Chapter Two
Beneath the awning of Mr. Lucky’s Pub, Tristan Casanova shivered despite the added layer of long johns under his jeans. Without sunshine, the afternoon felt colder than the predicted fifty-five degrees. Had he paid attention to the weather report, he would have hopped in his buddy’s truck rather than ride his Harley into town.
Good thing the St. Paddy’s parade down Main Street finished in the nick of time. As soon as the Scenic View High School marching band’s music faded, the gray sky opened and the wind whipped the rain sideways, sending everyone running for cover.
Instead of following the crowd toward the firehouse for corned beef, cabbage, and non-alcoholic family-friendly fun, Tristan grabbed the door handle to the bar, seeking some adult beverages.
“Where you goin’?” Nick caught Tristan’s elbow. “Aren’t you comin’ with us?” His other hand wrapped around his new bride’s shoulder. Between Nick’s big frame and Lily’s flaming red hair, they looked like King Kong and Little Orphan Annie.
“Nah.” Tristan waved away the invitation.
“Let him go, Nick,” Lily said. “He’d rather have fun with the big boys.”
“What’re you talkin’ about? We always have fun together.” Nick frowned, torn between his woman and best friend.
“I’ll catch up with you two later.” Tristan scratched the itch under his beard. As much as he wanted his buddy’s company, Nick was a recovering alcoholic and his wife wanted to keep it that way. Plus they were in the honeymoon phase, while Tristan was still wrapping his mind around the healing stage of his recent divorce from the woman he could never make happy.
“Well, don’t get too hung over. I’m picking you up for work tomorrow. Early.” Nick pulled off his leather jacket to cover Lily’s head before the lovebirds raced down the sidewalk.
Tristan watched them splash through puddles while he huddled against the brick wall to light a cigarette with a few other committed smokers. He tucked the Zippo back into his jacket pocket as he took a long drag, flicked away the ash, then studied the hypnotic glow of the cherry-red tip. He’d always been able to quit whenever the thought crossed his mind, but it had been harder than usual since the divorce. He took another drag and held it, savoring the moment in case it was his last, before exhaling with a slow, methodical hum.
Seeing Nick happily remarried after so many years of being a devout divorcee gave Tristan a glimmer of hope that love could be found the second time around. It wasn’t a need-to-have, but it sure would be nice to have someone willing to fill the empty space in his bed. Someday.
His best friend wasn’t the only one lucky in newfound love, Tristan’s ex-wife Stacy had a new boy-toy. The one good thing to come out of that hellish union was their daughter Nicole. Damn, he loved his little Niblet like crazy. Could hardly wait for his turn to see her.
Finding a good woman who didn’t mind a man with a kid wasn’t going to be easy. But nothing that’s worth having ever comes easy. And tasting like an ashtray wouldn’t do anything to help his cause, so he snuffed out the butt in the sand bucket beside the door before going inside.
The sort of woman he needed to find in the immediate future was a qualified housekeeper who could do double duty as a reliable backup childcare provider. Putting Nicole in daycare was one thing, however finding a nanny to handle the everyday chores, fix healthy meals, and not screw up the laundry would simplify his complicated life. He wanted his daughter’s transition to be a seamless switch after living with her mother for six months straight, to moving into his place for the other half of the year. Things would change when the toddler was old enough for public school, but this was the arrangement Stacy suggested so he had to be ready before June rolled around.
The kicker to making this grand plan work included Tristan coasting along on terminal leave from the police force, using time he’d accrued during nineteen years on the job. Hanging with Nick until the end of the summer lessened the stress of his collapsing life, but once the dust settled from the whirlwind divorce, he’d return to Star Harbor and go back to work, putting off retirement for a few more years. Wouldn’t that be a unique way to piss off Stacy, knowing she was banking on collecting half his pension as part of the divorce agreement.
Or he could grow old in Scenic View and let Stacy win.
Nothing was set in stone.
For now he was content swinging a hammer for Nick’s multifaceted property development business.
After completing the first project of renovating a Cape Cod cottage, Nick let Tristan move into it, rent-free; a clever ploy to entice Tristan to stay. As cozy as the place was, there was no sense getting attached to anything around here, despite Nick’s best efforts. Nicole already had a routine at her familiar daycare center in Star Harbor. Scenic View was just a pretty little pit stop on the winding road of life, to collect his thoughts, regroup, refocus.
