Sierra paused in the entranceway of Diggers’, surprised by the crowd that was already gathered at six o’clock on a Friday. Though there weren’t any signs indicating that the bar was closed for a private event, the brightly colored streamers and balloons decorating a trio of booths against the far wall suggested that a celebration of some kind was going on, giving her pause.
“Grab a table wherever you can find one,” a server said, as she made her way past with a tray of drinks.
“Okay,” Sierra agreed, though she’d already decided that she wasn’t going to stay.
Her decision to stop at the local bar and grill had been an impulsive one, and though her stomach was seriously rumbling for some of Diggers’ infamous wings, she didn’t feel up to battling with a crowd tonight.
Or maybe what she didn’t want was to be alone in the crowd.
She’d stop at The Trading Post and pick up some chicken wings to cook in her air fryer at home instead, she decided.
And turning to leave, she walked right into Deacon Parrish.
“Whoa,” he said, catching her arms when she stumbled back, reeling from the accidental bump and, even more, the awareness that sparked as a result of the physical contact. “Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry?”
She ignored the heat pulsing through her veins and pulled herself together to respond to his question. “The grocery store.”
He grinned. “Are you having another Frosted Flakes emergency?”
“It’s chicken wings this time.”
His brows lifted. “Did the kitchen run out?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I didn’t get any farther than this because it looks like there’s some kind of big party happening.”
“It’s not a party—it’s the last Friday of the month, which is when a bunch of us get together for a few drinks and some of those wings you’re in the mood for. Come and join us.”
“The streamers and balloons indicate it’s a party,” she told him.
He glanced over her shoulder and winced when he spotted the decorations. “Well, it wasn’t supposed to be a party.”
Following his gaze, she realized now that she recognized several people—including Katelyn Davidson, Deacon’s boss, Brenna Flaherty, another associate from Katelyn’s office, and the deputy sheriff, who she’d recently learned was Deacon’s brother.
“It’s your party,” Sierra said, feeling foolish that it had taken her so long to put the pieces together.
“It’s not a party,” he said again.
The slight pique in his tone made her realize that Mr. Columbia Law didn’t like people making a fuss over him—or at least over his birthday.
Just then, the exterior door opened and a couple more people walked in, bringing a blast of wintry air with them.
“Helluva night for a party, Dekes,” the taller man with curly dark hair said, stomping the snow off his boots.
Deacon just sighed.
“There better be cake,” the shorter guy with reddish hair and an unshaven jaw grumbled.
“It’s a birthday party. Of course there’s going to be cake,” Curly told him. “The question is—will a half-naked chick jump out of it?”
Deacon shook his head. “You’re such a Neanderthal, Luke.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Curly—Luke—said, in a disappointed tone.
“Who’s your special guest?” Red asked. Though the question was obviously directed at Deacon, he was looking at Sierra.
“Sierra Hart, the new ADA,” he said, sending her an apologetic glance. “Sierra, meet Ben Powell and Luke Ross.”
“A pleasure,” Ben said, touching the brim of his cowboy hat.
“Why don’t you go charm the bartender into pouring you a couple of beers?” Deacon suggested, literally nudging his friends along.
“I can do that,” his friend agreed. “And what can I get for you, Sierra?”
“Lost,” Deacon said firmly.
Ben finally took the hint and followed Luke into the bar.
“Sorry about that,” Deacon said.
“I’m the one who should apologize—I didn’t mean to crash your party.”
“You haven’t crashed anything,” he assured her. “Come on in and have some wings.”
“Is it a milestone birthday?” she wondered. “Or do you always celebrate like this?”
“Not always,” he denied. “But...well, the last few years have been like this. My sister-in-law’s doing.”
“She’s big on parties?” Sierra guessed.
“Something like that,” he hedged.
“Which means there’s more to the story.”
“Not one you’re likely to be interested in,” he said.
“What if I am?”
“Then come on in and I’ll tell you about it.”
She was wavering.
Then another server walked by carrying a platter of wings covered in sweet, sticky sauce and Sierra’s stomach rumbled.
“What kind of wings did you order?” she asked.
“Every kind,” he promised.
“Honey garlic?”
“Of course,” he said. “Because those are my favorite.”
“Then I guess you’re going to have a chance to tell me that story.”
Of course, it was too loud and crowded in the bar to be able to have much of a conversation, especially when there was a steady stream of people coming up to the booth where they were sitting to wish Deacon a happy birthday.
But there were wings, as he’d promised. Platters heaping with wings of every flavor, served with celery and carrot sticks and blue cheese dip. There were also mozzarella sticks and onion rings and potato skins and garlic bread.
Sierra filled half her plate with the fresh veggies before she allowed herself to take a little bit of everything else. Unfortunately, by the time the platter of honey garlic wings made its way around to her, there was nothing left on it but smears of sticky sauce.
