“Oh, Diego can go anywhere,” Stella said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s sweet as can be.”
“That poor goat would beg to differ,” Maisie said, although perhaps she was just arguing for the sake of arguing. The “poor” goat in question had bitten her leg.
Stella glanced at them and then tipped her head. “Oh, don’t be surly. Just look at the way he’s cuddling with that fine man.” She lowered her paintbrush, her gaze narrowing on Jack. “You know, I had my heart set on the other one—the one named after a fish—but his girlfriend is a harridan.” The harridan being Adalia, and the “fish” being Finn, Adalia’s boyfriend. “You’ll do just fine. You’re the Buchanan bastard, aren’t you?”
Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Probably he’d been called that before.
But he just said calmly, “I prefer to be called that for the content of my character, not the circumstances of my birth.”
Which was just about perfect as far as responses went.
“Stella,” Dottie snapped in what was maybe the only time Maisie could remember hearing her lose her temper. “That’s an awful thing to call my grandson. Now, I don’t want you to leave, not when you’re clearly in the throes of inspiration, but you should apologize.”
Jack wasn’t her grandson, not really. But Dottie had been Beau’s partner for something like twenty years, and it was clear she saw his grandchildren as her responsibility.
Stella let the paintbrush fall—literally fall—into the grass, spraying red.
“I am sorry,” she said, walking toward Jack with arms extended. He took a step backward, almost tripping on the baby gate, and Maisie moved in front of him.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said. “If you think Adalia’s a harridan, you’ll find my bite is much worse than my bark.”
The goose in Jack’s arms nudged Maisie with his beak, but she didn’t yield any ground. Jack had apparently shifted the bird into the crook of one arm, because she felt his other hand wrap around her hip. Maybe he was just trying to keep her from walking into the goose’s danger zone, but his firm touch was putting her into a whole different danger zone.
“Oh, so he’s yours, then,” Stella said with a pout. “I never get to have any fun.” But she paused, then said, “Like I said, I’m sorry. I have an artist’s temperament, I suppose.”
Maisie didn’t attempt to hold in a guffaw. “And I’m sure it allows you to get away with all manner of things.”
Lurch looked up at them, head sopping wet from his dip in the bucket, water dripping all over his shirt. “I sensed that when I first saw you,” he said to Stella. “The artist thing.”
What gave her away? The paint all over her clothes and hair, or the fact that she had a literal easel out on the lawn?
“Oh, aren’t you a big, strong man?” she said.
Maisie was half tempted to stick around to watch what was sure to be the strangest mating dance known to humankind—or animalkind for that matter—but the other guests would be here soon. Even if she was mostly resigned to the whole Georgie and River thing, she didn’t want to have food on her dress in front of Georgie, who never seemed to have a single hair out of place.
“Dottie?” she pressed.
Dottie had been watching the whole Lurch–Stella exchange with fascination, but she shook it off and gestured for them to follow her into the house. “It’s those pheromones Stella wears,” she said in an undertone. “They bring men to their knees.”
Jack shot her a dubious look, but his next comment was for Maisie. “Thanks for saving me back there.”
“No problem,” she said, her mouth tipping up at the corners. He still had the goose cradled against his chest, his grip gentle but firm. She wondered if he’d hold a woman like that too. “You let Adalia get away with fostering a dog while you were away for the weekend. Stella would have eaten you alive.”
“Now, children,” Dottie said, tutting her tongue. “That artist’s temperament does get Stella into trouble sometimes, but she’s a good-enough sort. I wanted to do a little something for her since Adalia was hesitant to allow any of the goats at the Art Display.”
Maisie snort-laughed. She could imagine it now—the puppies barking at the goats, the goats chowing down on paintings. It would have been chaos.
“So the after-party was her consolation prize?” Jack asked. The goose in his arms looked cozy enough to take a nap. Who was this guy?
