Page 1 of Thirst For Me
Chapter 1
Sierra
I check my phone, where the most aggravating two words in the modern world continue to stare me in the face.No Service.I squint up at the impassive blue sky as sun-dappled waves lap the rocky shore below me. A fat seagull pinwheels overhead, and I would not be the least bit surprised if it shit on my face.
It’s been that kind of week.
I’ve been standing next to this sea-battered, cedar-shingled building on the wooden pier, gazing out toward the other islands and the water that separates me from the city I can no longer see for way too long, when it occurs to me that maybe the woman who owns this charming waterfront building on Vancouver Island’s scenic coastline isn’t just late to meet me. That maybe she isn’t actually coming.
I turn to face the picturesque two-way stop intersection that is downtown Orchard Cove, British Columbia. Population: very few. An SUV is approaching along the same winding, tree-smothered rural road I came in on. The town is quaint, with its two stop signs, small cluster of commercial buildings, and handful of visible houses glimpsed through the abundance of trees, but I’m definitely not seeing the “abundance of tourism” I was promised.
And right about now, I’m seriously rethinking my life choices.
The SUV pulls into a parking lot diagonally across the intersection from where I stand and parks in front of an old building painted a moody teal blue. The sign readsSea Haven Bar & Grill. Eight very loud twentysomethings pile out of the vehicle, wrapped in sparkly red sashes, the kind worn for a bachelorette party. One of the girls trails a glittering veil as they rally into the bar, and classic rock briefly spills out through the open door.
Then I’m left alone with the seagulls again.
I check my phone one last time, swear under my breath, grab my handbag, keys, and other essentials from my van, and head over to the bar, sucked in by the music. It’s the only business in the town center that seems to have a pulse on a Friday afternoon.
When I draw the wooden door open, the lusty strains of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” pour out. As I step inside, the bachelorette party is getting settled, a waitress pulling together tables for them in the middle of the room, and a few other customers are scattered throughout the bar. The whole place is unironically retro, from the music and the glowing jukebox in the corner to the mirrored vintage liquor signs and the young man with the mullet and mustache wiping down tables.
As my eyes adjust to the interior lighting, another man walks out of a back room and strides behind the bar.
I stop in my tracks.
As he sets the liquor box he’s carrying on the bar, his gaze sweeps to the loud table of women, then to me. The electric shock that crackles through my body when our eyes meet lands somewhere between the base of my spine and my ovaries.
His gaze holds mine for way, way longer than common decency requires.
I am in no way prepared for this.
I’m here to meet a grouchy seventysomething woman, not the Hottest Bartender in the Galaxy. I don’t even have makeup on.
His gaze sweeps down my croppedKPop Demon HuntersT-shirt, Lululemons, and platform Adidas. I’m not even sure if he’s checking out my legs or wondering why I’m still standing here, staring.
The termruggedly handsomewas obviously coined by the admirers of this man’s genetically superior ancestors. He’s tall and built as hell—his shoulders, chest, and rock-hard biceps straining his snug, dark-blue T-shirt. An alluring hint of black tattoos snakes up under both sleeves, his manly beard is just a day or two past “trim,” and his brown hair is longish on top in a haphazardly sexy way.
Blinking, I approach the bar, my eyes still adjusting to the dim lighting. He can’t bethathot.
But then I reach the bar. He’smorehot.
“Um, excuse me. Could I possibly use your Wi-Fi?”
This is my polite-Canadian way of asking a fellow Canadian what the Wi-Fi password is, because of course I can use the Wi-Fi, right? But he frowns, giving me an almost comically blatant untrusting-of-outsiders look. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by an unwelcoming mask of indifference.
He says casually, “Why would we have Wi-Fi?” in the sexiest, manliest voice I’ve ever heard. Shivers actually run down my spine as he tears open the liquor box like he’s ripping open my shirt, and his arm muscles flex all over.
I cough briefly as I almost swallow my tongue for the first time in my life. Where the hell am I? There should really be a warning on the front door of this place.
“Uh ... whywouldn’tyou?” I glance around the room, but no one is paying attention to us. Tohim, incredibly. There’s no one sitting along the bar. And I don’t see a customer-facing sign with the Wi-Fi password anywhere.
“Well, most people show up in a place like Orchard Cove,” he says, pulling bottles from the box and setting them on the bar between us, “to get a break from all that ...” His sentence dies as his cool-blue eyes slide over me.
“Technology?” I venture, confused.
He completes his slow assessment, and seems to sum up my gel manicure, abundant jewelry, and the items I’ve dumped on his bar—structured pink tote, sparkling watermelon charm on a keychain loaded with keys, giant insulated coffee mug covered in stickers, and my phone in its bedazzled case—with his next two words: “City life.” He tips his sexy beard toward the very loud group of young women behind me. “Your friends, for instance, seem to be doing just fine without internet.”
Ha. He thinks I’m with that bachelorette party? While I’dloveto be drinking my face off with a group of girlfriends right now, I’m easily five years older than those girls, which in my experience means five years more jaded—and right now, their lust for life is making me feel ancient. They’regiggling, for fuck’s sake.