Then again, at least here Tristan had his best friend’s moral support. As fortunate as he was to have Nick in his life, it was tough not to be envious of the guy. Besides finding a good woman, the man became the sole beneficiary of a million-dollar windfall from some long-lost relative, while Tristan watched his lifetime of hard work slip through his fingers and into his ex-wife’s pocketbook. How is that fair?
Mr. Lucky’s loud crowd was just the sort of mind eraser he needed to escape his troubles.
Tristan slid onto the last empty stool at the end of the bar and laid a hundred-dollar bill on the glossy wood to catch the bartender’s eye. He’d need a quick buzz before opening the envelope from the attorney.
“Jack and Coke, please. Two.” He gestured with his fingers, making certain his order was clear over the Irish guitar ballad vibrating from an amplifier across the room. The thickening mob already stood two-deep at the bar, so once his first round arrived he pushed the money forward and said, “Keep ’em comin’.”
After tossing down the first cocktail, he milked the other.
By the fifth drink, his scalp began to tingle. Still it was too soon to tell if he was high enough to read the letter burning a hole in the breast pocket of his denim jacket.
Maybe the news wouldn’t be as bad as he suspected. Yeah, right.
Maybe if he got lucky he’d catch a glimpse of the woman he saw here yesterday—tall and elegant, with an angelic profile, multi-tonal streaks of blonde hair and dark roots, reminiscent of a sunflower. Kind of made him sorry he didn’t accept Cal’s offer to work just to get to know her better.
Geez… Who’m I kiddin’. He hadn’t hit on a girl in so long, not since dating Stacy, he’d forgotten how.
When Tristan caught sight of the glorious vision in a tight green Mr. Lucky’s Pub tank top, his heart sped up, pumping all the blood to his crotch—it’s her. His eyes honed in on the waitress’ cleavage as he squinted to read the nametag pinned on her chest. JOY.
Joy. A pretty name for a pretty girl. A perfect name for a sunflower.
Between the booze and her boobs, Tristan felt pretty damn good, he didn’t want to risk making a fool of himself by talking to her. Instead, he watched her dart from table to table with a confused smile. She disappeared behind the swinging door to the kitchen and emerged with a steaming aluminum tray, carrying it toward the buffet station along the back wall.
“Hot stuff coming through,” she shouted to bodies in her path.
Hot stuff is right. Tristan slammed the cocktail and chewed an ice chip that got sucked up in the flow. With a fascinating face and curves that didn’t quit, Joy was hot stuff for sure.
Then she dropped it…
The guitarist stopped mid-song to announce, “Let’s hear it for Joy and her slippery fingers,” which made everyone in the joint applaud and laugh while she buried her face in the oven mitts.
Cal rushed to the scene with two bar-backs to pick up the mess. “Just have a seat, darlin’.” He nudged her onto the vacated barstool beside Tristan. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first one to dump a full tray of Buffalo wings. And you won’t be the last. Let’s hope it’s the only tray today. It’s my fault for starting you too soon. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Sorry, Cal.” She grabbed a napkin to dab her eyes and swipe her nose.
“Don’t be. Lemme go check on the cleanup. Relax and have a drink. You can watch how things move and groove around here. This guy’ll keep you company. Joy Barbieri meet Tristan Casanova.”
Joy twisted her lips in a doubtful grin and flashed her lashes between Cal and Tristan. “Your name’s really Casanova?”
“Don’t let it fool ya. Technically, it means new house in Italian. Which makes sense I guess being I’m a carpenter. I assure you I’m no playboy.” Tristan wanted to smack himself in the forehead for letting the alcohol do the talking.
Joy nodded, seeming to take it all in. “Good to know.”
“Keep an eye on her, will ya, Casanova.” Cal patted Tristan on the back before stepping away.
No need to ask twice. Tristan hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.
Yesterday’s wavy hairdo was straightened and pulled off her oval face into a sleek ponytail at the nape of her slender neck, showing off thin silver hoop earrings as big as bracelets. Her sun-kissed shoulders tempted to be touched but he kept his hands to himself. Lean biceps looked like she worked out. Made him want to crush the pack of smokes in his pocket and do some push-ups. Anxious manicured fingers shredded the napkin to smithereens on the bar.