“And so are you, apparently,” Maisie said with a wink. “Sounds like she had her heart set on Finn.” Finn was handsome, but to Maisie he’d always been “just Finn,” the way she hoped River could someday be “just River.” She wasn’t quite there yet, but she was trying.
Dottie pointed down the hall. “Help yourself to anything that appeals to you, dear. You know your way around. I’ll get Jack and Diego here sorted.”
Maisie met Jack’s gaze, taking in the amused tilt of his mouth, the dark wells of his eyes. “Good luck,” she said. “You might just need it.”
Once in Dottie’s room, she let herself into the closet and flipped through the clothes, feeling the bittersweet wash of memories. How much time had she spent here over the years? Dottie was River’s great-aunt, but she’d raised him since he was a teenager, and Maisie and River had been so close growing up that this house had been like a second home to her, just like the O’Shea house had been a second home to River. Most of these outfits were ones she’d seen before. Birthday parties. Halloween parties. Just-because parties. Dottie Hendrickson was a woman who liked to celebrate.
She found a green summer dress, one that would be a little long on Dottie and maybe just a tad short on her, and took off her ruined dress and put it on. It fit, and when Maisie looked in the mirror, she wasn’t ashamed by what she saw.
But you’re not blond, and your hair will never be orderly, and most of all, you’ll never be her.
Which she was okay with, really. She didn’t want to be someone else. She liked herself just fine the way she was, and to hell with anyone who didn’t. But she couldn’t help feeling a little heartsick. Because for years she’d thought her life would be one way, and now she knew she’d been lying to herself, which was the worst kind of lying a person could do.
“Get it together, Red,” she told herself, tapping the forehead of her reflection. It was a nickname her dad had given her for her hair, which had been fiery since birth. Out of three O’Shea sisters, she was the only one who was a true redhead, although her younger sister had strawberry blond hair.
She slipped out into the hall and nearly tripped over a warped floorboard when she saw Jack. He’d changed into a long-sleeved thermal T-shirt and a pair of jeans. If he’d looked good in a suit, he looked even better like this. The sleeves hugged his arm muscles, making her want to pull the shirt off to get a good look at them. And the way he was eyeing her said he thought she looked pretty good in Dottie’s dress.
But then she realized that he was wearing River’s clothes. Was that why she was suddenly so attracted to him? He had dark hair like River too, and although his eyes were several shades darker, they were still brown. Was she just looking for an imitation of River in someone else? Would she spend the rest of her life doing that?
Josie had been right: she was totally screwed.
Chapter Two
Jack stopped in his tracks the moment he saw Maisie emerging into the hallway. He’d noticed her before—hell, how could he not? She was loud and confident and didn’t take crap from anyone. Sure, he’d found her attractive the first time he’d seen her, but she was River’s friend, and there was no way he was getting in the middle of that. He and River hadn’t gotten off to a great start with the brewery—admittedly Jack’s fault—and even though things were better, it didn’t feel like they were on solid footing yet.
But…holy shit.
She was all legs in that green dress that brought out the green of her eyes, glittering like emeralds. Her red hair was slightly more contained than usual, but her curls still
spilled everywhere. The silky material clung to her curves—and damn, did she have curves—but his gaze was drawn back down. Her shoes didn’t exactly match the dress, but who cared when she had legs that went on for miles…
“So you’re a leg man?” she asked in a wry tone, her hand propped on her hip, which only drew the hem higher.
Busted. He grinned, dragging his gaze from the newly exposed skin to her face, which now wore a smug expression.
“I appreciate every part of a woman’s body,” he said in a tone that bordered on cocky, which wasn’t usually like him.
“Ah, you’re a politician, then.” Her voice had a hint of sharpness, and he knew she was testing him.
He took a step toward her. “Because I didn’t directly answer your question?” he asked with a lifted brow. “You’re asking me to choose a specific body part, which is impossible. But when you wear a dress like that…” His voice trailed off, letting her fill in the rest, because he was busy imagining that hem going higher… “After our near-death experience, I feel like I need to buy you a drink.”
