by Amy Knupp
With her thumb hovering over her brother’s name, she froze and met his gaze, surprised and more than a little afraid he was joking. When she saw only sincerity in his eyes, she said, “Really?”
“If you need me to,” he said.
“You’d be my fake date?”
“No fancy dance steps I have to learn?”
“No fancy dance steps.”
He broke eye contact and picked up his bag. “Text me when and where and I’ll be there.”
Sierra let out a breath of relief and resisted the urge to throw her arms around him. Because on some level, she hadn’t lost sight of the fact that he worked for her and there were lines they couldn’t cross. But he was offering her a solution, and she’d be stupid not to jump on it. “Thank you, Cole. I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”
Chapter Two
It took Cole approximately thirty seconds—long enough to walk out of his meeting with Sierra and get into his truck—to regret his offer.
Fifteen minutes later, after belittling himself for the entire drive home, he hit the brakes harder than necessary as he whipped his truck up along the curb near his apartment. Leaving his tool belt and his work bag on the floor, he burst out of the vehicle into the cool October evening and slammed the door. The drive hadn’t calmed him down. He was still just as pissed at himself as he’d been when he’d walked out of the office.
After thirty-two years on this planet, he had one good thing in his life, one thing he valued—his job. So naturally he’d just gone and endangered the shit out of that.
At the nondescript wooden door that led to the stairs to his second-story apartment, he stopped with his hand on the knob and eyed the next door over—the dark-tinted glass door of Sunshine’s, the hole-in-the-wall bar below his place. He chose the dingy, stale-smelling tavern over the comforts of home and headed inside. It would take his eyes a minute or two to adjust to the darkness, but that didn’t matter. He could find his way to the counter of this dive with his eyes closed.
As he strode across the 1970s-era black-and-white-checked linoleum tiles to his usual spot at the far end of the bar, he took a quick inventory—five tables occupied, mostly men, two women at the bar, pool table in use, Winona behind the counter. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone, was nearly at his stool when some asshole plowed back-first into him from the side.
“Son of a bitch!” the guy yelled as he turned and glared at Cole. “The fuck you doing?” He was about as tall as Cole, but Cole had twenty pounds of muscle on him and was in just the right mind-set to use that muscle. The bastard had beady hazel eyes and one of those dumb-ass overgrown beards that made him look like a lumberjack. Cole raised his chin as he scowled, his knuckles begging for contact with the guy’s ugly mug.
“Evening, Cole,” a familiar female smoker’s voice called out. “Got your usual ready for you.” Winona’s way of saying, Get your ass over here and stay out of trouble.
She was right. This guy wasn’t worth the trouble.
After three more seconds of stare down, Cole turned away and resumed his path to his duct-taped black-vinyl stool, second from the far end.
“Smart,” Winona said as he took his seat. “You look like you had a shit day.”
“Not my favorite,” Cole said as he pulled the glass mug of beer toward him. “Johnnie kind of day, matter of fact.”
Winona took the hint and pulled the Johnnie Walker Double Black bottle down from the shelf and filled a tumbler, skipping the ice. The somewhere-over-fifty black-haired bar owner, who was also his landlady, knew him better than most, which wasn’t a lot. Some people would say that was pathetic, but it was how Cole preferred it.
“I’d ask you about it, but I know better,” Winona said. “You want food?”
“Got sourdough today?”
“You betcha. Roast beef and cheddar? Barbecue chips?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me,” she muttered as she went to the compact kitchen. She only offered cold sandwiches and chips, but they were freshly made and served as Cole’s dinner multiple times a week.
Left alone, Cole swigged down half the whiskey as his mind went back to the meeting with Sierra and his ace move.
One weak moment. One bone-headed sentence out of his mouth.
What the hell had he been thinking when he offered to stand in as Sierra’s fake date for her sister’s wedding?
Offered, for fuck’s sake.
