Page 1 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Groom

Chapter 1

APRIL

Iwipe down the polished pine bar for what must be the hundredth time tonight, more out of habit than necessity. The scent of the homemade vinegar and lemon polish that our cook Freda makes and swears is better than anything you can get in the store mingles with stale beer and the ghost of someone's overpriced cologne. Tuesday nights at Lola's are usually quiet, but tonight we’re unusually busy.

The neon beer signs cast their perpetual green and blue glow across the room, painting everything in dusky twilight colors even though it's barely seven. Evening comes early during winter in this small mountain town. A few regulars are scattered around. Old Jim on his usual stool at the end of the bar, nursing his usual whiskey neat. A couple of students from the community college, sharing a pitcher of cheap draft beer. Some long-haulers grabbing dinner, before they head to the truck stop a few miles up the highway and bed down in their cabs for the night.

Iris approaches the bar, her order pad stuck in the front pocket of her black apron. She grew up in this town and has been working at Lola’s for several years. I’ve been here only six months, but we've developed the friendship that comes fromsharing too many late nights and crazy customer stories. Her red curly hair is fighting to escape its ponytail, and there's a slight smudge of mascara under her right eye.

"April," she says, leaning against the bar, "remind me why I thought waiting tables was better than finishing my degree?"

I grab a glass and start making her usual shift drink, cranberry juice with a splash of soda water. She says it’s a miracle cocktail because the bubbles makes you feel full, the water hydrates you, and the cranberries ward off UTIs. "Because you said if you had to read one more academic paper about post-modern feminist theory in Victorian literature, you were going to throw yourself into the river?"

She accepts the drink with a grateful nod. "Oh yeah, that's right. Though right now, table eight is making me reconsider my life choices. They've sent back their Mojitos because they're 'not authentic enough.' Like they've ever been to Cuba."

I glance over at table eight and see four women in what I would call teacher dresses. Modest and well fitted, but allowing for easy movement. The women are probably attending an educational training seminar hosted at the community college. "Well, in this next batch I’ll add some extra authenticity, free of charge." I didn’t make the women’s first round of drinks. That was done by our other bartender, Liam, who’s just finished his shift. And he makes a mean Mojito, so I’m not sure why the teacher ladies are complaining.

"Please," Iris rolls her eyes. "Maybe you can explain to them that mint leaves aren't supposed to look Instagram-perfect after they've been properly muddled."

While I prepare the Mojitos, a new customer slides onto a barstool. He's wearing a leather jacket and has that eager look that usually means he's going to attempt to impress me with his extensive knowledge of craft beer, despite that our most exotic offering is Stella Artois. Now that skiing season has started, ourtown gets a lot of people like this guy who think they can impress a local girl because they’re “from the city.”

Never mind that I’m not local and that I spent most of my life living in Chicago. But that’s not something I share with people here, or anywhere.

"What can I get you?" I ask, not pausing in my Mojito preparation.

"What's good here?" He leans forward, and I catch a whiff of that same cologne that's been lingering in the air all evening.

"Everything," I reply with practiced cheerfulness. "But be more specific."

Iris snorts softly beside me, pretending to organize her receipt book. The leather jacket guy doesn't notice.

"I'm thinking something special," he says. "Something unique. You know, I have some drink-mixing experience.”

I share a quick glance with Iris, who mouths "five minutes" behind his back. Our usual bet on how long it'll take before he mentions that he once took a mixology course.

"Our house Old Fashioned is popular," I suggest, knowing he'll dismiss it in favor of something more obscure.

"Nah, too basic. How about..." he pauses for effect, "a Sazerac?"

I nod, already reaching for the rye whiskey. It's always either a Sazerac or a Negroni with these guys. Behind him, Iris holds up three fingers, then points to her watch. We got three more minutes until the mixology course mention will happen.

While I prepare his drink, the students wave for another pitcher. I signal that I'll be right with them, handling three tasks at once with the fluid efficiency that becomes second nature after years behind a bar. My parents made good money, so I didn’t have to work growing up. But my uncle Nathan owned a bar and a teenage girl can never have enough money. So I spent most of high school mixing drinks, well before I was old enoughto drink them myself. And then when the bad thing happened, and I had to leave town, I was really glad for the skills I’d built while working for my uncle. Being a bartender is the perfect job when you need to be paid in cash and might have to leave town quickly.

But I don’t want to think about that because I really like Fir Hollows and its people. I want to stay here for quite a while, but that’s not up to me.

I banish the distressing thoughts and concentrate on the Mojitos I’m making. The ice clicks against glass, liquor flows, mint leaves are muddled (authentically, thank you very much), and somewhere in the background, the jukebox switches from Fleetwood Mac to Tom Petty.

"You know," the leather jacket guy says, right on cue, "when I took that mixology course in San Francisco..."

Iris silently pumps her fist in victory, and I make a mental note that I owe her a coffee. She gathers up the Mojitos on her tray, each glass garnished with fresh mint and a lime wheel. "Try to contain your excitement about table eight's reaction," she whispers as she passes.

The leather jacket guy watches me make his Sazerac. Thankfully, he’s not giving me tips on how to perfect it. “So,” he says when I slide the glass across the bar to him and take his credit card to run up the sale, “what time do you finish your shift?”

Inwardly, I sigh, but paste a fake smile on my face. “It’s a long one tonight.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

I shake my head. “I have a boyfriend.” Technically, I’m not lying since I have friends, okay, I know people who are boys, well, men. And I hate that claiming to belong to another man is more a deterrent than just a simple “no.” But I’m not up for the back and forth that happens when I simply decline. Why domen think that when a woman says “no,” it’s the beginning of a negotiation?

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