Santa's on His Way

  With him leaning over the bar she got a good look at his backside. Nothing to complain about there. The mayor’s words rang in her ears. “Prime USDA beef.” She mentally slapped herself for objectifying someone like that. It was awful, but the man did have a very nice body. Tall, at least six-two, broad, and extremely toned, like he could handle himself in a bar fight. The very notion made Rachel shudder with distaste.

  “Hey, Rach. What can I get you?” Ingrid, one of Boden’s bartenders, asked.

  Rachel wasn’t much of a drinker and glanced behind the bar to consider her options. Old Glory was known for its vast selection of craft beers and when in Rome . . . “How about an IPA?”

  Ingrid laughed. “We’ve got a lot of them, but since the boss is buying, you should go with a Pliny the Younger.”

  Rachel slid a sideways glance at Boden. She hadn’t realized he knew she was here. The man must have eyes in the back of his head. She flinched at the possibility that he’d caught her checking out his ass. “Why?”

  “First and foremost, it’s really good. But it’s also hard to get. The bulk of it is only sold through the brewery in Santa Rosa. Boden has an in with the owners.”

  “Oh, well, in that case I’ll try it.” Because she’d taken a pastry path in culinary school she wasn’t as up on craft beer or even wine as she should be, but she liked to keep informed. “Thanks, Ingrid.”

  Ingrid returned with a pint glass a few minutes later, and just as Rachel was taking a taste Boden sauntered over.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s nice . . . hoppy,” which, duh, weren’t all beers hoppy? It’s just that this one seemed particularly so.

  “Good palate.” He leaned over the bar like he’d done with the other women. “That’s because there’s triple the hops as a standard IPA.”

  “It’s lovely.” She lifted the glass in a salute.

  “Yes, it is.” He grinned, and she noted that he had very white, straight teeth, which somehow seemed incongruous with the rest of him. “It’s loud in here. Why don’t we go back to my office?”

  “All right.”

  He picked up her beer, held the end of the bar door up for her, and ushered her through the kitchen. She’d never seen it before and took her time to have a look around. It was laid out efficiently with the range, oven, fryer, and griddle neatly arranged in stations. There was a prep area and a small section for expediting.

  His office, like the rest of the bar, was covered in American flags. An old leather love seat sat kitty-corner to an oak desk, cluttered with paperwork. Behind it hung a portrait of an older man in a military uniform.

  “Your father?” she asked.

  “Nope.” He turned to stare at the photograph. “But he should’ve been.”

  Rachel waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, her cue to mind her own business. He motioned for her to take the chair facing the desk and he sat behind it, placing her beer down.

  “I just wanted to talk about the setup Saturday.” He leaned back and she mentally prepared herself for a mansplaining session. “In addition to a host bar, the couple wants us to pass out glasses of Champagne throughout the evening. I don’t have staff for that and was wondering if I could borrow a few of your servers. Of course, I’d compensate them . . . or you . . . however you want to work it.”

  She thought about it. What he was proposing was perfectly reasonable. But because the wedding was Christmas Eve, she was short staffed. Most of her servers were locals who moonlighted to make a few extra bucks but wanted to stay home with their families for the holiday. “Honestly, I don’t know if I can spare anyone. It’s a skeleton crew to begin with. You can’t hire a couple of your bartenders?”

  “We’re open that night and I need whoever is willing to work, here.”

  “Is there any chance you could talk the couple into setting up a Champagne station? That way we’d only need one pourer, two at most.”

  He let out a breath. “I sort of promised.”

  She knew how that went. The last thing you wanted to do was tell a nervous bride that the caterer was changing her vision of the perfect wedding. “Maybe Foster knows a few people who can do it.”

  The florist had grown up in Glory Junction, knew everyone in town, and was tapped in at the ski resorts. There was bound to be someone at one of the hotels looking for holiday work.

  “Already asked,” Boden said.

