Playing with Danger (Desire Bay Book 2)

by Joya Ryan

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  To Mom and Dad,

  All the trips to the Oregon coast for softball let me envision this entire town. Thank you for your support and endless memories.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Hannah closed her eyes and tried to drown out the low sounds of the bar she was currently tending. These tension headaches were getting worse and were now starting in her neck. As if she needed another pain in the neck.

  Placing her hands on the glossy wood bar top, she slowly bent her neck to the left, bringing her ear to the top of her shoulder. Her black hair swayed across her back, and she made a mental note—she needed a trim before the jokes about looking like the local Morticia Addams started in from the regulars.

  Pop!

  She exhaled and rubbed her nape. Damn, she was stressed. And it wasn’t just her neck popping—it was her brain.

  The smells of beer and sea air drifting in off the surf just outside made for another typical Friday afternoon. She opened her eyes and got back to work. Though it was slow for midday, it’d pick up when everyone started to get off work for happy hour. She was working alone, as usual, and was the main bartender slinging drinks for this place. Sixty-hour workweeks, and she loved it. It was Goonies. A staple in town. The bar in town. Her bar in town.

  Well . . . not exactly hers . . . yet.

  “Hey, Hannah, my mug is dry,” said Larry, a regular customer, pointing to his beer.

  “Yeah, like your liver,” Hannah said back. “You know, cirrhosis isn’t sexy, Larry.”

  Larry rolled his eyes and just tapped his empty glass. The guy was a local, and Hannah knew him all too well. But she really couldn’t talk, since she was as local as they came—and the only female bartender in the small town of Yachats, Oregon.

  “The older you get, the meaner you get,” Larry said.

  Hannah scoffed while filling his glass. “That coming from Father Time?”

  The man laughed and stroked his long, white beard. She’d known Larry since she was a kid. He’d worked with her father on a fishing boat out of Newport Bay, another town over. She’d learned quickly that all fishermen knew one another and were all blunt and dirty, in one way or another.

  But being raised by an alcoholic fisherman who spent more time in jail than being her parent left for a tricky upbringing. Hannah relied on no one. That was one lesson dear ol’ Daddy had taught her. Indirectly as it might have been. And Hannah wasn’t about to argue her “mean” reputation. That was better than some of the other adjectives used to describe her around the town she’d called home since birth. Over the years, she’d heard everything from “trash” to “bitch” to “crazy.” All of which she’d take over “pitiful.” No, she’d never be pitiful. No matter how many times she’d had to bail her father out or beg Nancy down at the power company not to turn off the lights to their trailer.

  That pain in her neck was starting to hum again.

  She slid the glass toward Larry, and he just grumbled and took it, fusing his eyes back to the TV fastened above the massive shark teeth on the wall. The wood floors were original to the nearly hundred-year-old building and creaked with every hard wind gust the tides threw around. And when it was slow, Hannah could pick up the faint smell of saltwater taffy being made just one block down. Great thing about being located on Main Street in Yachats—it smelled like the ocean and candy 24-7.

  She wiped down the counter, and when she saw Phil, the geriatric crabber, taking an extra-long look at her chest, Hannah made another mental note to remember not to bend over as much while wearing that tank top.

  But if she wanted this place, she’d take it, and all the customers that came with it. Her boss, the owner, was looking to sell, and Hannah was ready to buy. The place made good money, and she could finally have something for herself. Outright and owned. She just had to get Mr. Bangs on board. He’d said he’d give her first opportunity to buy the place, and with her entire life savings, she thought she could convince the bank that she was a worth a small business loan for the rest. She just needed details from Mr. Bangs. Problem was, he never bothered to show up, really, or do much of anything when it came to the bar. Which was why Hannah pretty much ran the place already.

  “You ever wear lipstick?” Phil said between the eight teeth he had left in his mouth.

  “Excuse me?” Hannah said.

  “Just asking if you wear lipstick. Would make you look real pretty.”

  She rolled her eyes. If Phil wasn’t as old as the damn ocean, she’d smack him. Instead, she smiled her lipstick-free smile and said, “Nope.”

  The word pretty hung in the air, though. Very rarely had she ever felt pretty. Much less looked it. She was always working and always in some kind of ripped denim and tank top. Her hair was black and her eyes were blue—two qualities she’d inherited from her father—and she chose not to draw attention to either with makeup or products. She didn’t need a reminder of whom she came from. She tried to outrun that fact every day, and to do so she looked in the mirror as little as possible.

  “One of them tough girls. What do they call those?” Phil mumbled to himself.

  But Larry chimed in from two seats away. “Tomboy. She’s a tomboy.”

  “Well, glad one of us in this joint is some kind of boy, because between the two of you, you’re pushing three hundred years old.”

  Larry just shook his head, and Phil laughed.

  Hannah smiled and lined up the liquor bottles along the mirrored wall behind the bar. She might have tough skin, and people in town might think her rough around the edges, but there was a lot more to her.

  She’d risen above enough to get respect from the majority of the townspeople. If not a little fear. Which was something she could deal with.

  The bar phone rang.

