by Tawna Fenske
Also by Tawna Fenske
Front and Center Series
Marine for Hire
Fiancée for Hire
Best Man for Hire
Protector for Hire
First Impressions Series
The Fix Up
The Hang Up
The Hook Up
The List Series
The List
The Test
The Last
Eat, Play, Lust
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Trouble With Christmas, by Amy Andrews
Cowboy for Hire, by Victoria James
Great and Precious Things, by Rebecca Yarros
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Tawna Fenske. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Preview of The Trouble with Christmas
Copyright © 2019 by Amy Andrews.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Road
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Liz Pelletier and Heather Howland
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Cover art by
G-Stock Studio/Shutterstock
dcwcreations/Shutterstock
Michael Macsuga/Shutterstock
Interior design by Toni Kerr
Print ISBN 978-1-64063-7436
ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-7443
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition March 2020
For anyone who responds to “Great shirt!” with “Thanks, I got it at a thrift store for $1,” you are my people. Rock on with your bargain-hunting selves. This book is for you.
Chapter One
“This is complete insanity.”
Willa Frank turned to see what her best friend, Kayla, had deemed insane.
The mile-long line for the ladies’ room?
The fact that the bar was charging twelve bucks for a gin and tonic because they’d renamed it “The Panty Dropper” and added a penis straw?
Or the fact that grown men were writhing half naked on the floor just twenty feet away?
Not that Willa couldn’t appreciate the aesthetic. The man currently gyrating in a police uniform—er, there went his pants—was easy on the eyes, and so was the guy across the room wearing a cheetah-print loincloth and beating his bare chest.
But she had at least twelve million more pressing things to do, starting with that marketing plan for the Cartland deal and the proposal for that new client from—
“Oh, look.” Kayla tossed her long, dark hair and pointed to the far corner of the room. “That guy’s getting ready for some kind of cowboy-themed show.”
Aislin peered over Willa’s shoulder, blond curls tumbling around her bare arms. “Giddyup.”
Willa stifled a sigh. “I can’t believe I let you drag me to this.”
She’d only agreed because they were celebrating Aislin’s birthday, which was technically three weeks ago. Totally Willa’s fault for postponing to deal with client projects for her fledgling web design business. When had she become such a lousy friend? It wasn’t this bad when they met in college. Or, hell, maybe it was. Willa recalled being dragged from her dorm when Aislin and Kayla decided she’d had enough studying and needed more fun.
Fun. She should focus on that now.
She glanced at the shirtless guy with abs so grease-slicked, they flickered under the disco lights. How long did it take him to scrub that off every night? And did he have to pay for his own grease, or did this touring stripper group—The Bone Yard Gang, ugh—buy it for him? Olive oil would be expensive, but maybe something like Crisco or even used cooking grease from—
“Hello, earth to Willa.”
She turned back to see Aislin doing the potty dance in mile-high stilettos. It was a more impressive feat than whatever the hell Greased Abs was doing behind her, so she kept her focus on her friends.
“Half the audience is standing in this bathroom line right now,” Willa said. “That has to cut into the performers’ profit margins.”
“Ugh, I’m dying here.” Aislin tried to cross her legs and toppled into Kayla.
“Cut it out,” Kayla protested. “You’re bumping my bladder.”
Willa nudged them gently upright and glanced at her watch. “It’s been twenty minutes already.” She stood on tiptoes to see over the sea of female heads separating them from the ladies’ room at the end of the hall. There had to be four dozen women in this line, and the cloud of flowery perfume was making her eyes water. “At what point do we go outside and squat behind a dumpster?”
Kayla peered around her to see over a blonde in a skintight minidress. “Maybe someone died in there.”
“No, we’re moving.” Aislin did a delicate side shuffle with her legs pressed together, which was no small feat in those shoes.
“At the rate we’re going, it’ll be Christmas by the time you two get to pee.” Willa edged forward with the crowd.
She didn’t even have to go, not really. But standing in line with her best friends felt like a better alternative to sitting out there alone watching The Bone Yard Gang gyrating like plucked peacocks having a seizure.
As much as the three of them worked—okay, fine, as much as Willa worked—it was tough to find a time when they could all go out for girls’ night. These two had been by her side through thick and thin, so yeah, she owed them a fun night on the town. She owed them more than that, honestly.
Aislin stepped up the tempo on her potty dance. “Come on, come on, come on.”
“Okay, seriously.” Spurred by her friends’ suffering, Willa glared down the hall. “If we don’t hit the front of the line in five minutes, I’m dragging you down the street to the Laundromat. They’ve got bathrooms, and the bar next door has gin and tonics for five bucks.”
