With the work done, Mom and I descended the stairs, meeting Dad at the bottom.
Mom pulled off her garden gloves and tossed them on a step. “I’m ready.”
“You’re wearing your visor and clogs to dinner?”
She shrugged. “It’s just pizza at the bar.”
“The bar? I thought we were going up to Kalispell.” I wasn’t mentally prepared to go to the bar for dinner. Or adequately dressed.
I normally wore dresses in the summer, except for jeans a couple times a week on days I’d spend outside exploring with the kids at camp. I never went to work without taming my hair and applying some makeup.
But today I’d made no effort. My face was bare and my hair hadn’t been washed—or combed for that matter. It was just pulled back in a messy braid. I was wearing raggedy, olive-green shorts with a black tank top that sometimes doubled as a pajama top. The straps of my yellow bra were showing.
“We don’t want to be driving around if we’re drinking,” Dad said.
“I can be the designated driver.”
He shook his head. “No way. We’re celebrating tonight! We’re so proud of all the work you put into finding someone to buy the camp. Now it’s safe for, hopefully, another fifty years, we want to toast to a job well done with our daughter. Besides, we haven’t been to the bar in ages. I’m craving pizza.”
“Fine,” I muttered. “Can I have ten minutes to change?”
“You look beautiful.” Mom took my hand and tugged me behind her down the driveway. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”
“But—”
“Oh, Willa,” Dad said, catching up. “You look beautiful.”
And that was how I ended up at the bar on my Saturday night with Jackson coming my way.
“Hey there, Nate. Hi, Betty. Long time no see.” Jackson shook both of my parents’ hands, then came to stand behind me at the table we’d chosen in the middle of the bar.
I scooched my chair in toward the table, trying to put a little more space between Jackson and me, but he wasn’t having it.
He put both hands on the back of my chair, then leaned in close. “Hi, Willa.”
“Uh . . . hi.” I shivered at the heat from his chest on my bare shoulders.
Why was he standing so close? My parents were right there. Our table was one of four tall, square ones in the center of the room and there was plenty of space between tables.
Plenty. P-L-E-N-T-Y.
But was Jackson using any of that plentiful space?
No sirree. He stayed pressed against the back of my chair, like there were only three inches of usable space behind him, not three feet.
My skin prickled he was so close. I tried to nudge my chair forward again, but it barely moved. Sweat beaded on my temples and I pulled in a shaking breath.
Jackson’s woodsy, rich scent was everywhere. It overpowered the stale beer, pizza and peanuts, and I inhaled a deep breath, unable to resist.
Sexy Hot Forest. That’s what they’d call his cologne.
“Willa, you look flushed.”
“Huh?” My eyes whipped to Mom, but she’d already turned to Jackson.
“You’d better bring her some ice water, Jackson.”
“Sure, Betty.” The vibrations from his rumble hit my neck, making my cheeks burn even hotter.
My face had been red since we’d walked in the door.
The moment Jackson had seen me trailing into the bar behind my parents, a smug smile had spread across his face. He’d gotten this sexy glint in his eye as he’d watched us take our seats. Well, as he’d watched me take my seat. Then he’d unleashed the swagger, rounding the bar with long, confident strides that made my heart race.
If that hadn’t gotten me flustered enough, Jackson had foregone his standard plaid shirt. Tonight, it was just faded jeans, boots and a black T-shirt that fit snugly across his chest and biceps.
There was a lot of muscle action happening behind me. I willed my shoulders to stay straight and not give in to the temptation to lean backward and sink into that heat Jackson was radiating. I squirmed in my chair as a coil tightened between my legs.
This sexual tension was going to kill me.
I pulled in a deep breath, blocking out Jackson’s smell, and did my best to get ahold of my internal temperature.
“I’ll bring you all waters,” Jackson told Mom and Dad. “What else can I get for you tonight?”
As he spoke, he drummed his fingers on the back of my chair, brushing his knuckles ever so slightly against my shoulder blades.
Tingles shot down my spine, forcing me to straighten even more. My ribs slammed against the table, making the condiment rack wiggle.
“Sorry,” I muttered, grabbing the bar menu that was sandwiched between a bottle of ketchup and one of hot sauce.
As I studied the same list of pizza toppings I’d memorized years ago, I took another breath. But with my torso pressed against the table, I couldn’t get enough air.
Jackson shifted even closer, his forearms resting on the back of my chair. It put those dangerous knuckles up against my tank top, trapping me in my place.
“We’re celebrating tonight, Jackson.” Dad pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket to examine the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. “So I guess I’ll have a vodka martini, please. Extra dry, no olives.”
“Oooh!” Mom wagged her eyebrows at Dad and purred, “Feeling frisky tonight, Mr. Doon?”
“Eww, Mom,” I groaned. “Gross.”
She giggled, then looked up at Jackson and winked. “I’ll have the same.”
“You got it.” He chuckled and bent his head lower, his breath whispering over my ear. “What would you like?”
A shiver ran down my back and my shoulders shimmied. The movement caused me to rub against his knuckles. It was just a slight touch, but the heat from his fingers singed through the back of my tank.
I jerked forward, making the table bounce again and winced as it bit into my rib cage once more.
“Willa!” Mom frowned. “Stop doing that.”
“Sorry. This chair is, um . . . uncomfortable.”
Behind me, Jackson chuckled. “I’ve got somewhere else you could sit.”
I ignored him and shoved the menu back in its place. “I’ll just have a Bud Light.”
“You got it,” he said, then finally backed away from my chair.
As soon as he was clear, I slumped in my seat, savoring the ability to breathe again. Both of my parents were inspecting me.
Mom had a goofy grin on her face. Dad’s glasses had slid down his nose and his eyes were alternating between me and Jackson.
I gave them both a small smile, tucked my hands underneath my thighs and looked around the room, pretending like that hadn’t been the most uncomfortable, yet exhilarating drink order I’d ever placed in my life.
I loved the Lark Cove Bar, and not just because of its staff. The building itself was full of character and rustic charm.
The high ceilings had exposed iron beams, and the battered floors were littered with peanut shells. None of the stools or chairs matched. The walls were paneled with warm wood and filled with a variety of signs and pictures that Hazel’s parents had collected over the years.
She’d added her own special touches when she’d moved back to Montana to run the bar. After she’d retired, Thea and Jackson had put up some things of their own as well. There wasn’t much free space left these days and I’m sure there were those who’d call it cluttered. I liked to think of it as a collection.
They’d each left their mark.
The bar itself was long and ran in an L shape across both of the back walls. Tall cocktail tables were in the center of the room, and a few booths lined the front windows. The black vinyl benches had been patched with electrical tape in a few spots.
It wasn’t fancy or trendy, but it was perfect for Lark Cove.
“Here you go.” Jackson came back quickly, setting down our drinks on square napkins along with a paper boat of peanuts. “Do you guys want dinner?”
“Yes, please. We need pizza.” Mom turned in her chair to place our regular order. The entire time, Dad watched Jackson with a careful eye.
Probably because as soon as Jackson’s hands had delivered the drinks, they’d gone right back to my chair.