Page 1 of Riding the High

PROLOGUE

Ginger

May, three years ago

“Ithink I want two pizzas. Extra pepperoni.” The voice I know almost as well as my own sounds from behind me.

I roll my eyes, take a deep breath and turn to face the other side of the bar. “Good—whenyoucall to order it, you can let them know.” I toss him a cutesy kind of grin. “Just don’t forget my bacon and pineapple whenyouorder forme, Law Daddy.”

Fucking Yankees fans. And in particular, themostannoying Yankee fan there is. Cole Ashby.

His wide eyes stay on mine, as he sips his beer, their deep amber flecks pulling me in. He’s the only Ashby with those eyes and I don’t know where they came from—but damn, they anchor me every time their focus is on me. I watch him push the sleeves of his flannel shirt up with large, sculpted hands, showcasing a little more ink on his left arm than the last time I saw him.

He sets his beer down and leans over the bar, drumming his fingers against it, and gives me the same smirk he’s been giving me for years, the one that makes my knees go a little weak.Get your shit together, Danforth.

I mentally berate myself for falling victim to his charm so easily. Every single time.

“I think we both knowIwon’t be the one ordering.” His deep baritone is clear, even in the noisy bar.

I do my best to brush him off, but I am a woman, and there are times when that intense stare turns me into temporary mush. I’ve given up trying to fight it.

“Let’s just get through the first inning before you start shit-talking.” I turn away to break his hold on me and help my next customer, wishing it was busier so I could avoid Cole altogether.

I hear Cole chuckle from behind me as if he knows my team will be fucked from the first pitch, before he heads back over to the table he’s been sitting at with a coworker.

He’s so damn cocky, so damn sure his Yanks have us beat. But I guess, most of the time, they do. I’m used to my team losing to the Yankees, because I’m a tried-and-true Cincinnati Reds fan, though not really by choice. It’s simply ingrained in me.

My first solid memory is eating nachos with my grandfather at a Reds game when I was six. My grandad is no longer earthside, but he’s still the best man I’ve ever known, and the only man who’s never let me down. My mother didn’t inherit his love for the game, so he passed his passion to me. Sadly, these days the Reds don’t play quite as well as they used to so it sets me up to suffer.

An hour later, the bar is bustling and my Reds are, in fact, losing by three runs. It’s not late enough in the game for Cole to gloat, but late enough that when he returns for another beer, I question why I put myself through this with him for the sake of tradition. We’ve been doing this since my second year of college, when we both ended up at the Horse and Barrel the weekend our teams played each other. I had to open my big mouth about a shitty play the Yankees made, saying we could beat them with our eyes closed. Cole just looked at me with that frustrating smirk, then said, “Wanna bet?”

That was four years ago, and every year I come back like asucker believing my Reds will pull through. I’ve only won the honor of paid-for pizzaonce.

I look over at Emma, my coworker, and gesture for her to serve Cole when he saunters back up. I’m not in the mood to listen to him. She grins and tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder as she goes. Even from the other side of the bar, I can feel his smug attitude.

“Avoid me all you want, Vixen. Won’t change the outcome of the game,” he calls out, loud enough to grate on my nerves.

“We’ll see,” I retort without looking up at him. I’m laser-focused on cleaning the draft tap, but after a few minutes I can still feel his smug grin and I can’t help but try to put him in his place, setting down my cloth and pointing at him.

“And I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not avoiding you. It’s not all about you, Deputy. Truth is, I’ve simply dealt with enough children today. Had my fill, ya know?”

Cole raises his fresh beer, chuckles and nods at me like he knows he’s getting to me, before leaning forward to talk to Emma. I roll my eyes in response.

I reallyamtoo exhausted to deal with Cole’s antics. Today was the last day of school, marking the end of my first year as a teacher at our local high school. I’d love to say I’m sad to see the school year end, but that would be a lie.

I need this summer break. Shaping young minds all day, every day, maintaining a relatable vibeandkeeping teenagers engaged is damn hard work. Toss in the fact you’re expected to make them learn something? Nearly impossible.

Sitting by my parents’ pool by day and making as much extra cash as I can at this “seedy bar” side job my dad lectures me about sounds pretty good right about now. No matter how much he warns me about getting into trouble here, I’m not giving it up. Rocco Pressley is a great boss, and the tips are excellent.

I flick my eyes to Emma’s as she makes her way back over to me and grabs a clean glass for filling.

“He said—and I quote—he’ll be back. And don’t feel bad, Ginger, it’s not your fault you always pick the losing team.”

I want to smack him. Emma senses my annoyance and starts to laugh.

“I don’t knowhowyou’re friends with him.”

“I know, he’s damn frustrating,” I retort.

---