Hopeless Sneak Peek
Early excerpt subject to change
Chapter One: Beau
I thought pissing my brother off and storming away would make me feel something.
I was wrong.
Even acting like a raging dick when I’m supposed to help a family friend move into their new house feels . . . bland.
As I walk down the main drag in Chestnut Springs, my fingers curl into my palms, nails digging against skin.
I don’t feel that either.
I only feel tired.
But not tired enough to sleep.
A train horn blares and I freeze in place. For years, I’ve covered the way loud noises startle me, but it’s different this time.
You’d expect me to choose either fight or flight, but these days I just brace.
Pause.
Wait for any emotion to hit. Fear, anxiety, disappointment.
But these days I feel nothing.
I pivot on the corner of Rosewood and Elm to watch the train puff past. Chugging along. Back and forth. Point A to point B. Load. Unload. Wait overnight. Start over again.
“I am a train,” I murmur, as I stare at the wheels crushing against the tracks.
A woman pushes a baby in a stroller past me and shoots me a confused look. Her expression changes to surprise when she recognizes me. I think we went to high school together, but that could be said about anyone in this town who was born within a few years of each other.
“Oh, Beau! Sorry, didn’t recognize you for a second there.”
Probably because I haven’t cut my hair in months.
I don’t remember her name, so I plaster on a smile. “Not to worry. I’m blocking the crosswalk, aren’t I? Here . . .” My arm stretches out to press the crossing button for her.
The woman I can’t remember shoots me a grateful grin, hefting a bag up on her shoulder while trying to keep hold of the stroller overflowing with an unnecessary amount of stuff. “Thanks! Nice to see you out and about. You had all of Chestnut Springs worried for a couple of weeks.”
My cheek twitches under the strain of keeping my mouth upturned. Yes, I was JTF2, Canada’s elite special ops force. Yes, I knowingly missed our transport out to save a prisoner of war. Yes, I was missing in action for weeks and was in rough shape when they found me.
I’m still in rough shape.
People love to talk about it.
You gave us quite a scare.
Try to catch your ride out next time, eh?
I bet you’re loving all this attention,
I know they all mean well, but the way they express their interest bugs me. Like my getting stuck in enemy territory on deployment has a single fucking thing to do with them. Like I scared people on purpose, or just casually decided not to pick up a phone.
“Gotta love the small-town support,” is what I say, because You thought you were worried? Try being me just makes people uncomfortable.
“Well, you’ve got it in spades,” she replies. With a kind nod, she turns and crosses the street.
I look away, not wanting to follow her but not knowing where I’m going either. The opposite direction, I think.
Which is when my eyes land on The Railspur, the best bar in Chestnut Springs.
It doesn’t matter the sky is blue, and the sun is out on a beautiful summer afternoon. It doesn’t matter that Rhett and other friends need my help with unloading furniture a couple of blocks away.
At this moment, the town bar looks like a damn good hole to hide in.
And a drink doesn’t sound too bad either.
#
“Gary, if you don’t slow down, I’m going to take your keys away.”
The ruddy-faced older man scoffs as I pull up a stool a few down from him and turn it so one elbow rests on the bar and I’m facing the door. Western decor fills the space, a wagon wheel chandelier, polished wood floors, and mason jar glassware. It may be just another a small-town bar, but the extensive updates give it an elevated sort of feel.
“Don’t know when you got so lippy,” he grumbles, dropping his pint glass away from his lips. “You used to barely talk to anyone. Now you’re bossing me around like a little tyrant all the time.”
Shiny, almost black hair swishes over Bailey Jansen’s tanned shoulders. Her back is to us as she bends down to pull glasses out of the small washing machine behind the bar.
“Got comfortable, I guess. And you could use some bossing, old man. Sitting here, harassing me every day.”
“I do no such thing. I’m perfectly nice to you. One of the only ones who is, I reckon.”
She spins now, white towel in hand, to point at her only customer in the quiet bar. “You are. And I consider you a friend, which is why I tell you every day you drink too damn much.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, dark eyes widening in surprise, like she didn’t hear me over the country music and hum of the dishwasher.
“If I stop, you’ll be out of work. And maybe even a friend.”
Gary is talking to her like he hasn’t noticed my presence, but she responds to him without looking away from me. “I can live with that, Gar.” She pauses, tongue darting out over parted lips.
Full, glossy lips.
“Beau Eaton. Nice to see you.”
