Love on the Outskirts of Town

by Zoe York

  “Deep enough to scar.”

  Mer shrugged. “Chicks dig scars.”

  Well, Tasha had loads. “I should try dating women, then.”

  That got her an eye roll. “I bet Matt digs scars. He looks like he lives life to the fullest too.”

  “You have no way of knowing that.”

  “I know how you look at him. That was some kind of thing you guys had across the street. I took one look at your face, and I knew you weren't thinking, gee, I'd rather play it safe.”

  No. That wasn't what she really thought about Matt. He lit up all sorts of things inside her, made her feel alive in a way she’d thought was long buried. Alive in the most dangerous way. “I don't like my instincts. They can’t be trusted.”

  “Well, I like them just fine. You have a wealth of experience and an amazing daughter. You are going to conquer the world. Why not have the company of a sexy man at the end of a victorious day?”

  “Because it’s not that simple.”

  “It’s how you used to live your life.”

  “And look at what happened! I went from carefree and reckless to cowering in my sister’s basement.”

  “Temporarily doing your sister a major childcare favour while you regrouped.”

  “Nice spin.”

  Meredith grinned. “Thanks.”

  Gripping the rake like a weapon, Tasha attacked the errant leaves again. “I don’t want to ruin Emily’s life.”

  “Whoa, where is that coming from?” Meredith got in front of her. “You aren’t ruining anything. You found a way to raise your daughter on your own terms. You managed to save enough money for a down payment on a house. You did me a solid at the same time, and without even trying, you picked up a tall, dark, and sexy firefighter.”

  “He’s a paramedic, not a firefighter.”

  “Shhh. In my fantasy, he’s a firefighter.”

  “Stop having inappropriate thoughts about Matt!”

  “Why are they inappropriate if you don’t want anything to do with him?”

  That was not a question she wanted to answer.

  So she shoved her sister into the pile of leaves.

  When Matt arrived at Bailey’s Pub that night, he found Natasha dancing behind the bar. Her back was to him, and she was swivelling her hips to a sexy Latin dance song as she replaced bottles on the back wall.

  The last time he’d come in here, she hadn’t been happy to see him, and concern about that wariness had taken precedence. But now he could look all he wanted, and fully appreciate just how beautiful she was. Tall with willowy limbs and a curvy torso poured into a black t-shirt and dark blue denim. Her jeans rode low on her hips, and her shirt showed just a slice of pale skin above her heavy leather belt.

  He wanted to dance with her, feel her body moving against his.

  Who was he kidding? He wanted a lot more than dancing, but they were taking things slow—and that was good because there was something about Natasha that unlocked some nerves low in his belly. Good nerves, better than the anxiousness he’d been dealing with since Sean came home.

  More like hungry anticipation, except he didn’t know when or if he’d get a chance to strip her down and make her moan. And it was strange that he didn’t really mind. Whatever this was that they were doing, it was on her terms, and he was one-hundred percent okay with that. He got to hold on and enjoy the ride.

  Or the show, as it were.

  She reached up high, stashing a bottle of whiskey on the top shelf, then turned around and caught sight of him.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he said as he leaned against the bar.

  She rubbed the cloth she’d be swishing through the air on the counter and gave him a warm, pink-cheeked smile. “Hey, you.”

  “Nice to see you again.”

  She laughed under her breath. “Yeah.”

  He glanced around. “It’s not too busy tonight.”

  “You came in at a good time. It’ll get busier again.” She inhaled quickly. “How was your day? Can I get you a drink?”

  So she was nervous, too. He liked that he wasn’t alone in that. He nodded. “That Neustadt lager was good. What other recommendations do you have?” She shifted sideways to the taps but kept her gaze on him.

  “A craft IPA?”

  “Sure.” He grinned. “And my day was mostly spent sleeping.”

  “Right, you were working last night.” She set his beer in front of him, then grabbed herself a glass of water with a couple of lemon wedges. Three of them. “And you were on days earlier in the week?”

  They talked about his split schedule a bit—light, small-talk-y kind of questions from her, answers that kept the conversation going from him. It felt a bit awkward, not in a bad way, just tentative. He wanted to grab on to that nervousness and name it, reassure her that he felt it too.

  But something held him back. She’d told him she wasn’t sure about getting involved with him because of his brother. Better to show her he wasn’t worried, show her that wasn’t a big deal for him, that she could trust him to be focused on the here and now.

  A couple of customers came in. She broke away to help them, and when she came back, she brought a menu. “I didn’t ask you if you wanted anything to eat before.”

  He ordered a basket of fries, and then they were interrupted again. She’d been right—he’d come in during the quiet window before the rush, but they hadn’t had much of a chance to talk before she was swamped again.

  She poured beer and set up shots, working quickly and efficiently. A lot of the customers knew her, and he liked watching her interact with them. None of her nervousness with him was on display there. She was flirty and professional, recommending drinks with ease as she moved up and down the bar.

  “How do you know what someone might want to drink?” he asked her when she brought him his fries.

