Make Me Lose Control. Christie Ridgway
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“This was your idea, Mel. I need an un-no, a mun-mo... An un-moroser!” She finally spit out the made-up word with a note of triumph.
The bartender replaced her glass with a fresh one. She pointed at him with her free hand. “I bet you really tear it up when you’re shreddin’ the gnar,” she said to express her appreciation of how he’d anticipated her need. “And you never biff, do you?”
“Are you talking to me?” Mel said in her ear.
“Nope.” Probably her friend didn’t understand snowboard lingo any better than Shay, but that didn’t stop her tonight. “That was to BB—Boarder Bartender.”
“Oh, dear.” Mel sighed. “You are drunk. And alone in a bar, where I can’t get to you.”
“Which I’m still waiting to hear what for.” Shay frowned. “How. I mean, why.”
“A wildfire has caused local road closures,” her friend said. “They’re diverting cars from the highway, too.”
Shay blinked, somewhat sobered by the news. Fire was a constant danger in their mountains. “Structures threatened?”
“Not so far. But the closed roads mean I can’t reach the inn...and you can’t get home, either.”
“I booked a room here.” She drew the martini closer, and, thinking of fire, took it up for a hefty swallow. “So’s all’s good.”
“You’re slurring,” Melinda said.
“I’ll order food. What goes with martinis?”
“Olives?” Mel suggested.
“Oh.” Shay inspected her glass. “Mine came with those twisty lemon peels.”
“I was kidding,” the other woman said. “Get something with protein. And order bread. That’s good to absorb the alcohol.”
“But I’m enjoying the alcohol,” Shay protested. Her gaze shifted to the TV screen as the bartender upped the volume. The picture was from a helicopter and showed the dark mountains and a glowing orange snake of flames. A shiver rolled down her back. Fire had taken a lot from the Walkers and she didn’t appreciate the reminder of it.
Again, she brought her glass to her lips, hoping to drown her discomfort.
“Shay?” her friend called.
“Oh.” She’d forgotten about Mel. “I wish you were here.”
“Me, too.” The other woman’s voice went stern. “Now promise me no more martinis.”
“Um...” Shay closed one eye to better inspect the clear liquid left in her glass. The yellow curl of peel was so delicate and pretty. Who needed olives? “No more martinis.” Maybe.
“And try to have some fun tonight,” her friend said. “That’s an order.”
Fun? All alone and with no more martinis? That wasn’t the way to make Melinda’s command come true.
* * *
THE VOLUME OF noise from the patrons of the Deerpoint Inn amplified as more of them became aware of the fire and tuned into the coverage on the TV over the bar. The manager struck a glass with a fork and when the voices around him died down, he announced which roads were blocked. New people trickled in, having been rerouted from the now closed highway. The long-haired bartender got busy filling drink orders as many guests figured out they likely wouldn’t be driving anywhere that night.
Trying to tamp down her nerves, Shay sipped at the last of the third martini, ordered a plate of chicken quesadilla appetizers, then threw caution to the wind and asked for another alcohol concoction.
Mel had told her to have fun, hadn’t she? When the front door of the restaurant opened once again, bringing with it the disconcerting scent of smoke, Shay didn’t hesitate to reach for her new glass.
She needed to block the fire from her mind.
A body slid onto the bar stool beside her. Shay looked over, the glance automatic, but her response was anything but.
As she took in the man on her right, it was as if a cold pail of water had been dumped on top of her head—an icy surprise. Following that, a rush of heat crept up from her toes all the way to the roots of her hair.
He was gorgeous.
And no boy, she thought, with a mental apology to BB, the boarder-bartender who had, after all, been so ably supplying her with vodka and a splash of vermouth. The newcomer was tall, his build rugged, with heavy shoulders and muscled arms, a broad chest, lean waist and strong thighs, all signaling a more than passing familiarity with manual labor. Linking his fingers on the bar, he ordered a beer, and Shay directed her gaze to his hands. They were big, too, and wide-palmed. She could see tiny white scars scattered on the tan skin.
Then, under the cover of her lashes, she took a second look at his face. At the same time, she tilted her head, just a little, as if trying to get a better view of the television and not his fine, fine features.
Wow.
His hair was mink-brown, thick and straight. It was shorn fairly tight, revealing a broad forehead. His cheekbones were high, he had a straight blade of a masculine nose and his lips were full. His strong jaw was edged with just a hint of dark stubble.
She stifled the urge to fan herself, afraid to draw his attention. What would she say to someone like him?
And then, before she could redirect her eyes, his head turned. His gaze cut straight to her face.
Like a lion’s, his irises were golden. Also like a lion’s, they seemed preternaturally aware of the weaker creature—Shay—in the vicinity. The tiny hairs on her body lifted, her senses warning he was supremely aware of her tripping heartbeat and all the delicious warm blood rushing below her skin.
Though her belly fluttered, she remained as she was—frozen, and feeling like an impala just now singled out by the biggest predator on the savannah. One of his dark eyebrows winged up.
And Shay blurted out the first thing that came into her head. “I’m supposed to be celebrating my birthday tonight but my friend couldn’t get here.”
The corner of his mouth twitched as the second eyebrow joined the first. “Okay.”
“This is my third martini.” She gestured toward her current glass, then frowned. “Or my fourth.”
“All right.”
“I’ve had nothing to eat yet.” At that, she ran out of things to say. None of what she’d already shared, she realized, gave any rational explanation for why she’d been staring at him. Damn.
“Is it a four-martini birthday, then?” he inquired conversationally. He murmured thanks as his beer was placed before him. His gaze turned assessing. “I can’t imagine it’s one of the more painful ones.”
“Oh, um, well.” She shifted her attention to her drink and drew it closer. “Maybe it’s the fire.”
“Aren’t we safe?” He sipped from his beer. “The highway patrol seemed to know what they were doing when they shuttled me in this direction. They said I might be stuck here for as little as a few hours, though possibly longer.”
“We’ll be fine.” There was no need to pass along her skittishness. “The fire protection people and the other authorities have a lot of experience.”
Her quesadillas arrived and the smell of them tickled her taste buds. She could feel the man at her side eyeing them with interest. Enough interest that she felt compelled to offer, “Help yourself. There’s too much for me to eat all by myself.”
“Oh, I—”
“Go on,” she said. “We’re fellow refugees of a sort, after all.”
There