1

Sydney

“She’s alive!”

“Ha ha, very funny.” I hug Anthony hello, getting a whiff of the tequila on his breath. Guess they already started without me.

Other than the tequila, his familiar cologne tickles my nose, and paired with his perfectly tailored outfit, I’m once again left feeling a bit like a slob in his presence. It’s hard to compete with a man who dresses as if he has a personal stylist, though.

Bradley makes grabby motions at me next, pulling me in for a hug, too. “Risen from the flour-covered dead,” he whispers, making sure his boyfriend doesn’t hear him. Anthony takes pride in being the funniest one in the group. Or at least the most clever, always quick with a one-liner.

“I’m not that bad,” I insist, taking a seat at the high top table with them. I stroke a hand over the planks of reclaimed wood, covered with dips and grooves that catch the light of the overhead Edison bulbs.

“Yes, you are, babe,” Bradley says, sipping from what looks like a Long Island Iced Tea, his usual drink. “We haven’t seen you in forever.”

My fingers trace over the small copper number plate screwed into the table with the number three on it, then to the short mason jar in the center filled with dried wildflowers.

“Hello, Earth to Sydney.” Anthony waves a hand in front of my face. “Has all that overtime addled your brain?”

I swat his hand away. “I’m just checking out this place. I thought it was a dive bar?” It comes out more as a question than a statement.

Nothing in here looks new necessarily, but everything from the gleaming wooden bar counter spanning the length of one wall to the handwritten chalkboard sign listing the tap offerings makes it seem more like curated imperfection than anything truly vintage. No two tables or chairs are exactly alike, but rather than clashing, it feels cohesive. Very… intentional, though it’s trying hard to come across as happenstance.

“They renovated it,” Bradley says. “Closed it for maybe a month and transformed it into this. Total upgrade. It was a little skeevy before.”

I make a hmm noise, still surveying the place. The high wooden beams along the ceiling and exposed brick walls add to the bar’s rustic charm, and despite the not-quite-antique vibes I’m getting, I like it. It’s comfortable, with the kind of atmosphere that wraps around you like a worn-in flannel shirt. Conversation buzzes in an easy, contented hum, filling the space without drowning it.

I’m interrupted from my inspection by the arrival of the rest of our party. Cheyenne—the birthday girl we’re celebrating tonight—followed by Beth, my roommate, who agreed to be her designated driver so she could let loose.

Cheyenne lets out a whoop when she spots me, rounding the table to wrap her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re here. I thought you worked tomorrow.”

Over her shoulder, Anthony gives me a pointed look, which I ignore. None of the rest of them have to be up at the ass-crack of dawn for their jobs. It’s a necessity for a baker, though, especially since we’ve been short-staffed at the bakery for months.

“Sixty-hour weeks can’t keep our girl down,” Beth says, grinning.

“Obviously, I wouldn’t miss your birthday,” I tell Cheyenne, sidestepping her statement. I already know drinking and staying out late tonight is going to make me crabby tomorrow, but I’m willing to do it for her. Besides, Anthony’s right that I haven’t been out in months—not that I’d admit that to him—and I’m looking forward to letting loose a little.

“What’s it been? A month since sunlight’s touched your skin?” Anthony teases.

I keep my grin at bay. “Not true. I brought in a supply order at the bakery earlier this week. Direct sunlight for five whole minutes.”

He snorts, running a hand through his artfully tousled hair, the kind of mess that takes real effort.

“Any chance of cutting back your hours soon?” Cheyenne asks, stealing a sip of Bradley’s drink. “We miss you at trivia night.”

“Yeah, we don’t have anyone to yell at the other tables for cheating,” Bradley adds.

I laugh, despite myself. “I don’t know whether I’m flattered or insulted that that’s my greatest contribution to the team. Besides, I thought Anthony would take up that job.”

“Not even I’m that petty, honey,” he replies, dodging the balled-up cocktail napkin I chuck at him.

“Sorry, I don’t have an answer for you, Cheyenne,” I tell her. “But the good news is that we’re interviewing someone for the bakery next week, so fingers crossed it works out.”

Beth makes a hiccuping laugh, but before I can question it, a server stops by our table. She hands out shot glasses to everyone, and it takes me a moment to place her. Jill was in my younger sister Hailey’s grade.

“What’s this?” I ask cautiously, though I’m fairly sure I know the answer.

“I got us a round of tequila,” Anthony answers, beaming. Of course he did.

“None for me,” Beth says quickly, putting hers in front of me. “I’m DD.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

I try to give the shot to Cheyenne, but Anthony stops me. “You owe us shots. Consider it back pay for how many hangouts you’ve missed.”