  She laughed. “I don’t.” She relaxed against the bar, keeping one eye on the room. “Want to know the secret?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s a bit of a sleight-of-hand magic trick. Part presenting the most popular options, guessing based on demographics, some remembering what a customer liked in the past, and a dash of whatever I feel like mixing tonight.”

  “What’s your favourite?”

  “Whiskey,” she answered immediately.

  He raised an eyebrow. “That was a fast, sure answer.”

  She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Rye and scotch drinkers are the best tippers.”

  “Is that so?” He grinned. “And beer drinkers?”

  She winked. “More varied.”

  That made him chuckle. “Then in that case…I’ll take a rye.”

  He liked the way her face split into a wide, amused smile. “No! Order what you want.”

  “I want to be your favourite customer.”

  She laughed gently and reached across the bar to squeeze his hand, no more nerves on display. He was feeling pretty warm, pretty comfortable, too. She gave him one last pat before she stood up and stepped back. “Do you usually drink beer?”

  It took everything in him not to catch her fingers as she pulled away. He wanted to hold on to her all night, but she had a job to do. “It’s a good one to nurse when you’re eventually going to drive home.” And he wouldn’t necessarily finish it, either. “If I’m not driving, I’ll drink pretty much anything. I like to try different things.”

  “Okay, how do you like your rye?”

  With a hefty mix of ginger ale. “I’m easy. How do you like it?”

  “Depends on the bottle. Neat is the best way to truly taste it.” He made a face and she winked. “It’s not for everyone. Or me, really. I like it over ice.”

  “That’s still badass.”

  Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue peeked out the side of her mouth. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced up at him. “Yep, guys usually think it is.”

  “Clever woman.”

  “Yep.” She turned slowly and, after some careful consideration,
pulled down a top-shelf bottle. She set it in front of him, then grabbed a tumbler and filled it with ice.

  Chink, rattle, clink. Then a subtle crack as she poured the rye over the cold cubes.

  Watching her pour him a drink had an unexpected erotic appeal.

  Having her slide the glass across the bar and into his hand, her fingers brushing his? Even better.

  “Thanks,” he murmured as he lifted the glass to his lips.

  He hated hard liquor straight up. With a sharp exhale, he tipped the glass and took a long, burning swallow of the fiery drink.

  She grinned at him and in that moment, he loved rye with his entire being. “Badass,” she murmured.

  Indeed.

  “I see how that gets you good tips,” he admitted. And probably a lot of numbers, too. He frowned.

  She searched his face. “What?”

  He went for honesty because she valued that, and he knew the truth trumped any effort to cover his feelings up. “I was thinking that probably gets you a lot of numbers, too.”

  “It used to.” She tipped her head to the side and gave him a teasing smile. “You get a lot of numbers, too, don’t you?”

  She had him pegged. “I used to.”

  That stretched between them as she sized him up. He wanted to tell her more, that it had been months, that the only number he wanted was hers, but his mission here tonight wasn’t to push hard.

  It wasn’t to push at all.

  It was to get to know her, on her terms.

  And her terms were, apparently, playful. She winked at him. “Okay, show me yours.”

  He grinned. “My what?”

  “Your move. In a bar. You know my whiskey secret. I want to know how you pick up women.”

  Ha. She wanted to compare notes? He nodded slowly. “The opposite works. Women love a guy who happily drinks a Bellini with them.”

  “Indeed they do. Good move.” She gave him a careful look. “But that’s not your A-game.”

  He took a sip of the rye on the rocks. It burned on the way down, warming his chest. “That’s harder to describe. I’ll have to show you.”

  “I’d like that.” Someone called her name and she glanced toward the other end of the bar. “Excuse me.”

  He watched her move away, watched the curve of her hip and the long, denim-clad stretch of her legs. She poured a tray of drinks for the waitress, then grabbed herself another glass of water on the way back. When she stopped in front of him, she lifted it to her mouth, her eyes bright as she examined him over the edge.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked. Nerves had definitely been replaced by a warm, steady hum inside him.

  “You don’t mind me thinking of you as a player?”

  “No.” He paused. “Maybe.”

  She laughed, deep and from her belly, her eyelashes brushing against the happy curve of her cheek. “Maybe?”

  “It’s not the word I’d use anymore.”

  “Okay.” Her lips twisted and plumped together as she swallowed another laugh.

  He poked his tongue into his cheek as he watched her.

  “What?”

  “How about you?” he asked, feeling suddenly…something. Turned on, he realized. This was fun. “How would you characterize your dating life?”

  She gave him an innocent look. “I was a total player, too.”

  His mouth dropped open as she held out her glass in a cheers.

  Never in a million years did Tasha think she’d end up talking to Matt about her history with men, but this was fun in a lovely and curious way. She’d been so looking forward to seeing him, and then David’s phone call knocked her off course.

  Now she was back on track. Flirting for the first time in four years. It felt…right. “Did I surprise you?”

  His eyebrows pulled together just a little, an almost frown, as if he was trying to figure her out like a puzzle. “Most people—myself included, I guess—don’t describe themselves like that.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “I know.” He lifted his drink in a toast. “And I’m intrigued by you more and more.”

  “All that is behind me now. Not because I didn’t like it—I did. God, to be young and twenty-three again.” She took a deep breath. Remembering, and missing a little, but also putting an important pause before she underlined the next point. “But it’s different now.”