The man turns, now alerted to my presence. “Well shit, that is Beau Eaton, isn’t it? Big fella, aren’t you?” Gary slurs and Bailey’s free hand darts forward to swipe his keys off the bar.
Gary’s eyes close and he groans. “Every fuckin’ day.”
“Yep. Every fuckin’ day.” She shoves them into her back pocket and then turns back to the washing machine where glassware has backed up. “Beau, what can I get you? Got anyone joining you? Probably want your favorite couch, yeah?”
I swallow and glance at the couch where my brothers, friends, and I enjoyed many a night out. It feels like a different version of myself sat there. The new Beau sits at the bar with the shy neighbor girl who wears a pair of acid-wash Levi’s better than anyone he’s ever seen.
“Nah, just me today. I’ll have whatever Gary here is having.”
“A Buddyz Best for the town hero!” Gary slaps his palm on the bar and I flinch. My eyes freeze on his weathered hand, flush against the polished wood of the bar top. When I lift my gaze, forcing myself to act casual, Bailey’s got her brows drawn tight, dark irises boring into my face as though she has me all figured out.
The flat smile I force onto my lips doesn’t seem to impress her. In fact, before she turns away to pour me a frothy pint, her head shakes subtly, like she’s disappointed.
My gaze trails over her body again, and I rack my brain to remember the last time I saw her. She’s always been sweet, shy little Bailey Jansen. Sadly, born into the least respected family in town. Her dad and brothers have dabbled in it all—drugs, prison, theft—and her mom took off years ago.
Worst of all, their land borders ours. I can see it from my house on the ranch, just on the other side of the river where I’ve put up a barbed wire fence so those assholes know where to turn back around.
But Bailey has always been different. I think I’ve always felt bad for her, always felt protective of her. The stares, the whispers. I imagine living in a small town where almost every resident has a story about your family must be fucking brutal. So, I’ve always been nice to her. I like her—have no reason not to.
She’s worked at the Railspur for years now, I just . . . can’t remember how many. Can’t decide if enough years have passed for me to notice the way her tank top lifts today, showing a peek of skin on her flat stomach. Or for me to think about the way her perfectly round breasts would fit so well in my hands.
“How long you been working here, Bailey?” I ask, watching her shoulders go a little tense when I do.
She clears her throat. “Just over four years. Started at eighteen.”
Twenty-two.
Fuck. I’m thirty-five, which means I was a teenager when—I brush the thought away and drop my eyes as she tosses a coaster down in front of me, followed by a pint of golden lager, white foam spilling over the edge.
“Thanks,” I grumble as I swipe a hand through my hair.
“Mm-hmm,” is all she says.
Bailey is the only person in town who hasn’t fallen all over herself to tell me what a hero I am since I got home. She works quietly and I try to keep my eyes from straying to her, wondering why she went from chatting happily to shutting down the moment I sat at her bar.
“MIA for two weeks, huh?” Gary starts in, and I see Bailey roll her eyes as she polishes a pint glass to a clear shine.
“Yup.” Oh, good. The only thing anyone talks to me about anymore.
“How was that?”
“Gary!” Bailey’s hands fall to her sides and a look of pure shock paints her face.
“What?”
“You can’t just ask things like that.”
“Why not?”
I can’t help it. I chuckle and decide to rescue Bailey from feeling like she needs to save me. “Real warm. Got a nice tan.”
The man narrows his eyes, movements a little sloppy. I wonder how long he’s been here since it’s barely after lunch and he’s clearly wrecked. “Heard you got burned. Not the tan I’d be hoping for.”
“Ga-ry.” Based on the way she enunciates his name, he’s truly horrified Bailey.
My palm slides across the bar, drawing her attention. “It’s okay. Everyone knows about the burns.”
She blinks, eyes suddenly looking a little glassy.
“Really, I’d rather people shoot straight than kiss my ass or tiptoe around me. Why do you think I’m hiding out here in the middle of the day?”
“Because Bailey is the best bartender in town!”
She snorts, lips tipping up as she goes back to polishing a glass. I try to remember if I’ve ever really seen her smile. I’m not sure I have. She’s always busy trying to blend into the background, and I’m only ever here when it’s busy. I don’t even know if I’ve ever properly heard her voice, until now. The gentle, melodic tone to it is almost soothing.
I’m sick of people talking to me, but it strikes me that listening to Bailey talk might now be so bad.
The first sip of my beer goes down cold and refreshing. I sigh, feeling a weight come off my shoulders in the presence of the town drunk and the town pariah.
