“Trust me. You can’t,” he says as he rolls up the window, backs up, and peels out. Awww hell no. I have flown three thousand damn miles to make this offer, and I am not about to let some gorgeous, surly hunk jump in his getaway truck and beat it.
I leap into my rental and drive down the mountain after him, catching sight of his taillights in no time. He tries to speed up, but it’s a no go. I’m right behind him, and I’m not afraid to go racing along these curves. I channel my inner Vin Diesel, and thank years of watching Fast and Furious movies for teaching me unwise and awesome driving techniques. It is Furious 11: Berkshire Bonanza up in here.
Eventually Flint makes a sharp turn into a dark, wooded area, and by the time I reach the spot where his taillights disappeared, I can’t find the back road he must have taken. I can’t even see a road, period. It’s all trees and deer trails and hiking paths as far as I can see, which admittedly isn’t very far, and I’m sure as hell not about to drive my rental car into the forest at night. My wail of defeat echoes inside the vehicle like a fire engine siren, but in the end I have no choice but to head back into town. Either that or drive back to Flint’s place, park in the driveway, and sit pretty until he returns—at which point he’ll probably call the police, and I’ve heard those prison cots are hell on your lumbar spine.
My career is over.
I roll down Main Street and pull up outside a bar; my epic Flint failure has left a bitter taste in my mouth that can only be washed away with booze. This place is the stereotypical little joint on the archetypal country road. A swinging wooden sign reads The Firefly Tavern, and it creaks in the cool night breeze. This is the kind of place that has a neon PBR sign in the window, and a six-foot stuffed grizzly bear waiting by the entrance to give you a hug. I slam my car door and head right in, not bothering to straighten my skirt. I’m on a mission, after all, and that mission has nothing to do with my wardrobe.
Inside, it’s a lumberjack’s dream. There’re about seven deer heads hanging along the walls, all of them wearing startled expressions. Everything is hewn out of rough wood: the benches, the tables, even the menus. At the back, a group of beer-drinking, flannel-wearing guys in trucker hats are shooting pool and laughing it up. The place smells of lager and old memories. It’s exactly what I need.
I stroll up to the bar, heels clacking against the floor, determined to get wasted enough to forget how ugly things are going to be on Monday morning when I roll into Davis’ office with no pitch.
The bartender, pouring out a tumbler of whiskey for a customer, looks up at me with a lifted brow. This is definitely beard country. The barkeep’s sporting a massive, untidy bush, and a man bun to match. I sidle right up and set my purse on the bar.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks, a bit gruffly. “If it comes with fruit juice and an umbrella, I ain’t got it.”
Ah, here we go. A little sexism puts even more fire in my blood. “Two fingers of Glenfiddich, neat,” I say, trying not to bare my teeth.
“That’ll put hair on your chest,” he says, nodding in approval and sounding impressed. Considering all the excess body fur in here, he may have a point. But I’ll take the chance. He pours the drink and slides it to me. I sip, enjoying the smoky peat flavor.
A few more drinks go down and soon enough it hardly matters that I’m going to lose my job at Reel World. Hardly matters I’ll be relocating to my parents’ basement in Ohio in another week or so. Hardly matters that Tyler’s pitch is going to win, that he’s going to win.
“Pff. Hardly matters at all,” I mumble into my empty-again glass.
“I don’t see many women who take their liquor without ice,” a deep, woodsy, melodious voice says. “Especially not city dwellers.” Jeez, the way country people carry on about the perils of the city, you’d think we were about to initiate dueling banjos.
I turn on my stool to deliver a sharp retort, which requires a hell of a lot more coordination than I expected, and nearly face-plant into Flint, who has somehow managed to appear at my side and find me wallowing in personal and professional agony. For a moment, I’m stunned. Not only did he slam a door in my face, evade capture during a high-speed chase on a mountain road, and crush my career dreams, but he then adds insult to injury by turning back around and hunting me down at the very bar where I sought solace? A bar where he’s far and away the drop-dead hottest red-blooded male in here? The nerve of this guy. The nerve!
But what comes out of my mouth next isn’t an expression of drunken rage.
It’s a purring come-on.
“I’m full of surprises, Mr. McKay,” I flirt, barely slurring my words at all. Flint’s eyes graze up and down my body, but it’s not the leering, creepy look that I see from men like Tyler. He’s taking stock, sizing me up.