Cheyenne grins, probably happy she doesn’t have to take double shots of tequila herself.

I grumble but lick the skin between my thumb and index finger and sprinkle salt on it, then grab a wedge of lime.

Bradley holds his shot glass up. “To the birthday girl.”

We all cheer and down our shots, the familiar burn making me wince, and I suck the lime wedge as quickly as I can to chase it away, then repeat the process for my second shot.

As I settle into catching up with everyone, a buoyancy fills me. I’ve been more stressed than I realized working nonstop for the past few months. And not that I’d admit it to Anthony, but it seems I’ve missed a lot.

Cheyenne broke it off with her situationship. Bradley got a promotion at work. And Anthony decided on a new plant for his office—which to him is the equivalent of Cheyenne and Bradley’s news.

And me… well, there’s nothing new with me. Nothing ever changes.

That buoyancy settles, becoming a weight on my shoulders. Time to switch to something more my speed.

“I’m going to ask about their beers,” I say, hitching my thumb over my shoulder toward the bar. “Want anything, birthday girl?”

She waves me off with a not yet, engrossed in a conversation with Anthony about the latest season of some Housewives show and all the drama it entails.

I head to the bar, running a hand over the polished wooden counter. I can practically see my reflection in it.

A prickle of awareness runs over me, and I lift my head, meeting two blue eyes.

I don’t recognize the man behind the bar, which is odd for our small town. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and golden brown hair, his black button-down rolled up at the sleeves to reveal strong forearms.

My gaze meets his again, and he’s silent. Watchful.

I flush, realizing he’s waiting for me to order, and all I’ve been doing is staring at him.

“Do you have any good craft beers?” I ask, pushing through my embarrassment.

He’s quiet for a moment longer, his gaze flicking over me. “What are you in the mood for?”

His voice is deep and rumbly, making my belly dip unexpectedly. I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of reaction to a guy.

“Have anything with citrus?”

He nods approvingly, and something about it makes my stomach flutter again. As if I pleased him. “We have a blood orange wheat ale I think you’d like.”

“Perfect. I’ll have that.”

He pours it with practiced motions, and I take the opportunity to check him out more. His chest and arms fill out his shirt nicely, and the stubble on his jaw looks good on him. Hot.

“Do you have a favorite beer here?” I ask him as he hands me my glass and I pay. It’s a dumb question, but I can’t think of anything else to say, and I don’t want to return to my table yet.

His lips quirk up the tiniest bit, but it transforms his face, softening it. “It’s this one, actually.”

I take a sip of the amber-gold ale, the first swallow crisp and smooth. The wheat base is nice, but the blood orange steals the show. Juicy and tart and just bitter enough to be interesting. “How convenient.”

He gives me an actual grin, showcasing a beautiful smile with straight white teeth. “No, I swear.”

I grin back and nod toward the beer. “It’s really good. Is there coriander in it?”

“Yeah.” He seems taken aback for a second. “Not many people pick up on that.”

“I’m good with flavors.”

He shoots me a quick, decisive look, then pours a small amount of another beer on tap into a glass, and slides it across the counter to me.

I raise my brows and take a careful drink of the darker ale, half-expecting it to be heavy and bitter, but it surprises me. “Okay… I don’t hate it. It’s like a campfire and a pancake had a baby.”

He blinks for a moment at my description, that smile tugging at his lips again. “Elaborate.”

I take another sip, letting the flavors sit on my tongue. “It’s smooth, almost creamy. Not too sweet but has a kind of toasty comfort thing going on. It’d be good in the fall. There’s malt and vanilla for sure. And a hint of maple.”

He nods. “Right on the money. Vanilla maple brown ale.”

“I propose renaming it Cozy Pancake Baby.”

He chuckles. “I’ll consider it. That’s a neat party trick.”

I make a pretend bow, as if it’s an actual talent.

“You’re not a secret beer connoisseur here to show me up, are you?”

I smile and take another sip of the blood orange wheat. “No, nothing like that. But it does come in useful for baking.”

An arm slings over my shoulder, and the scent of tequila tells me who it is without having to look.

“Are you going to flirt over here all night or come hang out with your friends?” Anthony asks.

I pat his cheek more forcefully than necessary. “Be right there.”

Anthony asks for another shot of tequila, and though I want to stay and talk more, the vibe is off now. The bartender is back to his serious persona from when I first approached.

I smile and pick up my beer. “Thanks again for the recommendation.”

“Yeah, of course.” He looks like he might say more for a moment, then decides against it, pulling a bottle of Jose Cuervo out from under the bar.