Deacon left the table for a minute to greet some more friends who came in, and Brenna Flaherty and her husband, Gerard, slid into the seat that he’d vacated. Sierra didn’t mind—she’d gotten to know Brenna a little during the few weeks that she’d been in town, and she found out now that both Brenna and Gerard had known the birthday boy since elementary school.
When Deacon returned to the booth, taking the seat beside Sierra, he had another platter of wings in-hand.
“Honey garlic,” he said, adding a wink as he set the platter between them.
She smiled her appreciation and transferred several of the wings to her plate as a trio of Deacon’s friends made their way over, each carrying two shot glasses.
“Happy birthday.” Ben set one of his shots on the table.
“Happy birthday.” Luke set another shot next to the first.
“Happy birthday.” A third man, whom Sierra had not yet been introduced to, added a third.
“Thanks, guys,” Deacon said. “But you know I don’t do shots.”
“We know,” Ben confirmed. “But we bought them for you, because it’s your birthday. And now, being the good friends that we are, we’re going to drink them for you.”
And they proceeded to do exactly that.
Katelyn and her husband approached the booth as the three men tossed back the first round of shots, then the second.
“You guys better not be driving,” Katelyn cautioned.
“It’s okay,” Luke said with an exaggerated wink. “We know a good defense attorney.”
“They’re not driving,” Deacon hastened to assure his boss as his friends wandered off. “My brother’s playing taxi tonight.”
“Good thinking,” the sheriff said. “You don’t want to have to wake a judge up on a Saturday morning to attempt to get your idiot friends out of jail.”
“Or maybe he does,” Gerard said, winking at Deacon. “If he could guarantee that the new ADA got the call.”
“Why would you say that?” Sierra asked curiously.
“Because he’s been hot for her since day one.”
“Shut up, Gerard.” This was a whispered plea from his wife. “Shut up now.”
“Why? Is it supposed to be some kind of secret?”
Brenna dropped her head to thunk it against the table.
Katelyn pressed her lips together, obviously trying to hold back a smile.
“Well, this isn’t awkward at all,” Deacon remarked dryly.
“What?” Gerard said.
His wife finally lifted her head, her cheeks as red as the single hot wing left on the platter in the middle of the table. “Sierra is the new ADA.”
“Oh. Crap.” He glanced first at Sierra, then Deacon. “Sorry, man.”
“Anyway,” Reid said, his hazel eyes dancing with amusement. “We just wanted to stop by to wish you a happy birthday again before we head out.”
“You can’t leave before we have cake,” Deacon protested.
“We have to,” Katelyn said. “We promised the babysitter that we’d be home by nine.”
Sierra glanced at her watch as Deacon rose from his seat to hug his boss and shake hands with her husband. “I didn’t realize that it was so late.”
“When did nine o’clock become late?” Gerard wondered.
“When we started adulting,” Brenna said, nudging him with her elbow. “We should be on our way, too.”
“But we haven’t had cake,” her husband protested.
“Deacon and Sierra need to talk about the elephant you brought into the room.”
“No,” Sierra said. “We don’t.”
“Stay,” Deacon chimed in, returning to his seat.
“Hey, there’s another one of your...friends,” Sierra said, grateful to be able to change the topic of conversation.
Brenna twisted her head to follow the direction of Sierra’s gaze. “Looks like the newlyweds are back from their honeymoon.”
“We should have gotten married in February,” Gerard said. “A Caribbean vacation in February makes more sense than one in June.”
“Maybe,” his wife acknowledged. “But I didn’t want to be trudging through snow in my wedding dress and then swapping my shoes for warm slippers at the reception, like Liberty did.”
“You were there?” Deacon sounded surprised by this revelation. “I heard it was going to be a small wedding, mostly just family.”
“Liberty probably told you that because Travis refused to let her invite anyone who’d seen her naked,” Gerard said, then winced. “And I just did it again, didn’t I?”
“That wasn’t exactly a revelation,” Sierra assured him. “Liberty was happy to walk down memory lane with Deacon when they crossed paths at Jo’s a few weeks back.”
“We all have a history,” Gerard said. “Travis Bell, Luke Powell, Chase Hampton, Dekes and me have known one another since kindergarten.”
“Wait a minute,” Sierra said, holding up a hand. “Are you telling me that Liberty’s husband’s name is Travis Bell?”
Three heads nodded confirmation.
“So now her name is...Liberty Bell?”
More nods, smirks.
Sierra pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the laugh that bubbled up inside her.
“I suggested that she should keep her maiden name,” Brenna told them. “She asked me why.”
“It’s probably not so bad, being Liberty Bell from Haven, Nevada,” Deacon said.
“But she better hope they never move to Philadelphia,” Gerard added.
They all lost the battle against laughter then.
