Christmas in Lucky Harbor Read online

  His dark hair was finger-combed at best, a lock of it falling over his forehead. He had a strong jaw, and cheekbones to die for, and disbelief swimming in those melted caramel eyes. “Mind telling me why you have it in for my bike?”

  “Okay, this looks bad,” she admitted. “But I swear I have nothing against you or your motorcycle.”

  “Hmm. Prove it.”

  Her gut clenched. “I—”

  “With a drink.” He gestured with his head to the bar.

  “With you?”

  “Or by yourself, if you’d rather. But you look like you could use a little pick-me-up.”

  He had no idea.

  He righted his bike with annoying ease and held out a hand.

  She stared at it but didn’t take it. “Look, nothing personal, but I’ve just seen how you deal with people who irritate you, so…”

  He looked in the direction that Smarmy Suit had vanished. “Parker was hitting on a good friend of mine and making an ass of himself. Yeah, he irritated me. You haven’t. Yet.”

  “Even though I’ve tried to kill your bike twice?”

  “Even though.” His mouth quirked slightly, as if she were amusing him. Which was good, right? Amused at her klutziness was better than being pissed.

  “And anyway, the bike’s going to live,” he said, directing her to the door, the one whose sign read THE LOVE SHACK.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  He flashed her a smile, and holy mother of God, it was wickedly sexy. It might even have been contagious if she hadn’t been so damn worried that any second now he was going to morph into an angry, uptight, aggressive LA attorney who didn’t know how to control his temper.

  No, wait. That’d been her ex, Alex. “Honestly,” she said. “Bad idea.”

  “Honestly?”

  “What, don’t people tell the truth around here?”

  “Oh, the locals tell the truth. It’s just that they tell all the truth, even when they shouldn’t. It’s called gossip. Lucky Harbor natives specialize in it. You can keep a pile of money in the back seat of your unlocked car and it’d be safe, but you can’t keep a secret.”

  “Good thing I don’t have any.”

  He smiled. “We all have secrets. Come on, I know the bartender. It’ll help you relax, trust me.”

  Yes, but she was in the red on trust. Way overdrawn. In fact, the Bank Of Trust had folded. “I don’t know.”

  Except he’d nudged her inside already, and her feet were going willingly. The place snagged her interest immediately. It was like entering an old western saloon. The walls were a deep sinful bordello red and lined with old mining tools. The ceiling was all exposed beams. Lanterns hung over the scarred bench-style tables, and the bar itself was a series of old wood doors attached end to end. Someone had already decorated for Christmas and huge silvery balls hung from everything, as did endless streams of tinsel.

  Hot Biker had her hand in his bigger, warmer one and was pulling her past the tables full with the dinner crowd. The air was filled with busy chattering, loud laughter, and music blaring out of the jukebox on the far wall. She didn’t recognize the song because it was country, and country music wasn’t on her radar, but some guy was singing about how Santa was doing his momma beneath the tree.

  Shaking her head, Maddie let herself be led to the bar, where she noticed that nobody was here to drink their problems away.

  Everyone seemed… happy.

  Hoping it was contagious, she sat on the barstool that he patted for her, right next to a woman wearing sprayed-on jeans and a halter top that revealed she was either chilly or having a really, really good time. Her makeup was overdone, but somehow the look really worked for her. She was cheerfully flirting with a huge mountain of a guy on her other side, who was grinning from ear to ear and looking like maybe he’d just won the lottery.

  Hot Biker greeted them both as if they were all close friends, then moved behind the bar, brushing that leanly muscled body alongside of Maddie’s as he did.

  She shivered.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  When she shook her head, he smiled again, and the sexiness of it went straight through her, causing another shiver.

  Yeah, he really needed to stop doing that.

  Immediately, several people at the bar tossed out orders to him, but he just shook his head, eyes locked on Maddie. “I’m done helping out for the night, guys. I’m just getting the lady a drink.”

  The other bartender, another big, good-looking guy—wow, they sure grew them damn fine up here in Lucky Harbor—asked, “What kind of wing man just takes off without proper clearance? Never mind.” He slapped an opened sudoku puzzle in front of Hot Biker. “Just do this puzzle in three minutes or less.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a woman at the end of the bar, the one with the fuck-me heels—Jesus, don’t look! What, are you an amateur? She said she’d do things to me that are illegal in thirteen states if I did the puzzle in less than five minutes. So for all that is holy, hurry the fuck up. Just don’t let her see you doing it.”

  Hot Biker looked at Maddie and smiled. “Trying to impress a woman here, Ford.”

  Ford turned to Maddie speculatively. “I suppose you already know that this guy here has got some charm. But did he tell you that in our freshman year we nicknamed him Hugh because his stash of porn was legendary? Yeah, he had more back issues than eBay. And maybe he mentioned that he can’t pee his name in the snow anymore because the last time he did, he gave himself a hernia trying to cross the X at the end of his name?” Ford turned back to Hot Biker and slapped him on the back. “There. Now you have no hope of impressing her, so get cranking on that puzzle—you owe me.”

  Hot Biker grimaced, and Maddie did something she hadn’t in weeks.

  She laughed.

  Chapter 3

  “A glass of wine is always the solution.

  Even if you aren’t sure of the problem.”

  PHOEBE TRAEGER

  So you collect porn.”

  Jax Cullen took in the genuine amusement on the woman’s face and shook his head. Fucking Ford. “Past tense,” he corrected. “I sold the collection to an incoming freshman when I left for college.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”

  Liking the way the worry had faded from her eyes, which were now lit with good humor, he leaned over the bar and whispered near her ear, “Want to swap stories, Speed Racer?”

  She composed herself enough to grimace. “I’m just glad you can laugh about me almost killing you.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “I don’t know. Yelling.”

  Jax studied her face before she turned away from him, purposely eyeing the bottles of alcohol lining the back of the bar, trying to conceal her discomfort. “Not much of a yeller,” he murmured and reached out to play with one of her dark blond curls. He couldn’t help himself—they were irresistible.

  So was she.

  “I’ve heard that LA women are pretty aggressive in their pickup tactics. But this just might be one for the record books. You should probably just save us both some trouble and ask me out directly.”

  “Hey, I didn’t nearly run you over on purpose. And I tripped on the bike trying to read the sign.”

  “Ah, but you don’t deny the attempting to pick-me-up part.” He nodded. “You want me bad.”

  She laughed and then shook her head as if surprised at herself. “If you plan to keep stalking me like this, we should be on a first-name basis. I’m Jax.” He held out his hand. “Jax Cullen.”

  She slid her smaller, chilled-to-the-bone hand in his. “Maddie Moore.”

  He knew the name, more than he wanted to. She was Phoebe’s middle daughter. Giving himself a moment, he rubbed her hands between his, trying to warm them up. Earlier when she’d been using the highway—and nearly his body—for offensive-driving practice, he’d gotten the impression of a sweet, warm, and very stressed-out woman, and that hadn’t changed. He loved the wild, c