Because against his better judgment, he really wanted to continue this conversation.
She studied him for a moment. Then her mouth twisted into an amused grin. “Okay, goose whisperer. As long as it’s not some of Lurch’s punch. The name changes, but the hangover stays the same.”
“Not to worry. I’ve been warned,” he said, gesturing for her to head down the hall.
She turned and started for the living room, and his gaze landed on the swell of her butt, the silky fabric hitching up slightly as she walked.
He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to stare at the back of her head, which was only slightly better. Her mass of curls made him wonder what they’d look like spread out on a pillow as he…
Shit. No. This was Maisie. River’s friend. Hell, she was one of Adalia’s best friends too. If they started something and it didn’t work out, it would mess up everything, and Jack was tired of watching the world blow up around him.
Hell, he was digging himself out of a trench hole at that very moment.
No, no thinking about Iris tonight. He’d spent the past six months worrying about Iris—make that the past seventeen-odd years—and there was nothing he could do for her right then. He’d deal with his sister’s issues tomorrow.
Still, he found himself following Maisie like she was the Pied Piper, because while his head told him that continuing this was a very bad idea, his hormones strongly disagreed.
She stopped in front of the fridge and opened it, scanning the contents while he stood on the other side of the open door.
“Dottie has some of River’s new IPA out back,” he said. “I brought it over and put it in a bucket of ice.”
She made a face. “Didn’t you see Lurch put his head in that bucket? Anyway, I’m not in the mood for beer.”
He released a chuckle. “Is it possible to be a member of the Buchanan family, honorary or otherwise, and not be in the mood for beer?”
She turned to look at him, her eyes dancing. “So you’re telling me you want beer 24/7?”
He grinned. “I like to brush my teeth with Hair of Hops, and I pour Cesspool of Sin in my Cheerios for breakfast.”
Her smile spread as she rested her forearm on the fridge door. “So you’re a Buchanan through and through?”
That sobered him. While his father was Prescott Buchanan, Jack’s last name was Durand. A stipulation his father had made when his attorneys had worked out the child support arrangements. He wasn’t a Buchanan, and although he’d thought that working with his siblings at their grandfather’s brewery might change that, he felt like more of an outsider than ever. It wasn’t his half-sisters’ fault. It was his past that held him back, reminding him that sharing DNA with someone didn’t ensure any kind of relationship.
“Hey,” Maisie said, worry filling her eyes. “What that woman said was wrong.”
It took him a second to realize she was talking about the goat lady—Stella?—calling him a bastard. Strangely, that part of being the product of an affair didn’t bother him, but he saw no point in correcting her. He forced a smile. “I’ve heard plenty worse. So if we’re not drinking beer, what are you searching for?”
She leaned back down, searching the fridge. “I was hoping Dottie might have a pitcher of margaritas or sangria or something.”
“Sounds a lot like punch. Maybe you’re not so averse to Lurch’s drink after all,” he said with a laugh.
“News flash,” she said as she stood upright and closed the door. “He makes it from beer.”
“Rumor has it there were other ingredients in it at the last party,” Jack said. “Beet juice and dandelion wine, to name a few.”
Her face scrunched in disgust, and she went from looking fierce to unguarded in the blink of an eye. “That’s gross.”
He shrugged, still grinning like a fool. “I’m only reporting what I heard. I wasn’t there, and if I had been, I wouldn’t have been first in line to try it. But I only recall seeing beer and Lurch’s punch out back, so if you’re in the mood for something else, I’ll see what Dottie has in her liquor cabinet and make you something.”
“You’re gonna make me a drink?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “I think I saw this play out in a Lifetime movie once. The guy made the girl a drink, and when she woke up, she’d been sold into some sex cult.”