A cheer went up from the crowd when the cake arrived, a huge slab brought in on a wheeled cart being pushed by the “a lot more than a friend” Regan.
“Hey—no outside food or drink,” the bartender called out.
“A big corner piece of this cake has your name on it, Duke,” Regan called back, with a smile and a wink.
“Carry on, then,” he said, with a wave of his hand.
She wheeled the cart closer to Deacon and everyone—even the patrons on the other side of the bar—began singing “Happy Birthday.”
Sierra had been having a good time with Deacon’s friends. Now she wished she’d never accepted his invitation to join the party.
Did he know the other woman was going to be here?
He certainly didn’t seem surprised to see her—or the least bit uncomfortable about her presence.
The deputy sheriff made his way to the front of the crowd. “Why aren’t there any candles on the cake?”
“Because no one wants to eat cake that someone has spit all over,” Regan told him.
“I would hope my brother would spit a lot less than the twins, and you let them have candles on their birthday.”
“They each had one candle in their own cupcakes.”
The deputy sheriff and the blonde continued to bicker good-naturedly as they cut and served the cake—moist lemon sponge, layered with white chocolate mousse and strawberry pâté de fruit jelly, with an Italian buttercream icing—and the pieces finally clicked together in Sierra’s mind.
“So Regan’s your sister-in-law,” Sierra said to Deacon when Brenna and Gerard had gone, leaving them alone at the table.
“Uh-huh,” he agreed.
“Why didn’t you tell me that when I saw you with her at the coffee shop, the morning after Valentine’s Day?”
He shrugged. “It seemed to me you’d already made up your mind about who she was—at least in relation to me.”
“Because I heard her say, ‘Thanks for last night.’”
“She was thanking me for giving them my Cowboy Poets tickets—and babysitting their kids—so that they could have a night out.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish.
“Although now I kind of understand why you were annoyed that morning,” he said. “You assumed I was flirting with you after spending the night with another woman.”
“You could have just told me who she was.”
“I could have,” he acknowledged. “But green is a good color on you.”
“You think I was jealous?”
“Weren’t you?”
“No,” she denied. Lied.
“So how long are you going to pretend there isn’t something between us?” he challenged.
“I’m not pretending anything.”
He shifted on the bench seat, moving a little closer so that his thigh was pressing against hers, his arm touching hers.
She swallowed.
“There’s definitely something,” he said.
“A basic physiological attraction, perhaps,” she said dismissively.
He rephrased. “Chemistry.”
“Equally irrelevant,” she assured him.
He lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertip trace the outer shell, making her shiver.
His lips curved. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so,” she insisted.
“So if I kissed you now, you wouldn’t kiss me back?”
Her breath hitched; her heart raced. “If you kissed me now, in front of all these people, I’d introduce you to my right hook.”
His smile widened. “What I’m hearing you say is that it’s the location rather than the kiss that you’d object to.”
Her cheeks burned. “It’s both.”
He held her gaze. “Is it really?”
She bumped her hip against his, signaling that she wanted out of the booth. “Good night, Deacon.”
He rose to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“Haven may be a friendly town, but it’s late and it’s dark,” he said, helping her with her coat before donning his own and following her to the door.
“It’s snowing,” she said, smiling as she tipped her head back to watch the flakes falling from the sky.
“Doesn’t it snow in Vegas?”
“Hardly ever. And while I’m not a huge fan of snow on the ground, especially when I have to shovel it, snow falling from the sky is different,” she said. “Almost magical.”
“Except in a blizzard—then it’s dangerous,” he told her.
“This isn’t a blizzard. Is it?”
He chuckled. “No. Definitely not a blizzard.”
A fat snowflake landed on her cheek, then melted against the warmth of her skin. He lifted a hand to brush the trace of moisture away with his thumb.
Her whole body went still.
Even her breath stalled in her lungs.
His hand fell away.
She exhaled slowly. Unsteadily.
“Do you miss Las Vegas?” he asked her now.
She was grateful for the question—the return to neutral ground. “Not as much as I thought I would.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here after college,” Deacon confided. “But there’s a sense of community here that I’ve never felt anywhere else.”
“I can see that.” She started to walk again, away from the restaurant, and paused after taking about a dozen steps to stand beside the green Kia. “This is my car.”
“Hard to miss,” he noted with a smile.
“And now you know why I said it was unnecessary for you to walk me to my car.”
“But it was necessary,” he said. “Because you wouldn’t let me kiss you in front of all those people.”
“And I’m not going to let you kiss me now.”
“Aren’t you as curious as I am to know if the chemistry between us will flare or fizzle?”
“Curiosity aside, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she told him.
But she didn’t move away.
Not even when he took a step closer.
Their gazes held for one heartbeat. Two.
“Yet one more thing about which we obviously disagree,” he said, just before his mouth covered hers.