hand to be dealt my way.

By the time seven o'clock hits, the bar is swamped. There's a line of customers around the building, a waitlist a mile long, and the kitchen is pumping out food as fast as the cooks can. My bartenders and servers are running a flipping marathon with a smile on their face, and I am filling in wherever I'm needed.

"How's it going, gentlemen?" I set three beers on the round table in the corner, where Harold, Baron, and Thompson are seated in their usual spot as the hostess fills the empty booth beside them that I just cleaned. These three men have probably lived in Carrington Cove as long as the town has been established, except for the time they spent serving as Marines, that is.

"Be careful who you're calling gentlemen, Dallas. I'm about to kick their asses in darts, and that means things are about to get ugly." Baron tips his glass in my direction before taking a sip of his beer.

"This one." Harold juts his thumb over at Baron. "Always counting his chickens before they hatch. Everyone knows I'm the reigning champ."

"Ha! Let me get a few more beers in you and then we'll see who's winning," Thompson interjects, partaking in their usual shit talking before they take control of the dart board in the corner of the bar area.

Even before I took over ownership of the place, these three have spent every Friday night at Catch Release challenging each other in darts. And since I don't want to start a fight, I decide to keep the fact to myself that Harold is, in fact, the one who wins the most.

"Well, the night is young boys, and anything can happen, right?" I say as I stand back, placing my hands on my hips.

"When are you gonna play with us one of these nights, Dallas?" Baron asks.

"When you three can stay out past ten."

They all cackle as I walk away, back to managing the increasing number of people filling the room while making sure the kitchen is staying on top of the influx of orders.

Regulars fill the tables, nodding hellos as I pass by. I recognize many veterans I've met over the years, whom I offer a discount—a courtesy I give to anyone for their service to our country since I know personally what that sacrifice is like.

Anyone unfamiliar is assumed to be a tourist or someone from a town nearby, but the chatter and laughter ringing out sends a wave of pride through me. It"s a satisfying feeling, knowing my place brings joy to others.

It's rare to have these moments, where everything feels right and the world is still spinning as it should. So much has happened recently and throughout the years that the axis feels off-kilter more often than not, but nights like this help me feel like my world is slowly returning to normal, or as close to normal as it can get.

Just before nine o'clock, I find myself behind the bar helping fill drink orders. I'm grateful for YouTube videos to add to my non-existent bartending skills, but between Penn, Tabitha, and me, we manage to fulfill any drink order that comes our way. My brother has worked a few nights here with me ever since I bought the place, but he had prior experience tending bar while I was deployed. During the day, though, he works at the hardware store and is known as the residential handyman around our little town. He truly is a jack-of-all-trades, and I'm grateful for his help.

I flick my eyes in the direction of the door, the waiting area still packed with people, and that's when my eyes land on a woman that certainly isn't from around here, her tall stature and poised presence sticking out like a sore thumb.

She wears a white silk blouse and a black pencil skirt that hugs shapely curves. Her blonde hair is slicked back into a low bun that rests right at the base of her neck, and her pursed, plump lips are painted a cherry red, intoxicating and forbidden.

Any woman I've ever seen wearing red lipstick usually wears it for one of two reasons. One, because she's feeling sexy and is ready for attention or a little danger—or two, she wears it as a shield, letting everyone know that she's impenetrable and in need of no one else.

She's the one in control.

Her eyes scour the room, assessing the crowd with a slight curl to her lips as if the establishment is beneath her. Then her gaze locks onto the last empty seat at the bar, one that was just vacated moments ago, and the click of her heels rings out as she sways her hips with each step in my direction.

I spin around, not wanting to be caught staring at the woman—by her or anyone else. That's all I need is for Penn to see me before he starts giving me the same shit I give him.

Plus, the last thing I need right now is trouble, and that's exactly what this woman exudes—trouble with a capital T.

I make myself busy for a few minutes, helping other customers and moving down the bar before finally standing right before the mystery woman. Sliding a cardboard coaster across the surface of the bar in front of her, I wait for her to acknowledge me before I speak. But she's entranced in her phone.

"Dirty martini, three olives," she says without meeting my gaze, her fingers continuing to tap the keys on her screen. Studying her, I wait a few moments to see if she'll finally meet my eyes. But after one long-ass minute, I finally give up and speak to her instead.

"Was there a please behind that order?"

That catches her attention. Brown eyes like pools of melted milk chocolate swirled with caramel lift and stare back into mine. And that's when I feel like someone just slapped me across the face with a brick.

Shit, she's stunning up close.

"I'm sorry?" she asks, tilting her head at me, a perplexed look on her face.

Trying to fight against the way she just paralyzed me, I reply, "I heard your order, but didn't hear a please after it."

One of her brows arches painfully high on her forehead, but her lips curl into a grin. "Are you allowed to speak to me like that?"

"You bet your ass I am." Resting my forearms on the bar, I lean over it slightly.

Her eyes narrow on me now as she slides her tongue across her teeth, her lips still closed. "Can I have a dirty martini with three olives, please?" she grates, clearly irritated with the challenge I dished out. But I don't care who you think you are or where you're from, manners go a long fucking way.

"There's the magic word." I dip my chin and say, "Coming right up." I push off the bar and reach to the side, gathering a glass to make her drink, fighting the urge to look up at her again. But I can feel her watching me, tracking each one of my movements as if I might try to poison her after our exchange. When I'm done, I slide the drink across the bar to her. "Here you go."