“Just call me Tristan.” Scratching his furry chin, recalling the standard come-ons that never worked in his experience, he decided to play the safe route of being a decent person and slid one of his stockpiled cocktails toward her. “Here—the bartenders are busy so it might be a while—have one of my Jack and Cokes. And don’t worry, I didn’t spike it or anything. Not that you would think I did. I’ve been a cop for so long I figure everyone has a mind as suspicious as mine,” he rambled low over the wailing guitar solo and doubted she heard a word, but didn’t bother repeating the unnecessary warning.
Her weak smile reached her sparkling sea-green eyes then grew a little wider. He could swear she was blushing or maybe still flushed from the embarrassment of dropping the tray. Either way Tristan could’ve stared at her all day.
She leaned closer to say, “Thanks,” over the din.
Her feather-light voice tickled his eardrum then spread through his system until it reached his groin, making him moan in glorious agony. “My pleasure,” he said between clenched teeth.
Joy lifted the glass to sip from the narrow stirrer-straw and winced.
“Too strong?” Tristan gulped a mouthful, immune to the potent flavor.
She shook her head, scenting the stale air with strawberries and sunshine from her wagging ponytail. “I prefer my drinks strong. Like my men.”
Tristan might’ve fallen off the stool if one boot wasn’t planted on the floor. Either she was coming on to him or trying to be funny. Without a clever comeback, he chugged his cocktail instead. “Cal looks like a pretty strong guy.”
“Cal?” She cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “What’s he have to do with this conversation?”
“He’s your boyfriend, right?” Playing dumb came easy when a pretty woman got him this hard, he could hardly sit right.
“Where’d you hear that crazy rumor?”
Relieved to be wrong for a change, he shrugged. “I didn’t. I made it up.”
“If you’re gonna lie about me, at least give me a happy ending with a single guy.”
“I just figured. I mean, I knew Cal had a girlfriend. I thought you must be her by the way he talks to you and all.”
“The only reason he treats me like anything other than a piece of ass is because he knows my folks forever.”
Good to know. Tristan nodded, taking it all in. Damn good to know.
The bartender delivered two more drinks and Tristan pushed another one toward Joy. Feeling a little bolder with some help from his friend Jack, he slid his stool closer, confirming the delicious fragrance was all hers. Yep, sun-ripened strawberries, all right. His stomach growled, and he quieted it quick by tearing a piece off the loaf of soda bread in the basket on the bar and stuffing it in his mouth. “Wanna piece?”
“Eeuuw. Are those raisins in there?” Joy wrinkled her nose at the dark clumps in the offering. “No, thanks.”
“How about a bite from the buffet?”
“There’s nothing up there I can eat. I’m an ovo-lacto-pescetarian.”
Tristan strained to hear over the crowd singing I’m looking over a four-leaf clover in unison. “What’s an octo Presbyterian?”
“No. I said ovo. Lacto. Pescetarian. Like a vegetarian, except I eat fish, eggs, milk, and honey.”
“Wow. I never met one before.”
“Really? I’m surprised.” She swirled the straw in her glass. “It’s not so rare. And it’s not as strict as vegan law.”
“Still, it’s gotta take a lot of discipline.”
“Yeah. It does. I can’t ignore the smell of bacon. Makes me crazy. Like a shark sniffing blood.”
“Bacon makes me crazy too.” Tristan sighed, wishing for a plate of it, with eggs over easy. Hash browns would also be good right about now. Corned beef and cabbage wasn’t going to cut it. And Buffalo wings were too messy to eat in front of the girl he wanted to impress. “You from around here?” It was the best segue he could think of without a game plan.
“Mmm, you can say that. I’ve been living in Florida since I was eighteen.” She tapped her fingernails rhythmically on the bar.
“Staying in town long?”
“I think so. Most likely. If things work out.” She gazed at him sideways. “You’re new to Scenic View, aren’t you?”
“How can you tell?”
“For starters, you’re not hanging with the village idiots.” She jutted her chin in the direction of the fools doing a drunken Irish jig on the dance floor.
“I’ve been here since the middle of January.”
Joy picked up her glass and clinked it against his. “Well, lotsa luck o’ the Irish to you.”