“Without the penis straw,” Kayla argued. “And without the scenery.”
Applause exploded behind them, and Willa avoided turning to see who’d doffed which article of clothing. Or donned it. It always felt creepier watching someone get dressed after stripping than it did watching them take their clothes off in the first place.
Not that Willa had tons of experience at strip clubs, though this wasn’t technically a strip club. Who even knew the Boyton Ballroom hosted stuff like this? Maybe she should talk to them about revamping their website to reflec
t a broader range of offerings. She could design an event calendar for them that would be easy to update with—
Stop it. You’re not here to work.
Ha. Like shutting off work mode was simple. For Willa, it took an act of God, and maybe a crowbar.
“Hottie at six o’clock.” Aislin nudged Willa with her elbow. “Check it out.”
Kayla bounced up on her toes to look. “Ohh, he must be planning some kind of fireman thing,” she said. “Yummy.”
Willa turned, already hating herself for doing it.
And okay, fine, her friends had a point. The guy was hot as hell. He had that ten o’clock scruff going on, complete with ashy smudges on his arms and forehead meant to look like he’d battled a house fire. Nice touch. She couldn’t make out all the words on his tight gray T-shirt, but she caught something that looked like “smokejumper” across a chest so broad, it deserved its own zip code. Nice eyes, too. Sort of a smoky gray lit from behind, the way the Central Oregon sky looked at sunrise during wildfire season.
Watching Smokey bare it all wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world…
Smokey the Bare.
Willa stifled a snort laugh at her own joke.
“Ladies.” Smokey edged past them, probably en route to the men’s room, which never had a freakin’ line. So unfair.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Smokey the Bare stared right at her, and Willa realized she’d been the one to speak.
Well, shit.
She cleared her throat and pressed on. “Look, I’ve got thirty bucks in ones that these two made me get so I could stuff them in someone’s G-string,” she said, “only we can’t do that because we’re stuck in this damn bathroom line.”
Smokey stared at her. “Uh—”
“So I’ll make you a deal,” Willa continued, aware of her friends giggling beside her. “If you can get us access to a bathroom in the next two minutes—”
“Like maybe an employee restroom or something?” Kayla suggested.
“Or an outhouse in back?” Aislin crossed her legs again.
“Or a chamber pot,” Willa added. “We’re not picky.”
“Um, look—” he started, but Willa pressed on.
“If you can do that for us, Smokey, I’ll stuff my whole wad of ones in your pants.”
And as a bonus, I’ll get out of here earlier.
She didn’t say that part out loud. No sense offending one of the entertainers. These guys were working hard, and besides, Smokey was hot.
So Willa shut her mouth, but she wasn’t the only one. Smokey had been rendered mute, staring at her with those stormy gray eyes and a look that was somewhere between befuddled confusion and hello, I’d like to lick butterscotch syrup off your body.
He folded his arms over his chest, and Willa caught a faint hint of wood smoke. Damn, this guy committed to the role.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “If I get you into a restroom, you’ll stuff thirty bucks in ones down my pants.”
“Yes.”
“And all I have to do is get you into a bathroom in the next two minutes.”
“Correct.”
Smokey tilted his head to the side, considering it. “How about we skip the ones and you have dinner with me?”
…
Grady Billman stared at the green-eyed brunette and waited for her answer.
He’d swung by Boyton Ballroom on his way back into Hart Valley after five days fighting a blaze out in the Siskiyou National Forest. Normally he’d go straight home for a shower, but the club owner had left a message bitching about how the bass player hadn’t picked up the amps after their last performance. Fucking Nielson. Or wait, fucking Jensen—it was his turn to haul gear, since Nielson was out on that Crater Lake fire. Was there anything less reliable than a rock band comprised entirely of smokejumpers and Hotshot wildland firefighters?
“Dinner,” he repeated to the brunette, who was staring at him with her mouth open. “I’ve been dying for a good meal. Something that isn’t freeze-dried or out of a can. I’ve heard good things about that new Italian place, or maybe something downtown?”
Five days of MREs had left him starving for a quality culinary experience, and he sure wouldn’t mind sharing it with this brunette. She had spunk.
She closed her mouth, then opened it again. “If I go to dinner with you, you’ll have us into a bathroom in less than two minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Deal.”
Grady started to stick out his hand, then thought better of it. He really should have scrubbed up before coming here. His nails were caked with soot and dirt that he hadn’t been able to get rid of at that campground water pump. He needed at least a twelve-hour shower.