He knew damn well what had made him do it though. He hated to see Sierra upset, especially for this wedding that he knew for a fact she’d been spending hours upon hours working on every evening, all to make it memorable and low-stress for her sister, Kennedy. After all her selfless hard work, she deserved to spend the evening not worrying about whatever the hell she would worry about by going alone. Though he didn’t get why it was so important, he did understand it was, indeed, important to her, so he’d opened his mouth.
Sierra had firm boundaries in place between herself and her construction crew, and Cole had always respected that, had liked that about her and saw the wisdom in it. He wasn’t out to make friends himself. But in the three years plus that he’d worked for her, his brain had taken to thoughts about his boss that were inappropriate. Inappropriate and scorching hot. He shut them down as much as possible during his waking hours, but the truth came out in a guy’s dreams, and apparently his truth was that he wanted to do wicked, dirty things to his boss. Things he would never, in reality, allow to happen. Not with her.
Spending an evening with her outside of the office, close by her side, dancing with her, was the worst idea ever. Touching her politely when he wanted to do so much more privately would be torture. And yet that’s what he’d signed his stupid self up for.
The asshole who’d rammed into Cole earlier planted himself on a stool at the other end of the bar, next to the two blondes, but Cole barely noticed. The guy wasn’t worth the oxygen he breathed in.
Winona emerged from the kitchen with a plain white plate with a double-decker sandwich cut diagonally in half and a heap of barbecue chips. She set it in front of him, then went to take an order halfway down the bar.
Cole emptied the whiskey glass, then headed to the back hall, where the restrooms were, to wash off the remaining grime from work. He’d washed his hands at the office after coming in from the jobsite, but his clothes were still full of construction dust and he wouldn’t feel clean until he rinsed it all down the drain in his shower.
When he came out of the men’s room, he heard a feminine voice to the right, outside the ladies’ room, saying, “I told you I’m not interested.”
“I saw you looking at me.”
Two feet away, with his back to Cole, the bearded asshole was blocking the way of one of the blondes from the counter who’d apparently gone to the restroom and was trying to get back to her friend. Cole met her eyes and saw wariness in them, verging on fear.
“She said no,” Cole said, taking a step closer.
“Mind your own business,” the guy threw over his shoulder.
“Leave her alone.” Cole got in his space, forcing the guy to face him.
“Make me.”
“Be easier for both of us if I didn’t have to,” Cole said in warning.
They stood eyeing each other, every muscle in Cole’s body taut and ready to spring into action. At last, the bastard sagged back a step, his chin dropping in acquiescence, opening up enough space for the blonde to get through. She did so without a word as Cole relaxed a degree.
Cole shot a glance after her as she reached the open area by the counter. As he turned back, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and tried to dodge it. Pain exploded above his right eye and he swore. He shoved the asshole toward the back door that was a few feet away. He had a deal with Winona not to fight in her bar, but this douchebag wasn’t getting away with punching him.
Cole pushed the back door open and the guy stumbled out into the alley, then threw another punch at
Cole. Cole ducked it and hit him with an uppercut and a hook that had him staggering.
The back door to Sunshine’s slammed open behind Cole, and he whipped around just as another scrawny dude, apparently the bearded bastard’s sidekick, lunged at him. Asshole Number Two’s punch missed its mark, but Cole’s didn’t. Cole whipped around in time to avoid Asshole Number One’s next attempt, then sent him sprawling with one more well-placed hit. Within a few seconds, Cole had both of them laid out, conscious but not moving much, crying for their moms.
Cole tried the back door, but it was always locked from the outside and had latched. He left the two and walked down the block to the next opening between buildings to get to the front door of Sunshine’s. As he made his way back to his place at the counter, where his roast beef and cheddar was still waiting for him, he felt the eyes of the two blondes on him, but he kept his gaze pointed forward.
Winona must have been back in the kitchen, which allowed him to sit down as if nothing had happened and shove a chip in his mouth. That’s when the adrenaline slowed down and he realized his knuckles were torn up and his head was bleeding right above his brow. He grabbed a stack of napkins from the counter and pressed them to the gash. When he pulled them away, the napkins were soaked with blood, but he didn’t worry much. Head wounds always bled a lot.