He laughed as he looked in the cabinet over Dottie’s fridge, where most people kept their liquor. “That doesn’t sound like a Lifetime movie to me,” he said, pleased when he saw several bottles. Vodka. Gin. Rum. Triple sec. “And I used to be a bartender. I take it you like sweet and fruity drinks?”
Her brow shot up. “Are you judging me, Mr. I-Watch-So-Many-Lifetime-Movies-I-Can-Spot-a-Fake-Plot? Seems like I should be judging you.”
Turning to face her, he shook his head. Damn she was prickly, and for some bizarre reason he liked it. “Judge me all you want, but I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to figure out what to make you.”
Her face froze and her irritation faded. “Oh.”
He laughed, then spotted some lemons on the counter. “How about a lemon drop martini? I’m limited on a few key ingredients, so it won’t be my best, but I guarantee it will be better than Lurch’s punch.”
An appreciative look filled her eyes. “Okay, then. Wow me.”
He laughed again, and damn it felt good. His life had been serious for far too long, but Maisie brought out a playful side of him that had been buried forever. Tonight he wanted to pretend that he didn’t have a narcissistic mother and a seventeen-year-old sister who felt like the world was caving in on her. He was going to pretend he wasn’t creeping up on thirty without much of an idea of what the hell he was doing. Tonight, he was just a man who was captivated by a beautiful woman.
After slicing the lemon, he pulled the bottles of vodka and triple sec out of the cabinet. He rooted around the kitchen and found a mason jar and lid, plus a bottle of agave nectar since he didn’t have any simple syrup. He added the ingredients to the jar and shook it up with some ice, while Maisie watched him with an amused grin.
“Were you like those bartenders in Coyote Ugly who took their shirts off?”
“Sorry to disappoint. That would violate many health code standards.”
“So you’re a rule follower,” she said, studying him more intently.
“Why do you feel the need to label me?” he asked, searching for an appropriate glass to pour the drink into and only finding a wine glass.
But Maisie must have realized his dilemma because she snatched the mason jar from his hand and took the lid off.
“You’re supposed to pour it into another glass.”
She looked up at him with a smug expression. “See? Rule follower.”
Then she took a sip.
Was it wrong that he watched her lips as they cradled the rim of the jar? Or that his gaze drifted to her bare neck as she swallowed? Shit. That should not be turni
ng him on, yet here he was, shifting uncomfortably and grateful his boxer briefs had shrunk in the dryer, binding him more tightly than usual.
“I don’t follow all the rules,” he found himself saying in a husky voice.
She lowered the jar and stared up at him. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”
Jesus. What was she doing to him? Was she insinuating what he hoped she was? He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them and wrapping an arm around her back. When she didn’t protest or knee him in the balls, he slowly pulled her flush against him.
“Was this what you had in mind?” he dared to ask.
Her emerald eyes were staring up at him, hooded with lust. “Not exactly.”
He started to let go of her, because while every signal she was sending him said yes, not exactly constituted a no in his book.
“Don’t you dare let go of me,” she said, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to hold him in place. “When I asked you to break some rules, I figured you’d just run with scissors or hang the toilet paper upside down.”
Despite himself, he laughed, because even though that had to be the least sexy thing she could have possibly said, it was so her. “Do you think I’m so uptight that I’d get all twisted over how to hang toilet paper?” Then he added, “And it’s over, not under.”
Her eyes lit up with mischief, and she reached up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his.
It was a tentative kiss, a questioning kiss. Was this what he wanted?
Yes. This was definitely what he wanted.
His arm tightened around her, and he deepened the kiss with a hunger he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt for a woman before. He’d blame it on alcohol, but he hadn’t had a drink all night.
Voices filtered into his brain and he lifted his head, knowing he should step away from her in case anyone walked in on them, but he wasn’t ready to let go of her yet.
“Wow,” she said softly. “Did they teach you how to kiss like that in bartending school?”
Getting Lucky (Asheville Brewing Book 3) Page 2
