Morgan
Rory—five-foot-something of black leather, resting bitch face, and an ass so gorgeous I’ve cried just thinking about it—walks into my bar. She ignores the clang of the cowbell over the door and the cheers of the tipsy grannies in the corner and beelines for a stool at the counter.
“Good lord, put that away.” Shielding his eyes from my megawatt smile is my best friend and boss at On the Rocks, Hunter Price. “You’re gonna get someone pregnant with that thing. Maybe even me.”
I ignore him and slide over to where Rory’s taken a seat. Her matte-black motorcycle helmet sits on the bar next to her. “What would you like, my queen?”
Rory presses her lips together, rolling them under her teeth before answering. I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s to hold back a smile. She has never once protested against my nickname for her and that’s how I know she fucking loves it.
“The usual.”
“So a Call of the Wild IPA, loaded tots, and my undying adoration. Got it.”
I turn around and slide open the cooler, pretending to look for a bottle of the local craft beer. What I’m actually doing is watching Rory in the mirror behind the bar. Today, like every time she comes in, her long dark hair is in two braids, tucked back with a handkerchief over her head. Her lips, plush with a Cupid’s bow now that they’ve released from her teeth, are a lush red, a contrast to her pale skin. She finishes rolling her eyes and—to my complete satisfaction—her gaze drops to my ass.
These jeans are her favorite—I wore them just for her. Not that she’s admitted it. But they are my tightest ones, and in my loose scientific experiments, these are the ones that make Rory stare the most.
I quit lollygagging and pull the beer out, rip the cap off, and set it in front of Rory. Ten seconds later I’ve sent the order into the kitchen for the tots and I return to her, propping my chin on my fists and grinning at her.
Movement catches my eye. Hunter’s getting up, shaking his head at me and rolling his eyes.
He gives me a look that roughly translates to you are incorrigible and I love you anyway and wanders off, probably to play pool in the back.
“So, Rory. Back in town for your spa day?”
She scoffs.
“Therapy appointment?”
“Nope.” She pops the P.
I think for a minute. “Fire marshal training.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me.
“I’ll take that as a no. So when are you going to tell me what it is that brings you into town every other week?”
Rory doesn’t live here, pun intended. The town of Here, New York, has roughly two thousand Herevians and Rory’s not one of them. I would have bumped into her somewhere else by now. Instead, for the past two months, the only time I’ve seen her has been every other Sunday around 6 p.m.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” she says.
I’m honestly not sure whether that’s true or she just likes keeping a secret from me.
The front door opens again, that cowbell above it clanging, and the old ladies in the back shout “I need more cowbell.” Actually, it’s just Janet Mullins who shouts it. The septuagenarian has a collection of pop references over the years that she can’t let go of and the SNL skit is one of her favorites. Of course, this starts a fight with Mrs. Gardiner sitting next to her, who abhors anything the younger generations once thought was cool.
“Hey, Morgan.” The cowbell ringer is Heather, a voluptuous blonde I may have hooked up with once or three times. Now she’s married with a kid.
Small towns, ya know?
Still, Heather smiles at me and I give her a friendly one back. “You want a Sam Adams?” I ask.
“Nah, Collin’s got one for me.”
“Shout if you need more.”
“Will do,” she calls over her shoulder, walking toward the end of the bar where a group is gathered.
I watch her go. Collin ordered a bucket of brews, sure, but there’s a big crowd down there and they might be all gone.
Heather’s just about to reach Collin, to give him the usual kiss on the cheek, when Rory says, “So, next month—”
My head whips around faster than a hunting dog hearing a whistle. “Excuse me, did you just initiate a conversation with me?”
Rory’s cheeks are pink, and instead of answering she takes a swig of her beer and averts her eyes.
I put a hand to my chest. “Oh my god, why are you so obsessed with me?”
Rory chokes, coughs, and when she regains her composure, insists, “I am not obsessed with you.”
“Please. You come all the way out here—”
“It’s on my way—”
“—to visit our little Podunk bar.”
“You carry my favorite beer.”
“So does the Kinnara restaurant in town—”
“Their beer isn’t cold enough.”
“—and Schmidt’s pool hall.”
“It’s full of grouchy old men!”
“You always sit right here at the bar so you can talk to me—”
“Your fake leather booths suck.”
I lean against the bar to deliver my final point. “And really, Rory, you can’t keep your eyes off of me.”
Rory opens her mouth to argue but the cowbell rings again. I glance over and grin.
It’s my other boss, Kit Hutchinson, wearing a cowboy hat. He doesn’t normally come in on Sundays, since it’s his busiest day of the week, but he’s got a special delivery for me.
“Hey man,” I say as he slides onto a barstool. I reach across the bar and we do a complicated handshake. It’s mostly by rote memory now, but there’s palm slapping, knuckle grinding, and pinkie wrestling.
I’d teach it to you, but it’s top secret.
When we finally break, I dig out a beer for Kit and he glances over at Rory.
Then he does a double take.
“Wait, is this her?”
I lean back against the cooler and cross my arms, grinning.
“Me?” Rory’s eyes widen.
“Are you Rory?”
She nods.
“Morgan talks about you all the time. When are you gonna put him out of his misery and go on a date?”
Rory turns to glare at me. I just grin wider and flex. Rory’s gaze drops down. My flannel sleeves are rolled up and I’m showing off grade-A forearm porn.
I pay attention to TikTok.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to your foreplay. Here.” Kit stands, takes the cowboy hat off, and offers it to me. I duck down and he settles it onto my head.
“Cowboys tomorrow?”
“Cowboys tomorrow,” Kit confirms. “See you at ten.” He heads toward the back to see Hunter, and the two of them do our handshake, but it’s the full-body version that ends in a big long hug. Like, so long it often turns into a slow dance when there’s music playing. Kit’s an exceptionally good hugger, and I don’t think he ever pulls away first.
“Lemme guess,” Rory says after I return my attention to her. Her voice has a nice low rumble that I like. The kind of voice romantics say sounds like whiskey and smoke.
Who me? You think I’m a romantic?
It’s gettin’ there.
“He’s your BFF.” She takes on a higher-pitched, mocking voice.
Aw. She’s so cute.
“Since elementary school,” I confirm. “Used to pass notes and play pranks and generally get into trouble together. Still do.”
“Oh. Em. Gee,” she deadpans. “You rebel. Serious troublemaker with that cowboy hat on.”
“Hey.” I lean forward, holding her gaze and pointing at the hat. “I get paid to wear this hat. Kit’s my boss too.”
Rory screws up her mouth and looks around. On the Rocks is the only part of Sirens Valley Lodge Ski Resort that’s open all year round. “He owns this place? And I’ve never seen you wear a cowboy hat to bartend before.”
“No. That’s my other boss, Hunter, the GM of Sirens. Kit’s the boss at my second job.”
“What’s your other job? Rodeo clown?”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea.” I rub my chin. “All those masked men thirst traps on socials. I bet there are some people that have a clown kink.”
Rory’s eyes unfocus for a bit and then snap back to me. “What then?”
I grin. “Well, I’ll give you a hint.”
I walk to the end of the bar and fiddle with my phone, changing the music to something genre-appropriate.
And then, I start to take my clothes off.