Winona came out of the kitchen, walked in his direction, and tossed an ice pack on the counter in front of him without a word. She traced her steps back to the center of the counter, took a guy’s order for two draws, filled two mugs, served them, and collected the guy’s cash.
“Did they take off?” she asked Cole, and it took him a couple of seconds to figure out who she was talking about.
“They weren’t moving much,” he said, holding the ice to his head.
“Do they need an ambulance?”
Cole shrugged. “Not that I know of, but I could go check—”
“No. You’re done,” she said. “I’m not saying they didn’t deserve what you gave ’em, but the fun’s over.”
Holding the ice pack with one hand, he used the other to pick up the sandwich and take a bite. Winona shook her head at him, as if to say, How can you eat after that?, then came out from behind the counter and headed down the hall toward the back door. She returned shortly and resumed her place behind the counter.
“They’re gone,” she said matter-of-factly. “Let me see your head.”
Cole shoved another bite of sandwich in his mouth, every movement of his jaw throbbing through his whole head, then lowered the ice pack for Winona’s inspection. She leaned across the bar, peering over the top rims of her glasses.
“He caught you just right,” she said. “I don’t think you need stitches but that’s quite a cut. Maybe a shiner on the way too.”
Hell. His “date” with Sierra was only two days away. If he had a black eye, that would draw the wrong kind of attention to him and Sierra.
He couldn’t go back on his offer. That would put him in a class even lower than what’s-his-name, her ex. He’d just have to buck the hell up, cross his fingers his eye turned out okay, and try not to fuck up her evening in any way.
Long shot and he knew it.
Chapter Three
When Cole walked into the historical church in downtown Nashville Saturday evening, there was a scattering of people in the outer room, none of whom he knew, as expected. He checked his watch—his trusted jobsite-worthy Timex that was completely out of place with his suit—and realized he had twenty-five minutes before the ceremony started.
Dumb ass. You should’ve killed some time in the truck.
He hovered along the outer wall near the door, uncomfortable for so many reasons, the least of which was not that he was wearing a suit and tie. It was random luck that he owned one. He’d bought it four years ago for his uncle’s funeral and hadn’t worn it since. He tugged at the collar as movement in the sanctuary caught his eye through the open doorway. Walking closer, he spotted the bride, Kennedy, at the altar, facing out, toward him, posing for a photo with Ivy Gibson, one of the bridesmaids, who Cole knew through the bakery on Hale Street. Dunn & Lowell had done a months-long full renovation of the historic Wentworth Hotel at the end of Hale, and he and the rest of the crew had become regulars at the bakery.
Kennedy made a beautiful bride. Her copper-colored hair was swept up in a complicated style under a veil, and she wore a simple column of a white gown with cut-outs at the neckline, a cinched waist, and a train. Cole didn’t see Hunter or any of the men in the bridal party, but he would bet his pickup truck the groom would forget his own name as soon as he saw his bride.
A dozen or so people sat in the front two rows watching the photo shoot. Cole skimmed his gaze over the backs of their heads, looking for one in particular. He spotted Sierra at the end of the first bench, identifying her by the rich russet color of her hair, which was also pinned off her shoulders. He couldn’t see much more from here, but he had time and nothing better to do than watch the bride’s half of the wedding party finish up photos.
After Ivy’s turn, Violet Morello, the brunette bakery owner, posed next to Kennedy, then Asia, who was engaged to Kennedy and Sierra’s brother, Jackson, took her place next to the bride. Then it was Sierra’s turn to pose with her sister.
Cole’s gaze stayed glued to her as she stood and made her way up the three steps, saying something he couldn’t hear, throwing her head back and laughing. When she turned around, Cole forgot how to breathe.
