Her job might not love her back, but it doesn’t break her heart.
Work is her life. Because Tessie can count on one hand the number of people who have left her. And if she folded all those fingers down, she’d make a fist. And fists fucking hurt.
Her own money. Her own life.
Indestructible.
Except tonight.
Tonight, maybe she could work in a smidge of destruction.
Excitement. That familiar electricity snaps in her soul. The old Tessie surfacing. The gutsy girl who waited tables for two years to make ends meet after college, who hunted old records and medicine bottles at antique stores when she started staging model homes. Not Terrible Tess, who screams at the interns when they forget to fluff the pillows before a client visit.
Tessie rolls her eyes at the ape-like noises coming from the bachelor party, then glances down at herself. She’s not dive enough.
She shrugs off her blazer, leaving herself in a black silk tank top and the ripped jeans she changed into before heading out for the night. A quick flick of her wrist, and she lets down her golden hair, placing the French hair pin beside her wineglass.
Freedom.
She surveys the drink in her hand.
And alcohol.
If Ash were here, she’d give Tessie a quick slap on the ass, and she’d repeat the marching orders she gave her before she boarded her flight at LAX.
Get lit, get loose, get laid.
Tess chews her full bottom lip.
The thought is tempting. She hasn’t been laid in what? A millennium? At the very least since open floor concepts were a thing.
But before she can talk herself out of it, a boisterous laugh sideswipes her thoughts. Tipping forward, Tessie peers down the long bar top. Six seats down, a man with sandy-blond hair hoots like a hyena, and beside him. . .
Her eyes light on the beast of a man sitting stiffly on a barstool. His rugged face is pained, and he glowers into space like he craves an escape hatch, looking just as uncomfortable as she feels.
But aside from that, he’s. . . hot.
Damn hot.
She narrows her gaze. Zeroes in. Appreciates.
Her brain short-circuits as she drinks him in. He’s tall, even hunched over the bar top, his body built and broad. He wears a black buffalo plaid flannel shirt, black logger boots, and faded jeans. His black hair’s roguishly messy, longer in the front and trim in the back. The sleeves of his flannel are shoved up to the elbows, exposing massive, corded forearms dusted with dark hair and violently colorful tattoos.
As he shakes his head at his friend, he taps along to the beat of the country song.
Tessie goes soft all over.
Her mom would like him.
She scowls at the intrusive thought.
And then she laughs, the memory of the dive bar where her mother worked coming to her.
She would sit in that grimy booth, her legs dangling over the edge while she did her homework. Her mother cleaned tables and poured beer, singing along to the jukebox about cowboys in faraway places. She brought home a record player so they could listen to their own cowboys on vinyl. Late at night, they’d sit beside the record player, and her mom would pull out album after album. She knew them all: George Jones. Waylon Jennings. Merle Haggard. Hank Williams. Old-school cowboys.
This man, though. He’s not a cowboy.
She gives him a thorough once-over. That beard. Close-cropped, trimmed neat. How very mountain man. Gruff. Rugged. She bets he’s the type of man who works with his hands. Who has callused fingertips but a soft touch. And kisses like a dream.
A fantasy.
Lifting her glass to her lips, she drains her wine. She could go for a fantasy.
What does his voice sound like?
A rumble of thunder? Sandpaper? She shivers at the thought.
The music, the wine, the sight of the mountain man have Tessie loosening up, relaxing, ready for fun, wanting to dance. Gyrate like a fool on her barstool to the hard pump of hillbilly rock pulsing through the bar.
Everything inside her is bright and buzzy. A slosh of emotions. She doesn’t want to play it safe. Just for one night.
A curve on her lip, she considers the jukebox with appreciation.
She could do it. She could dance. Become a feral dance floor woman. No one knows her here. What’s the worst that could happen?
She slugs her wine.
Get lit.
She smiles as she kicks off her red-soled pumps.
Get loose.
Solomon Wilder’s dead wife is telling him to get laid.
Clear as day, Serena’s voice resonates in his mind. After seven years, he may not remember every pretty angle of her face or the deep cobalt color of her irises, but her steady voice has never left him. Always pushing when he needs a good kick in the ass. Urging him to move. Even when he doesn’t want to.
“You’re scarin’ the girls away, Sol.” A low drawl sounds in his ear. “You got that frown on your face, man.”
He grunts as Howler claps a hand on his shoulder. His best friend angles closer, waggling lascivious brows. “Loosen up.”
Twisting the wedding ring on his scarred knuckle, Solomon says, “We’re supposed to be doing research.” He lifts an amber bottle to his lips. Drains it. “Looking at girls doesn’t count as research.”
Howler groans loud enough to be heard over the music. “Why are you like this? I finally get you out of the house, and you got me flying solo here.”
Solomon smears a hand down his face. His friend’s got some goddamn nerve asking him to leave his cabin and his dog and his mountain. Talking him into an eight-hour flight to Nashville when he hasn’t left his small town of Chinook, Alaska, in fifteen years.
Reconnaissance Howler called it.
For their busted, broken-down bar.
Howler’s Roost.
Housed in an old silo, the pair opened it when they were in their early twenties. The bar looked dive from the outside, but inside, it was unlike any other establishment in their little town of Chinook. Upscale food and drink for locals. Both men wanted to flex their creative muscles their way. Howler made craft cocktails. Solomon created locally sourced pub food. And they flourished. . .until Serena died.
Originally, they’d intended it as a hangout for locals, but once Howler got behind the bar and experimented with cocktails, the tourists started pouring in. Called it the best kept secret in Alaska.
Then, six months ago, a famous country singer from Nashville put Howler’s Roost on the map. He was stranded after a concert, and when he’d returned home, he declared to Food & Wine magazine that the bar had the best damn cocktail he’d ever tasted.
The attention they’ve received since has created nothing but chaos. It’s made Howler’s Roost a destination people fight to get to. Has them hopping planes from Anchorage just to try the signature cocktail, the Redheaded Stepchild. Has Howler stockpiling product so he doesn’t run out.
After a blizzard damaged the roof last year, his best friend jumped at the chance to finally give Howler’s Roost a much-needed renovation.
Which is where this Nashville trip comes in. Scouting bars as inspiration for their own remodel. Bear’s Ear bar is a side-of-the-road pit stop known for its microbrews and burgers.
Sure, Solomon has been out of the restaurant business for a while, but letting his bar crash and burn isn’t an option.
Even if that’s why the bar fell into disrepair in the first place.
Because he wasn’t there. Story of his goddamn life.
Howler lets out a tormented sigh, bouncing on the barstool. “You’re killin’ me, dude. I get you off the mountain for the first time in years, and all you do is glower.”
Solomon crosses his arms. “I glower in Chinook too.”
“Don’t I know it.” Howler waves at the plate of egg rolls between them. “What do you think of the food?”
“Great.”
“Ain’t yours.” He circles a finger, signaling for two more shots of whiskey. “You’re doing me a favor by being here. We can write this off as a business expense; a cranky ex-chef who needs to have a damn good time.” Pushing off the counter, he tips back and surveys the room. “How about her?”
Without turning his head, Solomon says, “No.”
“Her?”