But the brunette grabbed his hand anyway, lifting an eyebrow at the sight of the ash-smeared chest of his T-shirt. “Nice touch,” she said. “A tad over-the-top maybe, but I like the attention to detail.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Okay, Smokey the Bare—”
“Huh?”
Her smile turned a little sheepish. “Bare—you know, because, um, you bare it all for a living?”
He stared at her, realization seeping slowly into his subconscious. Five nights of sleeping on the ground might have dulled his brain, but he was slowly catching on. Did this woman actually believe—
“You think I’m a stripper.” He should probably be annoyed but could only muster up flattered.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” she said. “I mean, obviously I’m here. And it looks like hard work.”
A grin spread slowly across his face, and Grady could hardly hold back his laughter. Oh, man. This was too good. Wait till he told the rest of the crew. And hot damn, the brunette was smokin’. A killer body and eyes that reminded him of the forest. Sort of a swirly blend of green and brown with spots of amber sunlight mixed in. “Wait right here.”
He didn’t stick around for a reply. Just turned and wove through the sea of bodies toward the men’s room. Shoving the door open, he peered inside to make sure the coast was clear. Not a dude in sight, which wasn’t surprising. Most guys he knew steered clear of Boyton on a night like this.
Grady turned back to the brunette and her friends and gave them a wave. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll stand guard.”
The brunette hesitated, but her friends pushed ahead of her. As they scurried past, they murmured words of desperate gratitude. Three more women followed, but Grady kept his eyes on the brunette. What was she waiting for?
“Can’t say I blame you,” he said. “Guys are gross. I probably wouldn’t go into a men’s room by choice if I didn’t have to.”
At last, she moved toward him, taking her time, eyeing him with a guarded expression that made him slouch a little. At six four, he was used to shorter people feeling skittish around him, but something told him that wasn’t this woman’s deal.
“I, uh, don’t have to go.” She swiped a shock of golden-brown hair behind her ear, and Grady wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
The rest of her looked soft, too, especially those curves under her silky-looking pink shirt. “So you were just looking out for your friends?”
“Pretty much,” she said.
“That’s very generous of you,” he said. “Your willingness to shove thirty bucks down a stranger’s pants for the good of others shows an admirable level of self-sacrifice.”
That got a little lip twitch from her. Not quite a smile, which was okay. He’d just as soon earn that.
“Thank you,” she said. “Kayla’s got my cash in her purse, so—”
“What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Your name.” Grady smiled. “If I’m choosing a date over the thirty bucks, I’d like to know your name.”
“Oh. Willa,” she said. “Willa Fra
nk.”
“Willa,” he said, trying it out. “That’s pretty.”
“Thanks. It’s short for William.”
He cocked his head at her. “Your real name is William?”
“Long story.” She winced. “Don’t ask.”
Okay, he wouldn’t. Not tonight, anyway. But he would on their date. He’d ask a lot of things on their date if it meant getting to know her. His job made relationships impossible, but spending quality time with a beautiful woman was a great way to enjoy rare moments between fires.
“So, Willa,” he said, leaning against the wall as two women shuffled out of the men’s room and two more went in. “You like Italian?”
“To eat?” She bit her lip. “Of course you meant to eat. You’re not asking me about Italian men or shoes or—”
“You’re adorable.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “There’s a word no one’s ever used to describe me.”
“No? What words do they use?”
She frowned and looked up at the exit sign. “Efficient. Hard-working. Dedicated.”
“That sounds like a herding dog, not a human.”
There was that lip twitch again, almost a full smile. “Guilty as charged,” she said. “I own a web development company, so I’m pretty much married to my work.”
“As long as you’re not married to anyone else, we’re good.”
“What? Oh, no—not married.” She gave a startled little laugh. “Definitely not married.”
“That’s good news.” Not that he trusted everything someone told him, not after the last woman he dated turned out to have a husband and two kids. But Willa seemed sincere.
“So, Italian,” he said. “That new place is down by the river, or Briana’s is always good. Are you okay eating late?”
Her soft gold-brown brows lifted. “You don’t mean tonight, do you?”
Right. He should probably go home and shower. And sleep. Five nights in a tent on the ground had been killer on his back. “I suppose I should get cleaned up for our first date.” He lifted the hem of his T-shirt and sniffed. He’d put on a fresh one when he got to the pickup point, but it still smelled like smoke. Everything in his pack probably did.
He glanced back at Willa in time to see her jerking her eyes off his abs. Excellent.
