Only her whirlwind romance hadn’t ended with the fairytale wedding, holiday or no. Nope. Hers had just . . . ended.
“I mean, they seem perfect for each other,” Sally went on. “I bet it was a really beautiful ceremony, too, up at your brother’s winery. What with the recent snowfall and that view. I went to a tasting up there in October. It’s gorgeous.” She filled another set of orders and began drying a few freshly washed glasses that someone had just brought out from the back. “I know you probably can’t talk about it.”
Moira had promised Pippa and Seth not to talk about the ceremony to anyone outside the family and invited guests. And she wouldn’t. She just wished she didn’t have to picture it in her own mind. Because it had been stunning and beautiful and perfect. Sally was also right that Seth and Pippa were perfect for each other. So much so, it made Moira’s newly mended heart ache all over again, reliving their sweetly intimate ceremony in her mind.
She’d felt selfish and ridiculous, thinking about her own heartbreak while they said their I Do’s. But how was she supposed to watch them, their love shining so brightly as they shared both laughter and tears while speaking their personally written vows to each other, and not wonder what might have been for her? Maybe it wasn’t selfish—she was sincere in celebrating their happiness after all—so much as simply human.
“If they’d really wanted to keep it secret, I guess they could have eloped,” Sally said, then handed two more trays of beers over the bar.
Moira laughed at that. “Maybe, but it would have been a toss-up over which clan would have disowned them first. Turns out the only family more traditional and excited about all family events than the Brogans is the MacMillans.”
Sally laughed along with her, then nodded toward two swarthy, good-looking men who’d pushed their way to the bar, laughing and jostling each other, while a third man, a bit older and quieter, moved in behind them. He was also good-looking, but of the tall, blond, and chiseled variety. He wore a beautifully tailored suit that didn’t fit in with the relaxed throng.
“What’ll you fellas have?” Sally asked. “That you haven’t had already, that is?”
The two younger guys started flirting outrageously with Sally, despite being easily a decade her junior, their accents pegging them as French, maybe Belgian. Sally handled them with easy aplomb, and appeared just a little flattered by the attention. Beware the accent, Moira wanted to warn her. That’s how they get you to lower all your defenses and act like an idiot. Never again, she vowed. No more pretty men from distant lands with beautiful accents.
Mr. Tall, Blond, and Chiseled decided to turn his attention toward Moira. He appeared something of the brooding hero type, big and broad shouldered, with darker eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, and a sensuously shaped mouth. His hair was painfully perfect, and his eyes were a deep, dark brown, but there was nothing warm in them.
Moira shifted away from him on instinct.
His smile was slow and did nothing to warm his gaze. “Member of the wedding party, I see?” he said, his accent thick as well, but decidedly American. By way of the south. Texas, she guessed, noting the expensive Stetson he carried in one hand.
Ha-ha, Karma, Moira thought. Touché.
Her lack of immediate response was all the invitation Texas needed to insert himself way too deep into her personal space.
Moira hadn’t been genetically gifted in the stature department, topping out in the eighth grade at a few inches over five feet. However, as the youngest and shortest of six children, she’d long ago learned how to hold her own. She managed to slide her elbow onto the bar as she turned only her head to look directly at her would-be lothario, creating both a barrier to his intrusion while simultaneously making it clear she was not welcoming his attention. Unfortunately, not enough of a barrier to keep from smelling the alcohol on his breath. “Observant,” she said, not unkindly, but not kindly, either, then pointedly turned back to her soda. Which she belatedly remembered pushing away earlier. It now sat right in front of Texas.
“Looking for this?” He picked up her empty glass. “Why don’t I buy you another and we’ll get to know each other a little better.” His smile deepened, but his eyes remained cold. She caught a flash of what looked like irritation at her lack of a positive reaction to his overture. When she saw his smile change to something darker, as if she’d just issued him a challenge he intended to meet, the first tinkling of alarm prickled at the hairs on her neck. Moira was suddenly glad she was sitting in a public place, filled with people. A lot of people.
“Who knows, darlin’,” he added, picking up the glass and jiggling the ice, his gaze directly on hers now. “If you’re real lucky, maybe we’ll hit it off and someday you can upgrade that bridesmaid dress to the real deal.”
Moira knew the best response was no response of any kind, but he’d caught her so off guard with that decidedly misogynistic bon mot, her mouth dropped open before she could stop herself. “How do you know I’m not married with three kids?”
“No ring.”
“I’m liberated.”
“I’m Max,” he said, his gaze dropping to the front of her strapless dress, then back up to her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Libby.”
The predatory look, along with the smell of stale alcohol that he seemed to wear like some men wore cologne, made her shudder involuntarily. Moira turned to look for Sally, but she’d joined her fellow barkeep at the far end of the long, scarred, oak bar to help him break up an argument. Which Sally managed to do rather handily, Moira noted. “I want to be her when I grow up,” she murmured under her breath.
“I have something that wants to grow up,” Texas said, his hot breath now right next to her ear. “And you’re just the one to help me with that.”
Moira had to lean way back when she turned to look at him so as not to actually come into contact with his body. So far back she almost fell off her stool. She could have simply slid to her feet and put more space between them, but for one, she wasn’t letting this guy back her up. And secondly, she stayed seated because the high bar stool put her closer to even height with him. Standing, even in the heels she was still wearing, she’d have been at a sore disadvantage. “Max,” she said, quite sympathetically, “I know this will come as a big disappointment to you, so I’m apologizing up front, but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”
He made a big show of looking around. “Funny, I don’t see anyone.”
“I know,” she said, helpfully. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to take up any more of your time.”
