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CHAPTER 1
JAY
Igrab three shot glasses and thump them down on the counter one by one. Almost theatrically, I pour the amber liquid into them before sliding them across the smooth, oak counter to my patrons.
“Here you go, gentlemen.”
They barely look at me through their hazy eyes as they lift the glasses in yet another toast.
I turn away from them and am instantly captivated by the woman walking through the door of my bar. Her red hair falls past her shoulders, and there is something intelligent in her sparkling eyes.
She’s not a regular. No, I would recognize those curves if they frequented The Rusty Oak.
The cool, autumn wind pushes a few red leaves in through the doorway alongside her, making it look like she’s a professional model with her short dress blowing expertly to the side.
I find myself wanting to know what I would see if I lifted the hem of her green dress just a few inches.
I don’t flirt with patrons… ever.
But I might have to start.
Instead of heading for one of the private tables, she strides confidently over to the bar and slides onto a stool one down from the group of frat boys.
Her eyes connect with mine, and I find myself walking toward her even though I don’t remember consciously making the decision to do so.
“Bourbon,” she announces in a husky voice, keeping her eyes directly on mine. It makes it impossible for me to sneak a glance at her breasts, but I can see enough to know that she’s not trying to hide them.
“On the rocks?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and my eyebrows rise. Who is this woman who drinks bourbon straight?
There’s something in the back of my mind that says she’s familiar, but the other half of my mind continues to insist that she’s never been here before.
I turn her face over mentally as I pour her bourbon. It’s not as though I’ve run into that many redheads in my life. I turn around, the glass grounding me back to reality as I scan her again. Beautiful. Stunning. Curvy. But most of all, she can hold her own.
I know in that moment that I want to see her naked. I want to feel her body against mine, and even though I never flirt with patrons… that’s going to change.
“Name’s Jay,” I say, setting her glass in front of her.
“I can read,” she retorts. It’s not a mean response, but a response that tells me I shouldn’t treat her like she’s dumb.
I smile, forgetting that I’m wearing a name badge. “What’s your name?”
“Violet,” she responds after taking a swig of bourbon. A couple of fast blinks are the only sign of the burning feel of alcohol in her throat.
“You’re not from here.”
She smiles, and that’s when the hint of recognition hits me. I know exactly who she is. “No, but I’m here for a while. I have some things to take care of in Maplewood.”
I fight to keep my jaw from dropping. It has nothing to do with what Violet has said but rather with the discovery I’ve just made—her identity. I mentally flashback to when I last knew her.
She was seventeen, turning eighteen in her last year of high school, and I had gotten a job at a mechanic shop because my father had insisted that if I didn’t go to college, I had to get a job working with my hands. She and my sister Hannah became best friends, and she was over at my house almost every day.
I would get home from work with grease-stained hands and streaks across my face, and she would give me the same coy smile she’s giving me now. It makes me wonder what was going through her head when I knew her a decade ago.
Violet taps the side of her glass with one long, painted nail and continues to drill me with her light eyes that could be blue or green. This lighting makes it hard to tell, but I remember them from before; a sharp green that makes it difficult to focus when you’re looking right into them.
A hypnotist’s eyes.