I head back over to our table, and though I’m happy to chat with everyone, a part of my mind is still on the bartender. I glance behind me, and his gaze is on me, watchful and interested. He looks away almost instantly, and I smile to myself.

Something my sister said about a month ago comes back to me, after I’d said all the guys in town suck. Maybe you’ll meet someone new. She’d even mentioned this bar specifically. I’d rolled my eyes at the time, but… maybe she was onto something.

I nearly laugh at myself. I don’t know anything about this guy. Not even his name.

I’ve never felt the urge to initiate with a guy, but there’s a first time for everything. I could ask him out or give him my number.

My palms go sweaty at the thought. Oh, shit. Is this what guys go through all the time?

“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” I announce to no one in particular at the table, then fix my hair in the mirror above the sink when I get in there, rearranging the front pieces to appear effortlessly stylish.

“It’s showtime,” I mutter to myself, then head out of the bathroom and nearly trip on my shoelaces.

“Shit.” I stoop down to tie them, and pause as I hear my name. It’s Jill, the server who brought us our tequila shots earlier.

“So what do you think of Sydney?”

Who’s she talking to?

“Who’s Sydney?”

Oh, it’s my bartender. Should I pop my head up so they know I’m here?

Eh… I want to hear what he says.

“The girl you were flirting with earlier. That got the blood orange wheat ale.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

My stomach twists. I can’t tell from his tone if he’s denying it because he’s embarrassed… or really wasn’t flirting.

Jill chuckles. “Well, as close to flirting as I’ve seen from you. You even gave her a free sample,” she adds teasingly.

“It’s called good customer service.”

“You two would be cute together.”

There’s a long pause, my ears straining for a response.

“I’m not interested.”

It’s flat and final and affects me more than I’d like to admit, sudden tears stinging my eyes. That he could dismiss me so easily, being nice to my face and talking shit about me behind my back…

I escape again to the bathroom, studying myself in the mirror through my teary vision. I’ve always secretly been jealous of my older sister’s hazel eyes compared to my plain brown ones, or the way my younger sister’s hair is sleek and straight without having to add a ton of product to tame the frizzy mess like I do.

What is it about me that makes an immediate not interested? I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve been with guys. They’ve been interested.

Just not him.

The bathroom door opens, and Cheyenne makes her way in, the sloppy look on her face telling me she’s already buzzed.

She hugs me around the waist, pressing her cheek to my shoulder. “I’m so glad you could come out with us tonight.”

Letting go of me, she heads into a stall, and I instantly feel ashamed. I’m here to be with my friends, not moon over some dumb bartender I just met. Fuck that guy. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.

I wait for Cheyenne and return with her to the table, putting my back firmly to the bar counter, and keep it that way for the rest of the night.

***

I’ve got a mother of a headache, unsure if I should blame the alcohol from last night or the lack of sleep. Either way, I’m chugging my second cup of coffee, along with a flaky croissant slathered with Nutella.

“Slow down,” Rachel says, eyeing me with concern. “If you keep shoveling it in like that, I’ll need to do the Heimlich.” She can never stop mothering me, despite only being two years older.

Hailey snickers, but I don’t respond, mostly because my mouth’s too full.

We finish up the morning’s work and start on prep for tomorrow, then Rachel pulls me aside. “I have a meeting with the bar owner today. For that SBA partnership.”

Oh, right. The president of Aurora’s small business association asked her to take part in this program they’re putting together pairing different local businesses. The idea is to come up with a way to cross-promote both businesses to increase customer reach.

“Okay. Do you need to take off early or something?”

“No, I was actually wondering if you wanted to go.”

“Me?” I’m stunned for a second.

“You said you wanted to be more involved with the running of the bakery. This is the kind of thing that goes along with that.”

Wow, she would actually trust me with a project of this magnitude? “Yeah, I’d love to. I… To be honest, I’m surprised you wouldn’t want to handle this yourself.” She’s not exactly known for her hands-off approach.

Her lips quirk. “Nick convinced me to give you a chance.”

I inwardly smile. That makes more sense that her boyfriend had something to do with it.

“Am I that hopeless?”

She pauses, seeming to run her words back in her mind, and her face falls. “I didn’t mean—”

I hold up a hand to stop her. “I know, I’m kidding.” Clearing my throat, I continue, “And I appreciate that you have enough faith in me to let me prove myself.”

She frowns. “Sydney, you have nothing to prove to me.”

Don’t I, though? She’s the one who returned to Aurora a couple of years ago to get the family bakery back in order. I had no idea Mom and Dad had been running it into the ground. Until they left for their world cruise earlier this year, I didn’t know either how much Rachel actually does around here. She must secretly think I’m a slacker for not noticing before.