I feel a kindred spirit to them right now, a misfit in my own home.
“Third-degree burns on my feet,” I announce, since bluntness seems to be the theme here today. “Skin grafts.”
“S’okay. You can find some girl with a weird foot fetish who will love that shit.”
“Jesus Christ, Gary. No more booze.” Bailey props her hands on the bar and drops her head with a groan.
“So long as your dick is okay.” He waves his hand up and down my body. “Face looks fine, wouldn’t you say, Bails? You’ll be alright, kid. You’ll find someone to love ya.”
Bailey’s gaze wanders over my features curiously, a warm blush painting her cheeks as she softly replies with, “Yeah,” and then blinks away.
Her eyes, that one little word, it . . . makes my blood pump faster. It makes me feel something.
My throat bobs as I swallow the dryness in my mouth, trying to push that moment away.
Then I take another sip and swipe a hand over my stubbled chin. “Love is the last thing I need. But this beer is really hitting the spot.”
And maybe if I drink enough of it, I’ll be able to sleep for more than a few hours tonight.
* * *
Chapter Two: Bailey
It’s been two weeks since Beau Eaton walked into my bar in the middle of the day. Two weeks since I took one look at him and almost dropped the glass in my hand. He’s hard to miss with his broad shoulders and tall, well-built frame, long legs that have him a head above most men who walk through that door. Light brown hair, a little too long, flops over his forehead, the perfect frame for silver-gray eyes. Even looking a little unkempt the way he does right now. Beau Eaton is fucking hot.
And hot is one thing, but Beau is nice too. And funny.
A true triple threat—or at least he was.
He’s never treated me like I’m wearing a scarlet letter on my chest, even when others have. I really only know him from the bar, but he’s never held my family’s reputation against me. He’s always offered kind words, a polite touch on my elbow, and a good tip at the end of the night.
But he’s still the town prince, and I’m still the town trash.
I’m the bartender and he’s the hero.
He’s an Eaton, and I’m a Jansen.
And yet, he’s here every damn day since the afternoon he walked in here looking like a caged animal who broke free.
Here every damn day drinking with fucking Gary.
The first day started out sweet enough. He was endearing if I’m being honest. But for the past two weeks, his presence has slowly morphed from light to dark, gathering itself into an ominous storm cloud.
It’s getting to where he’s making everyone around him uncomfortable. You can feel the electricity in the air, like lightning ready to strike.
I’m feeling fed up with him too. He’s reminding me of my dad, or my brothers, and I have sparse patience for that kind of toxicity.
He comes in mid-afternoon and nurses his pint, quietly simmering. I swear I watch his frustration bubble up to a boil right before my eyes. His hand stays clamped around the glass and he takes tight sips from it with white knuckles.
I’m almost positive he’s going to shatter it one of these days. He seems too big, too strong, too angry to be squeezing something that fragile so hard.
“So, what’d you do when you spent those two weeks stuck in the desert?”
My teeth clamp at Gary’s words. I know he means well, but he’s not reading the room right now. Not reading Beau. Must have missed the way he flinched when a booming thunder storm rolled through not thirty minutes ago.
Yeah, Beau looks ready to burst tonight, but Gary hasn’t noticed.
“Tried to stay alive,” Beau bites out. There’s a tremor in his voice, a quality that reminds me of a dog when they growl at you. It’s a warning to back away.
And Gary is too drunk to notice.
“They say you missed your flight on purpose to stay behind and save that journalist. That’s some real hero complex shit.”
Beau just stares at his pint, gazing into the golden liquid. They’ve already talked about this, but alcohol makes a person repetitive. I know because I’ve spent years studying drunk people. I’m practically an expert.
“Imagine where your life would be if you hadn’t.”
My lashes flutter shut, because my gut tells me there was a line, and Gary just stepped right over it.
Or right into it.
Beau’s thickly corded arm swipes out, knocking both their glasses onto the bar floor. Beer sprays across the smattering of patrons seated nearby, and if not for the music blaring at this point in the night, I’m certain The Railspur would be dead silent as they watch the altercation unfold.
Beau stands so fast his stool topples behind him with a crash. Gary looks terrified. “Imagine where your life would be if you didn’t sit here drinking and embarrassing yourself every fucking day, Gary. Ever think about that?”
His chest heaves, the splatter of liquid making the cotton of his t-shirt stick to his clearly defined pecs. Only someone who grew up in the household I did could be smack dab in the middle of a moment like this and be checking a guy out.