He looked confused, which had been her goal.
“Now you’re free to go dazzle someone else. Or maybe get a cab and call it a night?” Moira wasn’t sure if Turtle Springs even had cabs. “Or an Uber.” They were everywhere, right?
Texas surprised her again by neatly sliding his arm through hers and tugging her off the stool. Caught off balance, and now from a standpoint decidedly lower than his six-foot-plus height, she staggered a step or two. He took that as an excuse to put his other hand on her hip to help steady her. His fingertips were hard and dug into her flesh. “Let’s go outside and you can help me with that, too,” he said, the cold light of what looked like victory gleaming in his dark eyes.
Moira felt a brief wave of nausea, and knew it was only partly due to her instinctive reaction to him and the sudden, untenable situation she’d somehow gotten herself into. She hadn’t had a full night sleep in longer than she could remember, and the catnaps she’d convinced herself were enough, had just been proven woefully inadequate.
“Your other gentleman caller will have to wait his turn,” Texas told her. He let his gaze dip to the front of her dress again, and that light in his eyes, when he looked back up, had gone from victorious to predatory. The kind of predator who looked like he’d take great pleasure in claiming his prey, and not necessarily in a way the prey was going to enjoy. “First come, first get, right, darlin’?”
“First—get?” Moira repeated, trying not to splutter. O
kay, now she was done being nice. Actually, she’d been done the moment he’d put his hands on her. She tried to tug her arm free. “What on earth gave you the idea that I would ever—”
“You’re a bridesmaid, sitting in a bar, drinking alone.” This time he raked his gaze up and down the full length of her body. “What other idea would I get?”
Fair point, Moira conceded, and yet, that still didn’t give anyone license to put their hands on her. “I’ve said I’m not interested. Please respect that, and remove your hands,” she said in her best courtroom voice.
He merely stepped in closer, forcing her to look up at him to maintain eye contact. “When I said first come,” he began as he leaned down closer, making her almost gag with the stench of his breath, “I didn’t mean me. I’m a generous man, Libby. You’ll get yours, too.”
Moira’s long dress made kneeing the guy impossible. Even if her knee would reach up that high. She wasn’t averse to the idea of using a balled fist to get the same point across. Being short did have its advantages, and, due to her size, her brothers had taught her how to fight, and not always fairly. However, Max still had her arm in one hand and his other hand tightly gripped her hip, blocking her from getting in a good left hook.
Moira preferred to fight—and win—her own battles, but, given the day she’d had, on top of the week she’d had, and the month, and the year, well, right now, she’d settle for expediency. She glanced down the bar, knowing Sally would set Max here straight in two seconds flat. Only now there was some other argument going on, this one not so easily controlled. Moira’s eyes widened as she saw Sally pull a silver whistle out from under the neck of her shirt, while the other bartender reached under the bar and came up with a thick, wooden baseball bat. Uh oh.
Moira supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her that things would get out of hand. She suspected the hotel lounge had seen its share of bar fights, but she’d bet they’d never once been overrun by this many people all at the same time. And most certainly not from such a global community of travelers. Not to mention it was also Christmas Day.
Voices were being raised in multiple languages now, and the mood had begun to shift from overly festive to something far less jovial. Then Sally put the whistle in her mouth and the resulting series of shrill blasts instantly silenced the room. For about two seconds.
Max also noted the disturbance and tightened his hold on her arm to the point she was sure he’d leave marks. “I believe that’s our cue to go find somewhere a little quieter, and a lot more private.” Without warning, Max tugged her into the crowd, heading in the general direction of the door that led to the side parking lot of the small hotel. Her car was parked out front. Dressed as she was, and given their height and strength differences, she didn’t like her chances for making a clean getaway once outside.
So, there was only one thing to do. The moment he’d let go of her hip to pull her into the crowd, she’d snagged her clutch from the bar. She slid her hand to one end of the long, tubular shaped bag, then clutched it in her fist like her own little satin-and-pearl encrusted bat. It might not be thick and made of wood, but then my target is probably a lot smaller.
When he turned to move them sideways between two clusters of shouting patrons, she swung her bag right at the zippered front of his trousers. Any other impact site might result in an immediate retaliatory response. Her brothers had taught her that there was one particular spot guaranteed to make a man drop whatever he was holding and immediately cover the injured area with his hands. Do it well enough, he’d be on his knees while cupping himself.
Moira only needed Max to let go of her. She could lose herself in the crowd in an instant, and they’d never lay eyes on each other again. The only question would be whether it was better to head upstairs to her room, or to run to her car, so she could drive back to the Hollow and the security of her family.
An instant before impact, however, she was spared from having to make that split-second decision when a large, warm hand blocked her shot. His palm was broad enough to encompass her hand and her bag, which he proved by gently but firmly wrapping long fingers around them both. “There you are, sweetheart,” he said, swinging their joined fists neatly downward, appearing for all the world like they were simply a couple holding hands. “I looked at the bar for you.”
Pinned as she was between her errant Good Samaritan and Max, with the crowd pressing in all around them, Moira couldn’t turn her head enough to see much more than a flash of what looked like ... a white lab coat? She could feel his large frame behind her like a big, sturdy wall of support, however, and unlike Max’s egotistical slithering, this guy’s somewhat Neanderthal approach didn’t make her feel threatened at all. Quite the opposite.
“Sorry I’m late,” he added, then shocked her by leaning down and pressing what felt like a kiss to the top of her head. She quickly realized it was an excuse to put his mouth closer to her ear when she heard him whisper, “Go with me on this and I’ll have you out of here in a jiff.”
Bluestone & Vine Page 32