“To you as well.”
Since arriving to this close-knit harbor-side town, Tristan hadn’t clicked with anyone other than Nick, who didn’t count since they were already best buddies. He never expected to meet someone special, in a dive bar of all places, but that’s what Joy was. His gut told him she was different—unless it was just the hunger pangs talking, but he didn’t think so—with her easy conversation and the way her bright eyes focused on him as if he were the only person in the whole room. The last thing he wanted to do was something irreparably stupid in her presence. So he played the game conservatively and let her call the shots.
The bartender brought another round, and Tristan pushed them both in Joy’s direction while he switched to seltzer with lime.
When the guitarist whistled the first few notes of the next tune, she squealed, “Oh my gawd, this is my jam,” in a Long Island accent as thick as Nick’s wife’s. Maybe it had something to do with the alcohol that caused her to hop off the stool and drag Tristan to the dance floor for the acoustic version of “Moves like Jagger”—moves Tristan did not have, but he didn’t resist.
While he swayed with his thumbs hanging from his belt loops, Joy spun in circles, waved her arms in the air, wiggled her bottom clad in black fitted yoga pants, looking hotter than any MTV video-girl he’d seen in the last two decades.
Everyone was watching her, but her gaze was locked on him as she mouthed the words, “Look into my eyes and I’ll own you…”
And that’s what happened.
Tristan’s heart flipped. In that moment he knew Joy was no ordinary girl. He’d been buzzed by booze and broads before but it never felt like this. Frantic yet fantastic. Helpless but in total control. Like free falling off the razor’s edge in a sweet dream; he didn’t want to wake up.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to hit rock-bottom. He’d been there, done that with Stacy, and wasn’t doing it again no matter how tempting Joy might be. Even if he got a second shot at true love, could he trust the odds of finding it here and now in Mr. Lucky’s?
Am I nuts? I must be. To consider falling for a woman he just met.
Why couldn’t he enjoy the moment? He damn well deserved to have a good time like every other hard-working, red-blooded American man, and stop talking himself out of things that hadn’t even happened. Yet.
Watching her dance moves did something strange to him that made him choke his conscience, stifling the incessant wise voice. His feet stepped further apart as he rocked side to side until he was spinning her in his arms. He could do this forever…
After an hour on the dance floor and a few more high-octane cocktails, Joy gasped, “Let’s get outta here.”
“Don’t you wanna tell Cal you’re leaving?”
“Nuh-uh. I’m gonna be sick.” She dashed toward the backdoor, pinballing off the bodies in the way of her Irish exit.
Tristan trailed her to the parking lot where the wet blast of damp air was an instant buzz-kill.
To keep her out of view, he guided her toward a dark corner beside the dumpster to power-puke in semi-private. Holding her ponytail from falling in her face was the least he could do considering those were his drinks that got her this hammered.
“Let it out.” He rubbed figure-eights on her back hoping to soothe the agonizing upheavals. “Don’t worry. No one’s watching,” he lied as a dozen people stumbled out the same door, snickering and pointing at Joy retching. When she stopped upchucking, he said, “I think I oughta take you home now.”
She stopped short under the lamppost. “No—I don’t want my folks to see me like this.”
“Wanna come back to my place then?” Tristan lit up a much-needed cigarette, took a couple of drags while she contemplated an answer, then snuffed out the cherry-tip between his thumb and forefinger, and stuck the butt in his jacket pocket to dispose in a trashcan later.
“I dunno,” she slurred, swiping the spittle from her lips with her bare forearm. Her eyes were wet slits, leaking streaks of muddy mascara down her cheeks, and her golden complexion faded to a faint shade of ivory. Despite her wilted condition, she was still pretty.
“Come on. Just for a little while. You can clean up. Lie down until you feel better. Then go home after you sober up. I promise nothing’ll happen.” The last detail he added to ease his own mind as much as hers.
Holding her head between her hands, she said, “Yeah. I guess. Okay. If you really don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Thing is, I got here on my motorcycle. We’ll have to take your car if you’re okay with me driving. Otherwise I’ll call a cab.”
Joy’s head bobbed in an awkward headshake. “It’s parked on Main Street. But my stuff’s in there.” She pointed to the bar.
“Let’s grab it.” Tristan tugged her arm to follow.