I don’t respond to her statement, instead asking, “Remind me who we’re partnered with again?”

“The bar.”

Duh. She just said that. Strike one that I can’t even remember that.

“Right.” There’s a sour taste in my mouth thinking of running into that bartender, but at least I shouldn’t have to speak to him. I’m meeting with the owner.

She gives me the project details, then squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks for stepping up.”

A burst of pride runs through me. Rachel doesn’t give out compliments to people who don’t deserve them.

An hour later, I’m walking through the door of the bar for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

“We’re not open yet.”

I stop in my tracks at the already-familiar deep voice. You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s him. Shouldn’t he be working a night shift or something?

He has on another dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, this one in navy, and the stubble on his jaw is thicker now.

“I have a meeting with the owner,” I say breezily, continuing on in as if I don’t have a care in the world about what he said.

Hey, maybe I can put in a not-so-nice word to the owner about him.

That’s not fair, a little voice whispers in my head. He wasn’t trying to purposely hurt you. You were the one eavesdropping.

Shut up. No one asked you.

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

My hackles rise. As if he knows anything about my business. “Yes, I do. Aurora Bakery is meeting with the bar for the SBA partnership.”

I’m sure his tiny brain can’t comprehend anything beyond pour drink now, but if he can just get the owner—

“You’re not Rachel.” A line forms between his brows. “I’m meeting with Rachel Blackwell.”

“I’m Sydney Blackwell, her sister.” The first part of his sentence sinks in. “Wait, you’re the owner?”

He nods cautiously. “Pierce Alden.”

There’s silence as we both eye each other carefully. This is not what I signed up for.

But I did ask Rachel if I could be more involved with the business. And if I back out of the first responsibility she gives me, she’ll never trust me with anything again.

Ugh, the things I do for this bakery.

“I’m taking over the project.”

Even if I have to work with him.

2

Pierce

Not her. Anyone but her.

Rachel, I could’ve worked with. She’s come into the bar a few times with her boyfriend, a big guy with the kind of steady presence that quietly screams don’t even think about it.

Rachel herself has been all business, polite and professional.

But this girl? She’s a distraction I don’t need.

Beautiful chocolate brown hair. Full lips. And expressively dark eyes.

Last night, they’d been filled with light, something fun and a little mischievous about her. Enhanced by smoky makeup that made her look mysterious. Alluring. Inviting.

And apparently I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding my interest in her if Jill picked up on it so easily.

I don’t have time to get caught up in captivating brunettes, though. I currently have no idea what I’m doing with my life.

Sydney looks different today—hair in a messy braid, no makeup, and a t-shirt with the bakery’s logo on it and what I assume is flour smudged into the fabric.

But there’s that same aura of confidence surrounding her. And that same pull in my stomach, which I ignore.

“Okay,” I tell her, my brain slow to catch up at the change in plan. “I haven’t had a ton of time to think about ideas yet.”

Her mouth quirks—half amusement, half something sharper. “Leaving it all to the bakery then?”

Last night her quips felt warm, like we were in on a joke together. This is cold, her tone tight and clipped, her arms crossed.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it sounded like.”

She takes a seat at the bar and pulls a notebook from her bag, as if she’s here to conduct an audit rather than brainstorm, looking anywhere but at me.

I run a hand over my jaw, thrown off by the change in her. Where’s the playful energy from before?

“I’ve had a lot going on,” I say defensively, hating being underprepared. One of my servers called out for tonight, and I’ve got a leak in the cooler I’m trying to figure out how to patch. I have a feeling that explaining all that won’t win me any points, though.

She raises a brow, unimpressed. “So this cross-promotion isn’t a priority for you. Got it.”

My stomach drops. “That’s not—”

“Look,” she interrupts. “I’d love if you could take this as seriously as I am. Think you can do that?”

The familiar instinct to put my walls up rises. Keep things surface level. Play it cool, even when you’re anything but. I’ve spent years perfecting the act, and it serves me well now.

“Absolutely. Why don’t you tell me your big ideas and I’ll catch up.”

Her gaze finally meets mine, and I’m unsure why I’m surprised by the hostility there based on how she’s been acting today, but it still catches me off guard. She looks at me for a long second, and I swear I can sense every thought that crosses her mind. Disappointment. Resignation. As if she’s already decided I’m going to half-ass this.

I’m not, though. She doesn’t know the first thing about me.

“Okay.” She sits up straighter, her tone all business. “What about loyalty cards? Like they get a free pint or cupcake after so many visits.”

“Sounds like a car wash,” I mutter.

“It builds repeat business.”