  “Sure, I get that. My life has shifted recently, too. We both have a lot of stuff going on. You more than me.”

  “I doubt that. Don’t you do army stuff on top of being a paramedic?”

  He shrugged that off. “Ah, the army isn’t really a job. It’s a way of life for my family. It’s nothing like you juggling work and a three-year-old all by yourself.”

  She knew he meant it to be praise, but ugh, that just reminded her Meredith and Dan would be moving soon and she’d really be on her own—and she wasn’t sure how she’d manage.

  “What did I say?” He reached across the bar and squeezed her hand gently. “Your expression just fell.”

  Laughing nervously, she grabbed for the bottle of rye. “Another drink?”

  “I’m fine.” He leaned back, his eyes sharp as he searched her face. “Is something wrong?”

  She pulled her shoulders up and squared them. “I’m not really all on my own. My sister has been a huge help.”

  “The sister I saw the other day?”

  “Yeah. And now she’s moving across the province.”

  Matt exhaled roughly. “What does that mean for you?”

  “It’s just a shift. Emily and I need to find a new place to live—and that’s a good thing. It’s time. Actually, that’s why we were in Wiarton. We were looking at a house that I can’t really afford.”

  “Ah. Shit, sorry I dragged the conversation there.”

  Before she got a chance to respond, one of the waitresses hurried over and grabbed the cordless phone as she swore under her breath.

  “What is it?” Natasha asked.

  “Phil Dixon is vomiting in the men’s room, and it sounds bad. I’m not dealing with that.”

  Crap. Phil had a tendency to get pissed off and lash out and get belligerent. Tasha reached out and took the handset. “Don’t call the cops.”

  “He deserves to be in the drunk tank.”

  “If he’s vomiting, he’s probably done for the night. Let me see if I can convince him to head home in a cab.” She stepped around the cutout in the bar, squeezing the waitress’s arm. “Go and get Malcolm.”

  Matt fell into step as she headed toward the washrooms. “I can help.”

  She sighed. “My boss will handle this, it’s fine.”

  Except the waitress returned as they stopped in front of the washrooms. Malcolm had apparently headed home for a bit.

  Matt set his hand on the door and eased it open, just in time for them to hear more retching. Natasha tried not to react to the smell of puke, but it was hard. Not for Matt, though. He pasted on a smile and called out, “Hey, is everything okay in here?”

  She followed him into the men’s room. There weren’t any other customers in there, which was good, because she wasn’t leaving Matt alone with an angry drunk—not that Phil was in any shape to be a threat to anyone.

  He was slumped in the stall, his head on the toilet seat.

  Matt grabbed a thick wad of paper towels and gingerly stepped into the small space. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you moved—” As soon as he said that, Phil groaned and vomited again—and his puke was pink and streaked with blood.

  Great.

  “Natasha, I need you to call 911 after all,” Matt said without looking away from Phil. “He needs an ambulance, not the police. Tell them we have an intoxicated man vomiting blood, unable to walk.” He said it calmly, but immediately Tasha’s hands started to shake.

  She dialled emergency services and recited all of that to the dispatcher who answered. “Yes, he’s breathing. I don’t know how long he’s been sick.” She gave the address and e
xplained there was an off-duty paramedic with him right now.

  Matt used the paper towel to clear some of the mess off the toilet seat, then he put his fingers to Phil’s wrist. After a beat, he leaned in further and touched the man’s neck instead. The quick, rough exhale Matt gave as he jerked his head toward Tasha made her heart race.

  “Tell them his pulse is thready. Code 4.”

  Oh, God. She repeated that, and the cool voice in her ear reassured her an ambulance was on the way.

  Matt didn’t move from his awkward crouch, his fingers pressed to Phil’s neck, until the heavy footsteps of uniformed paramedics were heard in the hallway.

  “In here,” she called out, then got the hell out of their way as Matt gave a quick report, using alien terms and numbers she didn’t understand.

  He helped move Phil out of the stall and onto a board, then up onto the gurney. When they were alone again in the putrid bathroom, he turned to the sink and washed his hands.

  She handed him a paper towel, then pulled open the closet door that housed all the cleaning supplies.

  “I can help,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’ve got this. Just…maybe don’t go far?”

  He reached past her and grabbed a garbage bag. “I’m not going anywhere. Let’s do this together.”

  “Leaping to the aid of others is annoyingly attractive,” she said with a weak laugh.

  He grinned. “I’m sorry we were interrupted, because I was having fun out there, but hey, if this impresses you, I’ll take it.”

  Once she stopped shaking, she’d have a better response to that. Right now, all she could think about was Phil and the pink vomit. “Is he going to be okay?”

  He hesitated before answering. “I hope so.”

  Her heart sank.

  “Once you’re in the ambulance, you’ve got a great chance. He’s in good hands right now, don’t worry.”

  She did, though, her heart staying all twisted up as they cleaned the bathroom and disinfected every surface. When Malcolm arrived, taking over the last of the bathroom cleaning duties, he had an update: Phil was at the hospital and the initial word was that he was stable.