  She contemplated how she could help, even though a part of her brain whispered, This isn’t my problem. Because the last time she’d been collegial and helped a “friend” he ran off with her job.

  And now, wouldn’t you know it, he was Lawyer of the freaking Year.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rachel Johnson was a difficult woman to read. Everyone knew she was a former blue-chip lawyer from San Francisco and that her parents were hotshot legal eagles. Other than that, Boden knew very little about her. Maybe because she rarely gave him the time of day and when they worked catering gigs together she spent most of the night trying to call the shots: telling him where to set up his bar, when to prepare for the toast, and generally dictating how he should do his job.

  It annoyed the crap out of him. He’d been bartending since he was twenty-one, fourteen years. He didn’t need anyone giving him pointers. But it was a small town and a tight-knit community, so it didn’t pay to alienate anyone, especially the town sweetheart. Oddly enough, no one besides him thought Rachel was a first-class snob. The whole town loved her and her sticky buns, which he thought were just okay. A little too sweet.

  Now her real buns . . . well, they were better than just okay. But that was territory he didn’t want to get into. The truth was he found her very attractive. Kind of a soap commercial model with that peaches and cream skin of hers. Jennifer Aniston with brown eyes. He’d always had a thing for the actress. But even a big Hollywood star seemed more accessible than Rachel Johnson.

  “Look, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  She was already getting out of her chair. “Worse comes to worst, you can always resort to the pouring station. Everything will be so hectic the bride and groom probably won’t notice.”

  “Yep.” Except he liked to keep his promises.

  “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He walked her through the kitchen back to the bar, which was quickly filling up. On Wednesdays, he did a hump-day happy hour with cheap drinks and snacks. It was mostly for the locals, who were starting to get priced out of the restaurants in town with all the ski resort business. He didn’t want to see that happen.

  He noticed a couple of guys standing in the corner, giving Rachel the once-over. They looked like they were up from San Francisco or Los Angeles. Expensive haircuts, shiny North Face jackets, and he could smell their cologne over the spilled beer and fried food.

  “Where is it?”

  He looked at her. “Where is what?”

  “The new Illy?”

  He laughed. “You covet my coffee machine, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “A little bit, yeah.”

  He laughed again, then flipped up his brows. “You want to touch it?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, why do you need an industrial coffeemaker?”

  Good question. His specialty was craft beer. There were nearly forty on tap now. But the après-ski crowd, like the dudes in the corner, wanted their hot drinks. Irish coffees, espresso martinis, morning roosters. They were a pain in the ass to make, but the markup was good.

  Just to play with her he said, “I’m thinking of opening the place for breakfast. I do a killer Hangtown Fry.”

  For a minute her face fell; then she realized he was messing with her. “What do you really plan to do with it?”

  “Drinks.” He nudged his head at the city dudes. “They like the girly stuff.”

  “That’s sexist,” she said with that imperial way of hers that never failed to annoy him. But she also seemed relieved.
br />   “I was kidding, Rachel. It was a joke.” The woman really was a cold fish.

  She scanned the back of the bar. “Why don’t you have it out?”

  Jeez, what did she think, he was selling black-market coffee in the back? Humorless and distrustful. What a combo. The truth was he hadn’t even taken it out of the box yet. “I’ve got to figure out where to put it.” Old Glory was getting a little cramped, but not for long. When he got his brewery up and running he’d have extra space for equipment and to store the surplus booze he used for catering gigs.

  Boden looked up as two young women pressed against the bar, trying to get Ingrid’s attention. If they were twenty-one he was eighty. “Hang on a sec.” He grabbed Rachel a stool at the bar and went to check the girls’ IDs.

  When he came back, one of the city guys had cozied up to Rachel and was talking to her. Boden figured he’d be her type. He had Ivy League tattooed on his forehead. Boden had never made it past high school, unless he included the business and craft-beer courses he’d taken at a community college when he’d lived in Oceanside.