I shake my head. “Those are the kinds of people who would come in anyway. We’re looking to attract new customers.”

She heaves a put-upon sigh. “Fine. What about something more immediate? Someone who shows a receipt from the bakery gets half off a drink here, and vice versa at the bakery?”

Hmm. “Could be easy to exploit. What’s stopping someone from reusing a receipt or sharing it?”

She pauses, frowning. “People in Aurora are honest.”

I haven’t been here long enough to judge that, too busy first with the renovations, and now managing the bar. But from what I know of people, there will always be those who try to game the system.

“Do you think it’ll create too much work for the staff?” I ask. “Checking receipts, applying discounts, keeping track of everything.”

She huffs an unamused laugh. “Do you have to be so negative?”

I shrug. “We need to work out the kinks before it goes live. That includes thinking of all the ways it could go wrong. Haven’t you brainstormed before?”

She dramatically scratches out a line in her notebook. “Fine. What are your bright ideas?”

“I told you I haven’t had time to think.”

“Hey, I found out about this an hour ago and came up with two things.”

What? “Why’d Rachel pass off the project to you?”

There’s a mulish set to her mouth. “Because. So, ideas?”

I grasp for something. “How about a take-home bundle we can sell at both places? It’ll have a curated selection of pastries and craft beers we decide on.”

“The bakery doesn’t have a license to sell alcohol.”

Right. “So we’ll do it here.”

She considers it. “I’m not saying no, but I’m concerned about freshness issues for the pastries, since they should be sold within a couple of days of being made. It’s not like alcohol that’ll keep. And if nothing sells, does the bakery have to eat the cost? Or will you buy the pastries at a discount from us to begin with, and then it’s on you if they sell or not?”

Wow, those are good questions. And from the glint in her eye, she knows it.

“Let’s rework the idea. Maybe it’s not something customers can buy any time. It could be a special event.”

“Like a flight of dessert pairings,” she adds, excitement in her voice. It’s the first glimpse of the Sydney I remember from last night. “Three alcohol and dessert duos. You host it here, and we do promo through both businesses.”

“I like it. Could you prepare different desserts from what you normally offer at the bakery to make it more exclusive?”

She gives a fake haughty scoff and flips her braid over her shoulder. “Of course. I’m the queen of flavors, remember?”

There she is. The warm, bold version of her, funny and gently teasing.

She must recognize it at the same time as I do, because her smile drops. I don’t know how to get it back, though.

She scribbles down notes as we continue refining the idea, and we soon have a rough framework to go off of.

“Let me know when you choose the desserts so I can pair the right alcohol with it,” I tell her as she closes her notebook.

“What, you think I can’t create a dessert that matches your choices?”

“Why are you being so antagonistic?” I blurt out. I hadn’t meant to say it, but maybe it needed to be said.

She’s silent, practically glaring at me. It’s light-years away from her interested, flirty look last night. Maybe I imagined that, though. Seeing what I wanted to because I was into her.

Not anymore.

She stuffs her notebook back in her bag and stands, tension crackling. “I’ll let you know about the desserts.”

Then she’s gone, the bar silent again.

I take a deep breath before the chaos that’s sure to ensue later. I have an MBA, and yet had no idea what it actually takes to run a business, in terms of practical experience. It seems theory can only take you so far.

Not that I ever thought I’d be here.

A text comes in and I grab my phone, hoping it’s Sara saying she can come in tonight after all for her shift.

Mom: Are you bringing a date to Graham’s thirtieth?

I put it away again, not wanting to think about returning home next month for the party.

How everyone will ask me when I’ll be back. When I’ll sell the bar. When I’ll take that job at the hedge fund Mom’s friend offered me.

That’s what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.

And then Grandpa died.

I run a hand over the polished wooden counter, remembering him pouring drinks right here, a smile on his weathered face. He’d cashed in his entire retirement to buy this bar and settle in Aurora. He’d always liked the idea of living in a small town.

And though he’d only lived here for the last five years of his life, he’d loved it. Said he found a real community.

It seems the people here had embraced him, too. I’ve heard nothing but good things from the townspeople I’ve talked to about him.

Melancholy hits me, swift and hard. How can I sell this bar? It was his pride and joy.

Dad thinks I’m still renovating the place, preparing it for sale, even though I reopened it weeks ago. There’s a reason Grandpa left it to me and not Dad or Graham. He knew they’d offload it immediately. They’d never even visited when he was alive.

Only me.

I scrub a hand over my face. I have other things I need to be doing. Ordering inventory. Figuring out how to patch that leak in the cooler. Preparing for the shift I’ll be covering tonight.

And what the hell I’m going to do about working with Sydney.