"Thank you," she punctuates her reply as she takes a sip of her drink, smacking her lips in approval, and then moves her gaze back to her phone, ignoring me once more.

Irritation runs through me, so I take the opportunity to check on other customers, even move to the kitchen to make sure the cooks have everything they need and refill their cups with ice water. It gets hot as hell back there, so I try to keep them as comfortable as possible.

Back out in the front of the restaurant, I make sure to keep my distance from the woman that captivated me when I have no idea why. Everything about her screams red flag.

But she also got your blood pumping, didn't she, Dallas?

My eyes drift over to her casually as I stand behind the bar again, taking note that her drink is empty. Reminding myself that she's still a customer, I inhale deeply and then make my way over to where she's sitting. "Care for another?"

She bites her lip, staring at her drink, and then up at me—the movement so calculated it almost makes me think that she's flirting with me. But then she speaks. "Are you going to make me say please again?"

The corner of my mouth tips up this time, in response to her wit. "Of course. Manners are important, ma'am."

"Ma'am?" She scoffs. "Yup. I'm definitely not in the city anymore."

A city girl, huh? I wonder which one. Raleigh? Atlanta?

Why do you care, Dallas? Just make her a god damn drink.

Before I can fire off a witty reply, she sighs. "Well, I guess I can't argue with an appreciation for manners. I'll have another, please. It will help take the edge off this long-ass day."

As I pour the gin and reach for the olives again, I take a moment to appreciate the fact that she cussed, revealing a little crack in the shield she wears.

Personally, I love a woman that can use profanity and not feel ashamed about it. I think it shows confidence in who they are and how they communicate. It shows authority too.

My mouth starts moving without permission. "You don't seem like you want to be here."

She huffs, flipping her phone upside down. "Not at all, actually."

"And you don't seem like you're from around here either."

"Nope." She pops the p.

I study her as I slide her drink across the bar. "Then what brings you to Carrington Cove? Most people are either from here or they're on vacation. Clearly, you're neither."

She swirls the liquid around in her drink, reaching for the stick of olives, placing it in her mouth before drawing it back out with one less olive attached. She locks her eyes with mine as I watch her chew, trying not to get lost in the visions my mind is conjuring of what else those red lips could be used for.

Finally she sighs. "You don't need to do this."

"Do what?"

"That small-town thing where you attempt to strike up a conversation to be polite. No offense, but I have no intention of being here long enough to establish some sort of repertoire with the townsfolk." She darts her eyes around the room. "I'm here on business. Shouldn't be here more than a few days, I imagine. Just need to tie up a few loose ends."

"I see."

She takes another drink from her martini. "And believe me, this is the last place I thought I'd ever end up."

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stand against the bar, growing more curious about this woman, even though my brain is telling me to walk away.

But I'm a man—when do we ever listen willingly to our brains?

"And why is that? Carrington Cove is a great place."

"Ha. Yes, well, to someone like you, I guess that makes sense."

My head rears back on my neck. "Someone like me?"

She nods. "You have local handyman-bartender vibes written all over you," she says, waving her hand at me.

"More like restaurant and bar owner. My brother is the bartender and handyman."

"Well, good for you, and your brother, but I don't belong here." She brings her glass to her lips, draining her drink dry right before my eyes. I watch her throat bob up and down as she takes back the martini with minimal effort. As she sets the glass on the bar, she moves to stand, unsteady on her feet.

"You shouldn't be driving." I nearly reach out to steady her but catch myself.

"I'm fine," she says as she clears her throat, pasting on a smile.

"You're swaying in your Manolos."

"They're Louboutins, and they were not made for these uneven wooden floors," she retorts. "But I'm impressed you know designer shoes."

"Well, I figure the price of the shoe should match the pretention you exude," I reply, feeling myself grow more irritated with this woman by the second.

Who does she think she is waltzing into my town and sneering down at me, or anyone else for that matter?

"You have a lot of nerve judging me when you don't know the first thing about me." With a purse of her lips, she tosses a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and then reaches for her purse. "That should cover two martinis."

"More like four. That's too much."

"Keep the change. Consider it a large tip." She tosses her gaze around the room. "And perhaps you can use the extra money to buy yourself some manners as well." With a lift of her purse, she spins on her heels and walks away from me, and I hate that I'm watching her ass as she does.

Who the fuck is that woman?

It doesn't matter. She was just another tourist passing through. Don't let her get to you, Dallas.

"Who was that?" Penn asks, coming up beside me, mimicking my own thoughts as we both watch her walk out the door and down the sidewalk, the dark sky providing a backdrop that she clearly stands out against.

"Someone too good for our little town apparently."

Penn narrows his eyes at me. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I mutter, attempting to shake off the interaction with her. "I'm going to go into my office for a while. You think you can hold down the fort?"

He nods. "You got it."

I pat him on the back. "Don't stare at Astrid too much though, okay? I don't want a harassment suit to deal with."

Penn shoves my shoulder. "Fuck off."

Chuckling to myself, I push through the double doors and walk down the hallway that leads to my office. As I take a seat in my chair, I begin gathering paperwork with the intent to get some work done, but all I can see is her—the blonde from out of town, the stuck-up suit that clearly thought she was better than all of us here.

It's not the first time someone like that has come through our small town, and I'm sure it won't be the last. But I hate that no matter how hard I try, our conversation—albeit a brief one—won't leave my mind.

And neither does the image of her ass in that skirt and heels as she walked away from me.