Solomon sets his whiskey on the bar top, annoyance curdling inside him. He’s not in the mood for another lecture about why he should be eating dinner at his ma’s and not Howler’s Roost. To change the subject, he nods at the pile of wood in the corner of the room. A broken floorboard the servers have to step around. Mishmash décor: retro neon signs and dollar bills attached to the wall. Rickety wooden tables on their literal last legs, with matchbooks propping them up.
“Place looks like a shithole.” He considers the television mounted above the bar. The local news switches over to a sleazy tabloid show that grates his nerves. “I thought you were gonna get rid of that.”
Howler crosses his arms and props himself up on the counter behind him, a boyish smirk playing on his lips. “Sure, we’ll start there.”
“When are you gonna get on the refresh?” Solomon rubs a hand down his dark beard. “The bar needs a theme. We did a whole damn reconnaissance for it. You got the insurance money. You had blueprints drawn up.”
Howler splashes whiskey in his glass. “When I get my right-hand man back in the kitchen.”
“I told you. No.” Solomon fights the urge to glance at the door to the kitchen. Tries not to look at remnants of the pathetic excuse for a frozen pizza he had for dinner. Boring food that can’t come close to comparing to the bar bites he used to whip up. Food as local as him. Scotch eggs. Potato leek fritters. Salmon nachos.
With a groan, Howler drapes himself across the bar. “It’s time, Sol. I don’t got a good chef. I’m feeding people chips from a bag.”
“I like chips from a bag just fine.”
Liar his friend’s hard stare says.
Sitting back on his stool, Solomon frowns. “I thought that road trip you dragged me on lit a fire under your ass to get this place in shape.”
There’s no good reason for the disarray. No matter how much he tells himself he doesn’t care, he can’t care, he sure as shit does. The bar is his. Theirs together. To leave it like this is a goddamn travesty. It’s just like Howler to get worked up about a project, do the research, make the plans, and let it drop. After thirty years of friendship, he knows the guy’s lazy ass has never been the one to see a project through.
Howler cracks out a laugh. “If you want to talk that trip, think it was you who got a fire lit under your ass.”
Solomon keeps his attention focused on the TV above the bar, giving nothing away. Not one ounce of ammunition for the sonofabitch to crow about.
Swiping up crumbs, Howler pauses to glance over at the sticking jukebox. Two weather-beaten old-timers slam palms against the hazy glass to get Johnny Cash off repeat. He leans in to Solomon. “Thinking about Goldilocks? I liked her too. A blond with brown eyes.” He grins. “Hot.”
Solomon grits his teeth and shoots the asshole a sharp look. “Shut the fuck up.”
Lifting his hands in a don’t-shoot-me gesture, Howler says, “Relax. I’m thinking about all the ways I can thank her.”
“For what?”
“For waking you up. Spurring you to rejoin our fine Chinook society.” He presses his hands against the bar and angles closer, his face, his voice, softening. “You took your ring off, Sol.”
Studying his hands, his bare ring finger, Solomon makes a fist. Releases it.
He did.
Six months ago, in fact.
The day he woke up to an empty bed after the best night of his life.
A night as unforgettable as the girl he shared it with.
At least once a day, either at his work bench or in his yard, his mind conjures her out of the blue. Hitting him with a bittersweet ache he can’t chase away, no matter how hard he tries. The blondest, brightest, most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
Saddest too.
I’m always lonesome.
He still remembers the way her face looked when she said it.
Open, earnest, so damn sad he didn’t even have the words. He just kissed her. And it was enough.
He had been rusty, falling all over the place to put the moves on her, but she didn’t seem to care. They tore up that bed, her body burning up in his arms. Solomon craved her as badly as she craved him. Everything about her was too good to be true. Heaven. For one night, he had held fucking heaven in his arms.
The next morning, he woke up alone, his shirt gone. As he scanned the empty room for her, the old feeling of panic crept over him. Even now, he hates that she snuck out without a goodbye. Without leaving her name. Without a way for him to make sure she got to her destination safe and sound.
It wasn’t his job to worry, Howler reminded him again and again. She was a fling. The first lay he’d had in seven years.
A one-night stand? A fucking fling? No, he wanted her. He wanted to find her and thank her for shaking him awake, for tearing off the grim cloak of darkness he’s worn for the last seven goddamn years.
He held a shooting star in his arms for one night. Searing, the feeling so intense he’d do anything to keep it, but before he could, it burned out completely.
He misses her. And the peace she gave him.
Still, it’s better she left. After Serena—after what he did—love, a relationship, isn’t something he deserves.
It’s something that should stay far, far away from him.
Head cocked, Howler grins. “Stuck in your head, ain’t she?”
“Howler,” he says, taking a swig of his bourbon, then patting Peggy Sue on the head. The basset hound licks his hand, gives a low woof of contentment, and goes back to sleep. “When I want your opinion, I’ll fucking ask for it.”
His best friend hoots, juggling a bottle of Rittenhouse Rye in his hands. “You need a reset,” he says, pouring the rye into a rocks glass. “Do what I do and take up with a tourist.” He nods, singling out a perky redhead reading an Alaska guidebook. “Take ’em upstairs to my place, rock their world, and in the morning, they leave.”
Solomon shakes his head. Love ’em and leave ’em—that’s his best friend’s default setting.
Howler cocks his head, pulls a contemplative face. “Guess you did that in Tennessee, didn’t you?”
Solomon growls and plants his hands on the bar, ready to tell Howler to fuck off, when a bright blast of a voice catches his attention.
“Tell me, Ms. Truelove, Ms. Pain’s vibe is very eclectic, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. If you follow me, I’ll take you to her screaming room.”
“Screaming?”
Solomon looks up, frowning at the crooked TV. A leggy blond in high-as-hell stilettos is giving a tour of a gothic-looking penthouse. Fucking LA. Everything about that town screams phony as hell. Not like Chinook and its salt of the earth folk. People who’d give a person the shirt off their backs and the last dollar in their accounts if they needed it.
The woman pauses to open a door. Behind her, a bright pink neon sign blasts the word DEATH. “As you see here, Ms. Pain’s space is inspired by a New Orleans mausoleum, but on a luxury scale. Her screaming room and studio have been accented with feline wallpaper, an iconic example of how to liven up a small space.” Then she turns to the camera in a close-up and smiles.
All the breath leaves Solomon’s body.
Christ, it’s her.
The girl from the Bear’s Ear bar.
“Holy fucking shit,” Howler says, though his voice sounds hazy, far off.
Peggy Sue lifts her head, a low woof of concern rumbling out of her.
Access Hollywood logo in the corner of the screen. The ticker at the bottom reads: Tess Truelove, Interior Designer to the Stars
His lips curl. He finally knows her name. Tess.
Solomon gapes at the TV like he’s conjured her up. Jesus, she’s beautiful. More beautiful than he remembers. And damn, does he remember. The lush body he ran his hands over, the way he gripped the curve of her hip and made her moan. His eyes travel from her bee-stung lips to her bright white smile to her breasts to the tight black dress hugging her—
The camera zooms out, the frame focusing on her lithe form and a room that resembles a dungeon.
Vision blurring, Solomon grips the edge of the countertop. An awful what-the-fuck feeling fills his soul, and his stomach drops. He zeroes in on the tiny bump riding low on her belly. The setting sun behind her only accentuates her golden glow.
Fuck.
The world scrambles.
Pregnant.
It’s the girl from the Bear’s Ear bar, and she’s pregnant.
“Oh, hell no,” Howler mutters. He snatches the remote off the back counter and snaps off the TV.
Solomon rises. “Turn it back on. Now.” His growl leaves no room for rebuttal.