  “Goonies Bar.” Hannah waited, and the voice was instantly recognizable.

  “Hey, Hannah, it’s Gabe.”

  Hannah took a long breath. Gabe Cleary, aka Deputy Gabe Cleary. Aka the same Gabe Cleary she’d gone to grade school with, who now was the law of the town. She instantly knew what the call was about before he said the words she’d heard a hundred times over the past several years.

  “I’ve got your father here,” he said.

  “What is it this time?” Hannah asked, hoping it was just a drunk-and-disorderly and not something more serious, like a DUI or an assault.

  “Intoxicated in public.”

  Thank God.

  “He’s sleeping it off in the drunk tank. You can come get him if you want, but he’s welcome to stay until morning.”

  Stay in the cell? Wouldn’t be the first time. Yet Hannah always went running to clean up her dad’s messes. But she couldn’t leave the bar, and she had no desire to go get him when he was passed out wasted. He was safe in the cell for now.

  “I’ll swing by after I close up the bar tonight,” she said. That mental list of hers was getting longer, and the pain in her neck throbbed harder.

  “No problem. He’s the only one here, so he has the cell bed to himself.”

  “Ooh, the local jail cell is going to get a five-star rating this week.”

  Gabe laughed. “We serve, protect, and accommodate when we can.”

  Hannah smiled, but her chest was hollow. Deep down, she knew a big reason she’d never leave Yachats was because she had to make sure her dad was okay. He was little more than useless, but he was her dad. The only family she had. And she didn’t want him to die
or to hurt others. Since her mom had left when she was five, there had always been a sadness surrounding him, and Hannah could never break ties with him. It didn’t make it right or okay. Made it fucking pathetic, and she kind of hated herself for it. But she couldn’t leave him.

  Maybe that’s why she worked so hard to make herself untouchable. Maybe she’d think about that later. Or never. Because the minute someone started touching . . .

  She shook her head. Something she’d done more in the last several months, every time that sunshine and warmth she’d felt once in her life started creeping in to remind her of a happy moment.

  She hung up with Gabe and looked around. The bar was getting ready to pick up, Friday day turning into Friday night. And that’s what she’d focus on. What she always focused on. Perfecting her untouchable persona and taking care of her bar. Yes. It would be her bar. Any day now.

  She bent behind the counter just as she heard the door open and slam shut. A constant flow of people coming in was good for business. Which was why she was searching her lower cabinet for the reserve Jack Daniel’s to put on the shelf.

  “Excuse me?” a sexy, husky voice asked from behind her. “I’m looking for someone.”

  Hannah shook her head and didn’t bother turning around. Still squatting and reaching back behind the vodka, she finally found the Jack Daniel’s.

  “Well, good luck with your search. Anyone you see in here is what you get.”

  She stood with the bottle in hand.

  “I sure hope that’s true,” the sexy voice replied, “because I’m looking for my wife.”

  His words cut the air and hit her entire body like a blow, causing her hand to slip. The bottle dropped and shattered on the floor.

  She turned slowly and saw him.

  Him.

  The one man she’d tried to forget over the past six months. The one man who’d ever gotten close enough to make her feel like more than trash. The one man who’d gotten her to say I do.

  “Grant Laythem,” she whispered.

  His eyes were fastened to her face. Those same green eyes she remembered—clearer than the ocean she’d fallen in love with him on.

  He smiled, but there was something very dark behind it. “Hello, Mrs. Laythem.”

  Hannah’s skin flushed hot, and she felt the instant need to run . . . she just couldn’t decide if the direction was away—or straight into his arms.

  Grant had always thought God to be the cold, vengeful kind. But when he stood there, faced with his wife, her beauty about knocked him on his ass. And for the first time in a long time, Grant thought God was throwing him a bone. Or a flare of torture, because while he was finally standing face-to-face with the woman who’d stolen his heart then sneaked off in the middle of the night with it, he couldn’t touch her.

  She was right there. Right in front of him.

  And he. Couldn’t. Touch her.

  “How are you here?” she asked, a slight shake in her voice.

  “Airplane.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I mean, how did you find me? It’s been six months.”

  He took a step closer. Though there was a bar between them, the rage and angst and general “missing the fuck out of this woman” was starting to boil.

  “It’s been six months, thirteen days, and three hours. East Coast time, of course.”

  She frowned. “You have it down to the hour?”

  “Hard to forget the hour you left me on a damn boat.”

  “Please. It was a luxury cruise ship that docked in Florida. Not the sinking Titanic. I didn’t leave you. Vacation was simply over.”

  A small smile tugged at his lips, but he wasn’t happy. Not in the least. He’d almost forgotten how mouthy his wife was. And he liked it. It also made his muscles tick and his blood pump hot.

  “Vacation or not, you left your husband and ran off. The redhead opted to go down with the ship for her man. You didn’t even leave a note.”

  “And yet, you found me.”

  “I told you once that I’d always come for you.”

  Her lips parted, and her eyes skated over him. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to know exactly what she was thinking. She was recalling the time he had come for her. The first time. All those months ago.

  “Maybe I didn’t want to be found?” she offered.