  She broke her conversation with frat boy and turned to Boden. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Kids up on their winter break to ski and think we don’t card here in the boondocks.”

  She followed his gaze toward the girls, who he’d comped a couple of Cokes and were now engaged in a game of darts with a few local guys. Since he served food, Old Glory was open to all ages, which sometimes made it difficult to determine who was legal to drink and who wasn’t. Over the years, Boden had acquired a knack for it. Besides the fact that it was a hefty fine if the ABC caught you, he was dead set against serving alcohol to minors.

  “I better get going.” She slung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and frat boy’s face fell.

  “See you Saturday night.” Boden would probably see her as soon as tomorrow when he went into the bakery to get his morning fix. But he said it just to get a rise out of her buddy. “I’ll walk you out.”

  A gust of wind slapped him as he opened the door. “Looks like a storm’s moving in. Take it easy driving.” He knew she lived in a town house not far from one of the resorts. That’s the kind of town it was; everyone knew everyone else’s address.

  She looked up at the moonless sky and said, “You too,” and smiled because he lived on top of the bar, another thing he was going to change when he opened the brewery.

  And then he just stood there, coatless, with his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, basking in Rachel Johnson’s smile, a smile that was a little like sunshine, even though everything else about her was dead of winter.

  He watched her walk away, then forced himself to go inside to work on his proposal for the Old Watermill House. It still needed a few tweaks before the Friday deadline. He was pretty sure he had the advantage, though he didn’t know who his competition was yet. But the mayor and council members were basing their decision on revenue for the city. Seemed like a brewery would be a slam dunk. Besides making beer, he planned to have a taproom with a full-service restaurant. The Old Watermill House was big enough for all that and then some. With incredible views of the river and plans for an exhibition brewing area, the place would appeal to locals and tourists alike.

  Boden looked up at the picture of Gunny that hung over his desk. If it hadn’t been for him, Old Glory never would’ve been possible. But it wasn’t the full dream and Boden owed it to the man, his mentor and the only one who’d ever given a shit about him, to see it realized, even if Gunny couldn’t.

  Screw cancer!

  “This is for you, old man. We’re gonna do it.”

  Twenty-two years ago, Jake Hornsby, aka Gunny, came into Boden’s life through the revolving door his mother had for boyfriends. True to form, Desiree Farmer quickly tired of Gunny. But Gunny lived just down the block and kept an eye on Boden. The marine gunnery sergeant had a knack for keeping young men in line and Lord knew Boden needed a firm hand. At fourteen he’d already heisted his first car and by fifteen he faced time in juvenile hall. Gunny swooped in, vouched for Boden in court, and for the most part, took over raising him.

  In Gunny’s garage, Boden learned how to brew beer. He wasn’t yet old enough to drink it, but brewing was something they did together, a way for Gunny to keep him off the street. And Gunny was the quintessential beer hobbyist. He read articles about how to perfect his home brew, bought every gadget and every piece of amateur beer-making equipment known to mankind, and spent hours playing with recipes. They were like chemists in a laboratory. Gunny would blast classic rock on a boom box and tell stories about Desert Storm.

  When Gunny retired from the military he opened a small pub near Camp Pendleton where his marine buddies could hang out. Boden used to help the pub’s short-order cook on the weekends and after graduating from high school worked there full-time. But Gunny’s real dream was to open a small brewery. The plan was for Boden to get an associate’s degree in business, then partner with Gunny. But then Gunny got prostate cancer and their only plan was to get him well. After two years of fighting, the big “C” won. Gunny left the pub and all his worldly possessions to Boden with the caveat that he sell the place, get an education, and launch his life somewhere else. Boden did sell the bar, took the money, went north, and opened Old Glory in homage to Gunny.

  He covered it in American flags and served the best local craft brews he could find to memorialize the best man he ever knew. The US of A and good beer were the two things Gunny loved most in this world. All that was missing was the brewery component, and Boden planned to move heaven and earth to make it happen.

