Page 4 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

“You're welcome to apply for the job.” I toss the rag over my shoulder. “Kitchen's hiring.”

Carl huffs and turns back to his buddies. I grab three mugs and start filling them from the tap, my movements automatic after years behind this bar.

The brass rail needs polishing, the beer lines need cleaning, and I've got inventory waiting, but it'll have to wait.

The regulars stomped in from the snow an hour ago, tracking slush and good humor across the floors, and they're not going anywhere until closing.

On a night like this, with frost creeping up the windows and the wind howling outside, The HideOut lives up to its name.

The door swings open, letting in a blast of December air that barely cuts through the stuffy warmth of bodies packed into The HideOut.

The bell chimes, and something makes me look up.

That's when she walks in, and the whole room shifts. She's all city confidence in a tailored leather jacket and designer jeans, so far from the usual Wednesday crowd that I almost drop the glass I'm drying.

She surveys my bar like she's appraising property—expensive boots stepping carefully around the peanut shells I haven't had time to sweep up.

But it's her eyes that get me—sharp blue and restless, carrying a weight I recognize. The look of someone running from something.

“Jack! Those beers aren't going to pour themselves!” Carl shouts.

Right. I've got regulars to serve and a bar to run. She's just another customer passing through. Focus, man. She'll order a drink or two and be on her way.

But my eyes keep drifting. She carries herself like a city girl—I recognize that edge, that wariness. Wore it myself for years growing up in Boston with Mom, before Bailey's Cove taught me how to breathe again.

A splash of foam hits my hand, and I realize I've overfilled Carl's mug. Cursing under my breath, I clean up the spill and slide his beer across the bar.

Two cosmos for the ladies at table six, three tabs for the guys watching the game. Years of practice keep my hands moving while my mind wanders.

When I look up again, those blue eyes are fixed on me, one eyebrow raised like she's waiting to see if I'm worth her time.

She's positioned herself perfectly—right where I can't ignore her even if I wanted to. And damn it, I don't want to.

There's something about her that doesn't quite fit the 'tourist passing through' vibe.

She's too comfortable, like she knows exactly what she's doing in a small-town bar on a snowy Wednesday night. And damn it, I want to know why.

Up close, her features are striking—dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, a splash of freckles across her nose, and curves that make my fingers itch to reach across the bar.

“What can I get you?”

She drums perfectly manicured nails against the bar top. “I'll have a Negroni. Equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. Stirred, not shaken, with an orange peel.”

“Do you see a mixologist around here?” I gesture to my flannel shirt and the basic well liquors behind me. “I can do a whiskey sour if you're feeling fancy.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Whiskey sour? This place has gone upscale.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Last time I checked, The HideOut specialized in warm beer and regrettable decisions.”

“We've expanded our regrettable decisions menu.” I lean against the bar, forgetting for a moment about the crowd behind me. “Now we offer premium regrets at bargain prices.”

She laughs - a genuine sound that transforms her face, making her look younger, less defensive. Something in my chest shifts sideways.

“In that case, surprise me, but make it strong. Nothing that glows in the dark or comes with a tiny umbrella.”

I grab my best whiskey and mix her drink with more care than usual, sliding it across the bar with a flourish. She takes it, our fingers almost brushing, and that almost-touch hangs in the air between us.

Before I can see if she likes it, shouts erupt from the other end of the bar.

“Jack! Wings and beers, man - we're dying over here!”

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