“I don’t wanna go back inside. Can’t you get it? It’s in Cal’s office.”
“I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
“I’ll be fine, really.”
“You sure?” He propped her against the brick wall beside the back door, and she slumped to the concrete. “Even better. Don’t move.”
“Where’m I goin’ like this?” Joy hugged her shins with her forehead resting against her knees.
Tristan poked his face in the doorway, flagged the first familiar fellow, and said, “Get Cal. Quick.”
Cal emerged. “S’up, Casanova? Where’s Joy?”
Tristan pointed to the limp body on the ground. “She’s bombed. I’m gonna drive her home. Mind grabbing her stuff from your office?”
“Well, that didn’t take long, darlin’.” Cal stepped out to examined Joy’s inert body. “One night in the bar and you’re riding the hot mess express.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t let you go off with just anyone. Tristan’s a good guy. I’d trust him with my own sister.”
“Don’t tell my folks, okay?” Joy mumbled.
“I ain’t saying a word. Last thing I need is a tongue-lashing from Sophia.” Cal returned in a jiff and handed the long wool coat and heavy handbag to Tristan with a wink. “Get home safe, ya crazy kids.”
Under the bright lamppost, Tristan dug through Joy’s bag searching for the keys and found everything but… An open wallet containing nothing but her Florida driver’s license, two bucks, and a few business cards. Hairbrush. Pens. Cellphone. Breath mints. Pint-sized bottle of spring water. Packet of tissues. Bottle of aspirin. Bag of unsalted sunflower seeds. Compact umbrella. Expensive-looking leather gloves. Dog biscuits. Cellphone charger. Pepper spray. And other random junk. “Ready for a zombie apocalypse, I see,” he murmured, stowing the urge to smile as she wasn’t in the mindset for jokes.
“Here…” He shook a few mints into her palm. “This’ll get rid of the foul taste.” At the bottom of it all, under a little spiral notebook and a bunch of loose receipts, he found the single keyless fob.
With his helping hand, she stumbled around the building and down the sidewalk.
“There it is.” She pointed across the street where dozens of cars lined the curb.
When he pressed the alarm button to figure out which vehicle it could be, the headlights on a gleaming white Jag with a black ragtop flashed. “Nice wheels.”
Before getting in the passenger seat, Joy puked again, most of it landing down the front of her coat. “Oops. My bad.”
“Oh, man.” Tristan winced. “Better take that off.” He slid the garment from her shoulders with care, then folded it with the inside out to keep the mess contained, and stuffed it in the trunk where he found a reusable grocery store sack suitable for a barf bag. “If you get sick again, do it in here.”
Before slamming the passenger door, he draped his denim jacket over her like a blanket, then slipped into the butter-soft leather of the driver’s seat and adjusted the rearview mirror. With a push of the Start button, the engine revved to life and the dashboard glowed like an airplane cockpit.
Geez, what a luxurious ride—he could get used to this.
An uneasy sigh escaped him as the annoying voice inside his head resurfaced with its moral two-cents. Bringing a sexy drunk woman to your home isn’t a good idea. Something a respectable father would never do while his daughter lived with him. But Nicole wasn’t here yet, so doing it just this once wouldn’t hurt anybody, would it?
He tugged the whiskers under his chin, contemplating the worst-case scenario, which might be the best if he got lucky.
Then his vivid imagination fast-forwarded eighteen years, at the possibility of some random guy driving his drunken baby girl home from a bar. Hell no. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets to erase the awful vision.
The responsible thing would be to drive Joy to her own house, let her deal with the parental repercussions, and he’d call a cab from there. “Are you positive you wouldn’t rather me drive you to your place?”
Joy gave him a blank stare. “Why? Ya changed your mind? ’Cause I’ll go back in the bar. Cal has a couch in his office.”
“Nope. I didn’t change my mind. Just making sure you didn’t change yours.” Tristan strangled the steering wheel as he pulled away from the curb, hoping he didn’t wreck her fancy car on the short ride home.
There was no reason to get jittery by this woman, who had fallen asleep with her head limp against her chest like a deflating blowup doll. Before he did change his mind and relinquish her to Cal’s care, he turned off Main Street, following the winding road toward his renovated rental on Hollyhock Hill.