  “Hey.” Ingrid poked her head inside his office. “I’m taking my break. Cassie’s covering me.”

  Boden got to his feet. “I’ll back her up.”

  The place was busier than before, with a crowd standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar. The hump-night specials lured ’em in. All four Garner brothers were at their usual table and Boden waved. Colt Garner, the eldest, had voiced interest in being a silent investor in the brewery. Like Boden, he was a craft-beer nut. There were a few others who’d also said they’d like to sign on to the project. The extra capital would come in handy to make all the improvements Boden had in mind for the mill house, including a killer apartment on-site. In the meantime, he’d been taking catering gigs to add to the kitty.

  TJ Garner managed to squeeze in at the end of the bar. “It’s crowded tonight,” he shouted over the noise and jukebox. “I need a refill on whatever Colt got.”

  Boden filled a pitcher. Most craft-beer joints only did pints, but the locals would riot if he got that high-assed about it. So he kept a few inexpensive brews on tap that he could serve in pitchers.

  “How you guys doing? I’m guessing business is good.” The Garners owned an adventure company, and with all the snow they’d been getting, their ski tours must’ve been booked solid.

  “We’ve been busy, that’s for sure. You coming to the open house Christmas Eve?” Every year, Garner Adventure threw a big party at their office building down the street.

  “I’m doing the bar for the Canadells’ wedding.”

  “It’s the niece, right?” There were a bunch of Canadells in Glory Junction. The bride’s aunt and uncle were the only full-timers, though. They ran an insurance company in town. “I hear her parents own quite the vacation home up in the mountains.”

  “Yep. I went up there a few weeks ago to scope it out. The place is off the hook. Where do people get that kind of money?”

  TJ laughed. “Sorry you’ll miss the GA party. One of us will be over in the afternoon to pick up the kegs. That work?”

  “Hey, this is a full-service operation. I’ll deliver them before I head up the mountain.”

  “Thanks, Boden.” TJ took his pitcher. “Catch you later.”

  Boden finished out the night behind the bar. Despite the crowd, everyone was fairly low-key. No fights, no broken barware, no drama. Someone kept feeding quarters into the jukebox,
playing Christmas songs. Without Gunny, the holidays were tough on Boden. A loner by nature, he wasn’t big on most celebrations. But Christmas . . . well, it had a way of bringing out the lonely.

  More than likely Desiree was snugged up with one of her biker boyfriends somewhere. Boden had lost count of her men and had frankly stopped caring a long time ago. It was her life to spend it any way she wanted, so long as it wasn’t with him.

  At two, he hollered last call to the handful of stragglers and began mopping up. Then he returned to his office to work on the proposal but fell asleep at his desk. By the time he dragged his ass upstairs to his apartment, he was dead on his feet.

  The next morning, he was up by eight, ready to do it all over again. He thought about having breakfast at the Morning Glory but nixed the idea for Tart Me Up instead. He told himself he liked the coffee better, but the truth was he wanted his Rachel fix. His napalm in the morning. She was definitely too toxic for a steady diet, but it didn’t mean a guy didn’t like to play with fire every now and again.

  He waited five minutes for the water to get hot—pipes that probably dated back to the Gold Rush—before jumping into the shower and taking a quick one. He wanted to get the paperwork for the Old Watermill House in order before he opened for lunch.

  As usual the bakery was packed. Rachel worked the front counter with Sam and another kid Boden didn’t know. He rested his hip against the wall, waiting for his number to be called. By the time they got to him, the crowd had thinned and it looked as if the rush was waning.

  “Morning,” he said to Rachel, noticing her curves even through the white apron. “I’ll have an egg croissant and some caffeine.” She started to pour his coffee into a to-go cup and he stopped her. “For here.” May as well, now that there were tables available. If he took it to go everything would be cold when he got to Old Glory. It was snowing. Nothing heavy but enough that he’d bundled up.