Her attention was on the photographer, and she hadn’t spotted Cole, which allowed him to drink her in at his leisure. She wore a long navy-blue gown that went over one shoulder and left the other bare. As she stood next to Kennedy, she angled slightly to the side, treating him to a view of her slender, toned leg, revealed by a high slit in the side of the dress. Her sparkling sky-high heels wrapped around her ankles, and just looking at them, at her legs in them, could short-circuit a guy’s brain. His eyes trailed upward, over the curves of her hips, her sexy bare shoulder, to her stunning smile, highlighted by pink lipstick. Her eyes, he could tell from this distance, were accented with makeup, which she normally skipped for work. And her hair… It was a complex mix of braids and knots and wisps framing her face, all held together, he would bet, by a hundred pins.
He could take those pins out for her, one by one, run his fingers through her hair as it cascaded over her bare shoulders.
Jesus. Get a damn grip.
She was his boss. And he was in public. Another ten seconds of that line of thought and everyone around him would be able to see proof of what she did to him below the belt.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, trying to rein in his thoughts but unable to tear his gaze away. This was why he’d volunteered, he admitted. He’d remember how stunning she looked for as long as he lived.
The next group up for pictures turned out to be the Lowell family—Sierra, Kennedy, Jackson, and their parents, he guessed. It was evident, as they posed and reposed and smiled and the photographer shot a couple dozen pictures, that their family was close-knit and loving. They stood near one another without being told to, joked among themselves, smiled real smiles. They were a Christmas card photo in everyday life, he could tell from here.
Unlike his family. At least when he was around. Maybe his brothers and mom were as carefree and affectionate as the Lowells, but he knew full well he brought a tension with him anytime he was in the same place as the rest of the North clan. He shrugged. It was what it was, and he was who he was. He didn’t do close relationships, family or otherwise.
The photo shoot ended momentarily, and as Sierra descended the altar steps, her gaze met Cole’s and she flashed him a smile of acknowledgment and, he suspected, relief that he’d shown up. She gestured toward her sister and the side door, where they were heading, and he made out the word sorry on her lips. He shook his head to let her know he didn’t expect to talk to her until after the ceremony, and she smiled again as her
mom sidled up next to her and started talking, gesturing with her hands, obviously conveying some crucial details about something, and then the whole group disappeared through the side door.
Cole backed away from the main doorway and glanced around, realizing he’d been riveted to the front of the church for the past ten minutes and oblivious to anything else around him. More guests had arrived, including an elderly couple emerging from the coat room and a family with four kids bursting noisily through the outer door.
When he glanced at the sanctuary again, two guys in tuxes emerged, the ushers, he assumed. One of them he recognized, Hudson Bennett, a lawyer who Sierra had used for some business contracts. Bennett nodded at him as the other usher handed the lawyer a stack of programs. Several of the guests started forward at the sight of the programs, and the ushers began seating them.
Cole fell into the short line, his mind skipping forward to the reception, when he would dance with Sierra, touch Sierra. Dancing wasn’t his thing, but it did have its benefits, and he was damn sure it would be the highlight of the night, torture or not.
In his peripheral vision, he noticed someone heading his way, and he turned to find the man he assumed was Sierra’s father. The guy, in his early sixties, he’d guess, was just about as tall as Cole and had a full head of brown hair. He wore a black tux and had a commanding presence, as if he owned the place—or was paying for this party.
“Cole?” The man held his hand out as soon as Cole nodded in acknowledgment. “Wayne Lowell, Sierra’s dad. I understand you’re accompanying her to the reception.”
“Yes, sir.” As he gave the guy a firm handshake, he wanted to tell himself this wasn’t important, that he wasn’t really “with” Sierra, and therefore there was no pressure in meeting her parents, but he couldn’t quite convince himself of that. Even though they weren’t a couple, he worked for her, and he didn’t want to make Sierra look bad in any way. Cole’s shoulders tensed as he endeavored not to say anything stupid. He wasn’t good at small talk or meeting a girl’s parents, avoided both as much as possible.