Cross would rather snip one of his nuts off than be a lapdog digging around in the criminal world for an entitled man, no matter how much money was dangled. His mother had done her best to raise him right. And Sam Wilder had been an exacting man. Hard. But honest.
It was embarrassing to admit to himself he’d felt invested in the woman who shone like the sun’s happiness. He’d thought the major was a tool, but he’d wanted the woman to have her man, her comfortable life being adored and her child a father, a family and a legacy.
But now he realized what his naïve hope that true love existed had cost. Jace had lost his life. His family would never have him home. The brothers had lost their best friend. All the people on Jace’s list were never going to be able to look him in the eye and forgive him or welcome him back into their lives. His sacrifices had meant nothing. True love. Cross wanted to smack his fist in the major’s smug face.
So what should he do now?
Cross’s agile brain kicked up one plan after the other, but he still felt hollowed from the shock of seeing the woman who’d taken root in his imagination even when he tried to rip her out. The sun had become an impossible-to-acquire ideal—beauty, kindness, loyalty, love. And now the dream had morphed into a nightmare of another life wasted. Just like his mother’s and his sister’s.
Had the former major played him for a sucker? Possibly. Was the sun a deceptive thief? Maybe. Was someone or something operating behind the scenes orchestrating the “coincidence” that Cross would have two tasks he needed to carry out in Marietta before he went off-grid?
Cross and his team had made many enemies around the world, but they were beyond top secret. All of them were ghosts. Coincidences raised his suspicions, and his instincts blared. His brothers were all going to be arriving in Marietta over the next six months or more. Cross needed to ensure they’d all be safe when they arrived.
He watched the sun shine behind the bar, mixing different cocktails, chatting with the staff and customers seated at the bar. She seemed to know everyone, charming them all, and Cross was forced to accept that this detour had not been wasted. It was another lesson. He would not be escaping Marietta as quickly as he’d planned.
*
Shane Knight poured out the six cosmos and added alternating fresh raspberries, blueberries and a slice of a peach to each penis-shaped toothpick that the maid of honor had proudly provided. Shane had tended bar for several years of college and grad school. She’d thought she’d left her shaker and encyclopedic knowledge of alcohol behind when she’d entered her profession as a therapist, but after she’d flamed out at twenty-eight, she’d picked herself up, driven west and returned to the psychological safety and creativity she’d always found behind the bar.
She’d thought she’d seen it all. It wasn’t that the penis toothpicks were particularly shocking, but they’d better fit the vibe of Grey’s Saloon though she was confident though that there weren’t many women who’d be brave enough to hand owner Jason Grey a pink box of penis-shaped toothpicks to use for cosmo garnishes.
“Apparently I am not intimidating,” she muttered, traying the drinks to carry over to the table, since both servers were busy.
Shane handed out the drinks, covertly checking the bridesmaids’ level of intoxication. She knew they were staying in the hotel, but in case they had plans of driving anywhere tonight, she’d warned the valet, Joseph, to check in with her before handing over any keys.
“Do you want to play a game with us?” asked a petite, busty blonde with sparkling brown eyes, who’d returned after striking out with some mountain of a man, who’d stood stoically in the shadows just inside the bar’s entrance.
“Yes, play,” the bride-to-be sang out. “You must have a lot of experience with men.” The women cheered and toasted with their cocktails. “The game is about how to find your soul mate. It’s a party game, but it’s based on science. The game maker has a PhD in psychology and a podcast.”
“Compelling.” Shane smiled, bored already. She didn’t play games—especially at work and definitely never relationship games using artistic tarot-looking cards. The women had been drawing cards for a while and had seemed highly engaged and amused, even the bride who one would assume had already found her soul mate.
“I was going to suggest some food,” Shane encouraged. “Ranch-spiced cauliflower? Rodeo tater tots? Cowboy nachos?” The appetizers weren’t normally called that, but the rodeo was less than a month away, and since Marietta relied increasingly on tourism, the chamber of commerce and downtown associations teamed up early and hit the promotions hard.
“Nachos with the cowboy,” the bride shrieked.
“And the rodeo tater tots with a side of cowboy,” the busty blonde maid of honor fist-bumped the bride, who giggled as if her bestie had said something hysterical.
The maid of honor didn’t seem too discouraged by her shutdown earlier, but her eyes continued to stray to the entrance of the bar as if looking for the man. Shane blinked. It looked as if he’d melted into the gleaming dark paneling at the entrance. Her curiosity spiked. Hard for a man that large to disappear.
Nope. She shut her curiosity down harder than the maid of honor had been earlier.
“Maybe we should get all three,” the bride said. “We need our veggies.”
Everyone laughed and they all toasted. Then the bride stood. “I’m going to see if Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome and Broody will join us.”
For a moment, she wobbled but took a fortifying sip of her cosmo. Shane made a note to fast-track the food and push sparkling water. She’d even impale more fruit on the penis toothpicks and jam them in the bubbling water.
The maid of honor also stood, clutching the bride’s arm. “We’ll double-team him. He won’t say no to me twice.”
“Appies coming up,” Shane said, turning away, not wanting to see the poor girl get shut down twice by the same man. His body language screamed ‘move on.’
Riley Telford, a local cowgirl, who’d tried her luck in an LA band and had slunk home a couple of years ago, returned from her break, picked up her guitar, plugged it back into her amp, and sat down on the stool Shane had placed for her.
“Another water with honey and ginger?” Shane switched directions to ask. “Or are you ready for me to start brewing tea?”
Riley paused, tuning her guitar. “Water, but tea at the end of this set.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks, Shane. You going to ride rescue for the lost hottie?” Riley indicated the man who was leaning against the wall, not even looking at the two women talking to him.
Shane’s mouth dried. He was looking at her. And how.
“He doesn’t need rescuing,” she stated. Shane’s father, a former LA fire marshal, had taught her to read a man and a room by puberty. “The only rescues I stage now are when I foster dogs for Whiskers and Paws.”
“He’s gorgeous and looks like all kinds of bad news.” Riley’s slightly husky voice, which was so compelling when she sang, ached with longing.
“Don’t do it,” Shane advised. And then she made the mistake of looking back in his direction.
His charcoal stare was fixed on her, and she felt as if he could touch her soul, but instead of feeling threatened, she was intrigued. Who was he? Why was he here? But her days of reaching out or offering rescue were so far in her past she didn’t want to remember them. If only she could time-travel and return to slap some sense into her silly, arrogant, early twenties heart.