Childhood trauma much?
Beau isn’t my dad though, and I’m not worried the way I would be if I were in the house I grew up in.
“Beau,” my voice comes out clear, not a single waver to it.
“All alone every damn day, a young girl as your best friend. Seems a little pervert—”
“Beau Eaton, shut your mouth and get your ass outside.”
His head swivels, gray eyes latching onto mine like he just noticed my presence. Like he didn’t expect little Bailey Jansen to be the one barking at him.
He straightens, but I don’t care how tall he is.
He doesn’t scare me.
Not even when he’s like this.
I point to the emergency exit that leads to the patio, and my hand doesn’t shake at all. I’m not nervous. I’m pissed off.
Beau turns stiffly, striding around the end of the bar, past the server station and straight out into the fading light. If I didn’t know how many drinks he’s had, I wouldn’t notice the slight stagger in his steps, or the way he leans on the door just a little heavier than necessary.
Before I cut through the small wooden push gate to follow, I glance back at Gary.
“Too far?” he asks, averting his gaze.
My lips flatten against each other. “Yeah, Gary. Too far.”
He swipes a hand through his thinning hair and drops his head, hand tapping over the keys he laid on the bar the minute he sat down. “I’ll catch a cab.”
I respond with a firm nod before shoving out the door onto the darkened patio. The summer storm drove away all the people seated here, their forgotten glasses now partially filled with rainwater.
I can still smell the storm. And Beau. Pine mingles with something deeper, more sensual. Tobacco maybe, like a cigar.
He’s slumped against the outer brick facade of the train station turned bar. As I approach, he shoves his fists into the pockets of his jeans, chin dropped almost to his chest, eyes fixed on the sneakers he’s always sporting.
They feel out of place for him, too white and shiny, too pristine.
“You can’t pull that shit in my bar,” I say.
He scoffs, still refusing to meet my gaze. “Your bar, huh?”
“Yes, Beau. My bar. My place. The only place in this town where people don’t treat me like shit. I bust my ass working here. I bust my ass trying to make customers like me. And behind that wood is my bubble. Gary isn’t perverted, he’s fucking lonely. And he’s one of the few people who is consistently kind to me. So, if you think you’re gonna waltz into my bar acting like some sort of untouchable asshole and scaring all my regulars away with your antics, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Now his eyes are on me, a little unsteady, but narrowed. “Untouchable asshole?”
“Yes.” I cross my arms, like they might give me some protection from him. He looks a little wild tonight, a little dangerous, not like the happy-go-lucky guy we all thought we knew before his last deployment.
Silvery light plays off his features, tan skin and luminous eyes almost glowing as he stares me down. The only thing that moves between us is his chest rising and falling in time with mine.
But I don’t look away. I’m so over men trying to intimidate me. And it feels wrong on him, so I don’t let him have it.
After our stare down moves from heated moment into awkward territory, he looks away, jaw flexing.
“Did I embarrass myself?” His voice is all gravel and rumbles over my skin.
“You did. But the good news is your last name is Eaton, so everyone will forgive you and go back to kissing your feet the minute you walk in there and flash them a smile.”
“Bailey, what the fuck? Did you really just say that to me?”
“Yes.” My head tilts. “Because it’s true. All I had to do was to be born into my family and everyone looks at me like they’re waiting for that part of my genetics to rear its ugly head. Like I’ll go from hardworking and polite to a hillbilly criminal mastermind in the blink of an eye just because my last name is Jansen.” His brow furrows deeper the longer I talk. “So, yeah. I think you’re gonna be fine, even though you embarrassed yourself.”
“That’s not true.”
“What part?”
“People thinking that about you.”
“Ha!” The laugh lurches from my throat, sharp and lacking any humor. “That is adorably naive,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Well, I don’t think that about you.”
I swallow now, eyes flitting away. It’s true that Beau has always been kind to me—to everyone, really. Maybe that’s why this new version of him pisses me off so much. “I know.” I shoot him a grateful smile. “You’re one of the good ones, Beau. That’s why you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Sitting at my bar and drinking yourself into a sullen stupor every night.”
A quiet keening noise escapes him as his head rolls back and forth against the wall, hands coming up out of his pockets to scrub at his face. “It helps me sleep at night.”
“What?” I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Somehow, that’s not the response I expected.
It’s painfully honest.
“The alcohol. It helps me fall asleep. I go home to the ranch and crash. I haven’t been sleeping well these days.”