  “Were you hiding?”

  She bit her bottom lip. Something she did when she was nervous. He’d learned that over the two weeks they’d spent together.

  “I don’t hide,” she said calmly, placing her hands on her hips and raising her chin.

  He raised a brow at her challenge. So she had wanted him to find her. Otherwise she would have told him to fuck off by now.

  That’s when the truth hit him. So clear he could damn near read it off her face.

  “You missed me,” he said. Looking her up and down and watching those prefect breasts rise and fall on heavy breaths. “And you’re happy to see me.”

  Pride swelled like a dry sponge dropped into water. Hannah’s presence was hydrating, something he’d been missing more than he truly realized. His chest felt bigger, his lungs taking in more air, like he hadn’t been able to take a deep breath in months.

  He inhaled deeply, the empty cave that housed his heart finally feeling fuller. Warmer. Happier. He clutched at this feeling, because the next steps of his plan were going to be tedious and a pain in the ass. He’d need to recall this moment. Remember how it felt right now to breathe Hannah in. To know she was the only one who made him feel whole.

  “I’m surprised,” she said quickly.

  “That’s not a denial.”

  “Oh, I’m in denial, all right. Starting with what happened between us.”

  He adjusted the cuffs of his button-down shirt and flicked his wrist. His entire hand itching to land on all that creamy skin. Especially her bare arms and high cleavage.

  Her thick, dark lashes against bright blue eyes made his hand itch more. Because he wanted to touch her face. See if her plump little mouth opened on a gasp when he kissed her. Like it had all those months ago. See if she remembered how much she liked kissing him. Because she did. He knew that for a fact. He couldn’t get a single night’s sleep without hearing her moans and soft pleas in his mind.

  “Are you just going to stand there staring?” she asked.

  His eyes narrowed, his whole face feeling stern. And judging by the goose bumps he watched break out over her skin, she felt his gaze, too.

  “That’s my right, isn’t it? You being my woman, I can stare at you all I want.”

  She laughed. “Your woman? I don’t know where you came from with that idea—”

  “New York.”

  “—but I belong to no one.”

  “That’s not what you were saying—pardon me, screaming—six months, thirteen days, and four hours ago. In fact, I’m certain you kept chanting, ‘I’m yours, I’m yours, please, Grant, take me, I’m yours.’”

  That made her bite her lip again, and she glanced around. Clearly assessing if anyone in the bar could hear their discussion.

  Good.

  He was getting to her, and he wondered if she could see how tightly wound he was for her. He hoped everyone heard him, because he wasn’t keeping his wife—or what he wanted from her—a secret. And to answer her previous question, yes, he was going to stare. Because good Christ, his wife was more beautiful than he remembered. Granted, last time he’d seen her was technically on their wedding night on a cruise ship floating across the Caribbean.

  He couldn’t help but examine every inch of her he could see. Comparing it to the memory he had of her. Six months ago he’d enjoyed the sight of Hannah’s sun-kissed skin in an itty-bitty bikini. He also knew exactly where she hid her tattoos. Now, he was staring her down in a dive bar in the middle of small-town Oregon, and she was in a black tank top and ripped jeans—all sexy badass. She looked harder. Tired. But still bright and gorgeous. Though he had a feeling she hadn’t smiled
in a while.

  He couldn’t help but stare, because it was then, being face-to-face with her after all these months, that he knew why he’d fallen in love with her so quickly. And married her even quicker.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a low tone, taking a step closer to the bar that separated them. Grant didn’t know if he imagined it, but he was pretty certain there was a longing in her eyes, and he hoped to God it was for him.

  “I’m here for you,” he said honestly. “And baby, you’ve been tough to find. Hiding or not.”

  She swallowed hard. He watched her throat work up and down. The busted glass on the floor crunched beneath her black boots as she slid just a little closer. She didn’t seem too concerned with cleaning up the bottle she’d dropped.

  “I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he offered, glancing at the mess on the floor.

  “Yes, you did,” she responded quickly in that snappy tone only she had. God, he missed that mouth. Especially when it was fiercely directed at him. Because the longer she mouthed off, the quicker her claws came out—and eventually those claws would be in his back while he was between her legs. Which was exactly where he intended to be by tonight.

  “You’re not unhappy to see me,” he tried again. Rephrasing to see if she’d admit to wanting him. “Otherwise you would have told me to fuck off by now.”

  “Fuck off,” she said quickly.

  He grinned. Oh yeah, she missed him. And she’d be on him within the hour, at this rate. But she was keeping her voice low. Quiet, even. As if she didn’t want anyone to know about him.

  “Well, do you want to show me around town? Maybe introduce me to your friends, Mrs. Laythem?”

  “Stop calling me that. And no. You should leave.”

  Oh, he could play this game, too. Fine, she was surprised to see him—he could give her that. But she was breathing hard and looking over his chest and mouth, and he knew what that look meant. She’d had it the first night he met her.

  His vixen wife wanted him.

  He just had to get her to admit it. Or drive her unease into irritation until she took out her aggression on him. Either way, it was a win for him.