My stomach drops at his admission.
“You telling me you drive like this?” My finger waves up and down him, catching on the bulge of keys in his front pocket.
His wide eyes plead with me, desperate and forlorn. I feel monumentally stupid for assuming he was too good of a guy to get behind a wheel in this state.
“Beau.” I step forward, right up to him. He tenses, but I’m too pissed off to have many boundaries right now. And I’ve always felt more at ease around him than most people. He’s always had a way of making me feel like that, which is why I don’t think twice about shoving my hand into the front pocket of his jeans and wrapping my fingers around his keys.
His body is entirely stiff. I can feel his muscles coil, but he makes no move to stop me. The jangle of metal between us has me looking up into his eyes for a sign I’ve taken things too far.
I angle my face up to his, I only see those moonlit eyes and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
I’m caught in his thrall for a moment.
“I’ll make you a chamomile tea,” I say, breaking the tense silence between us. “Helps with sleep.”
He nods and drops his head. The tension between us evaporates as he follows me back into the bar, gaze trained on the floor to avoid the prying eyes staring at him after his outburst.
I can tell he’s ashamed. And he should be, but I’m not going to pile onto his punishment. Instead, I prepare him a steaming mug of tea, wipe up the beer he spilled, and carry on with my night like he isn’t here.
I refill the tea.
He drinks the tea.
We don’t talk, but he watches me. I see him spinning the mug between his broad palms. I feel the outline of his keys in the back pocket of my jeans.
Pete, our cook, walks out of the back at 10 p.m. “You all good out here, Bails? Kitchen’s closed.”
I scan the bar. It’s busy, but not unmanageable. We’re only open for two more hours on a Monday night anyway. “Yup. All good here,” I reply, giving him a brief thumbs up.
Pete returns the motion and heads out the front doors.
It’s when I check Beau’s tea again that he stops me. “So, he leaves and you’re here alone for the rest of the night?”
I shrug as I take his mug to add water. “Yeah. I’m a shift manager now, so if it was busier I’d have kept a server on, but I cut her early.”
He rests his forearms on the bar, pads of his long fingers pressed together like he needs something to do with them. “But you’re alone? You shut down alone?”
Steam rises as hot water pours from the dispenser.
“Correct.” I slide the mug across the bar top until it bumps into the tips of his fingers as I try to remember how many refills I’ve done since the tea is looking awfully watery.
I crouch down and rummage through the box of tea on the bottom shelf. The Railspur is not a big tea place, but I find another bag of chamomile and drop it into the mug.
When I tie the string around the handle, Beau doesn’t move his palms from around the cup, like he’s desperate to soak up the heat.
“That’s not safe for you. What if something happens?”
My fingertips brush against his hand as I complete the knot.
I peek up now, lifting one eyebrow. “Like some guy pitching a fit and knocking beer all over the place?”
He glares at me, and I try to keep from smirking at him.
With a nonchalant shrug, I answer the question. “I deal with it.”
The only thing Beau gives me in response is a hard stare and a grunt.
But he doesn’t leave. He drinks tea at my bar all night long. For hours, he sits there, keeping watch. And when I kick everyone out at midnight and shut things down, he stays behind, silently guarding me.
“Are you sober?” I ask as he walks me through the darkened parking lot to my car.
“I’ve been drinking fucking chamomile tea for four hours. I’ve never been more sober or hydrated in my life.”
I suck in a deep breath and pull his keys from my back pocket, holding them out to him on a flat palm. “Don’t pull that shit on me again, Beau.”
His throat works as he reaches forward and swipes the keys from me. “You’re not how I remember you, Bailey.”
I let myself smirk now, because, of course, we all change. I couldn’t stay that frozen, terrified little girl forever.
I wanted to change.
“You’re not how I remember you either, Beau.”
His eyes shift back and forth between mine, like he’s searching for something in them. “What nights do you work?”
I snort, looking down to pull my own keys from my purse. “What nights don’t I work?”
“Okay, what nights do you work alone?”
“Sunday through Tuesday,” I reply, zipping my bag.
Beau nods and says a terse, “Okay,” before spinning on his heel and giving me his back, looking every bit the military hero he is. Head held high, shoulders perfectly straight.
Regal, like the prince everyone treats him as.
He must have missed the memo though. Because this man seems to think he’s some sort of knight in shining armor.
One who starts pulling up a stool every Sunday through Tuesday to drink chamomile tea until midnight, so I don’t have to close by myself.
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