Love on the Rocks: Hearts on Fire, #2

By Jordyn White

Why am I always attracted to the wrong guy?

Maybe it's because the wrong guys always have so much going for them. Take Spencer Griffin, for example.

Hot as hell? Check.

Rich and hung like a horse? Double freaking check.

A no-good shark in the water?

Yep, he's that too.

My brain says to stay away, but my heart just wants… to stay.

But we're at war, and it's take no prisoners.

He's played dirty over deals in the past and there's probably nothing he won't do to get what he wants.

Well, there's nothing I won't do, either.
The White Horse Piano Bar is more than a place to work… it's my family and my home. I'm not letting it get destroyed without a fight.

If only Spencer weren't starting to feel like home, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Velvet Pen Books
• Release date: Jun 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781945261503

Book preview

Chapter 1

Spencer

STANDING ACROSS THE street from the six hundred block of West Sunrise Boulevard, I instantly know two things: I was dead right to tell my client about this location and I also wish I hadn’t.

Most of the block consists of older buildings that haven’t seen a makeover in decades. There’s no love lost for them.

But the White Horse Piano Bar stands on the corner of Sunrise and Fifth as an unexpected jewel.

I’ve heard of it before, of course. I live in North Swan Pointe, up in the hills, so I know about the White Horse and its infamous piano player. But I’ve never been here.

If I want good food, I go to Commoners up at the resort. If I want interesting drinks, there’s The Vine. If I want women, Sade’s has never failed me.

I’m not exactly a fan of the downtown area, with its pain in the ass traffic and crumbling buildings people pass off as charming.

My style is more upscale. Or new and shiny like The Vine up on the hill, which has an Art Deco glass bar that’s lit with blue neon.

The exterior of the White Horse is dark wood and gold trim. The lettering on the sign makes me think of an old saloon. But it doesn’t look worn down. It looks fresh and inviting. I haven’t even gone inside yet but I already see the appeal of this place.

A nippy evening breeze rushes through and I fasten the button on my suit coat. Or maybe the chill crawling over my skin is from something else.

The shadow of guilt and regret that has been plaguing me over the past year swirls up in my gut like black smoke.

I don’t even know the guy who owns this place, but I do know he doesn’t deserve what’s about to happen to him.

Still. I straighten my spine and pull my shoulders back as I march toward the gleaming doors. Business is business. It’s either be the wolf or the lamb, and I have no interest in being a lamb that gets eaten by other wolves. If the owner of this place hasn’t learned that lesson in life, is that really my fault?

I stamp down the unease in my stomach until I can’t feel it anymore—something I have a lot of practice doing—and step inside.

It’s six o’clock on a Friday and the place is already busy, though not at capacity. From what I understand, most people arrive later, closer to when the music starts.

The interior is dark wooden walls, charming wall lamps, and a hardwood bar that harkens back to the early decades of the last century. Clearly, this is the only building on the block that’s had any sort of attention.

The room is laid out like an upside-down T, with the center consisting of the bar and a number of high cocktail tables. Situated at the base of the T is a platform with a gleaming black piano. There’s no one there, yet, but the stage is lit in anticipation.

Most of the seating around the piano is low cocktail tables with comfortable, round chairs, but the rest of the restaurant consists of low-backed booths and tables more suitable for meals.

The center of the T has a high ceiling, two stories. On one side, up above, is a balcony with an intricate, black iron balustrade that makes me think of an old speakeasy. An iron staircase descends from this and lets out near the kitchen, which is situated next to the bar.

The only thing visible upstairs is a carved, wooden doorway, which is closed. I know from my research that there are apartments up there, four to be exact.

The overall atmosphere is both dark and cozy, a place to settle in and stay awhile to have some drinks and listen to the music.

It’s nice. I like it.

Ah well. What am I going to do? My client wants what he wants, and I’m paid handsomely to get it for him. Besides, it’s smarter to play nice than get on his bad side. I know this for a fact.

It’s open seating, so I head near the back where I can more easily observe the room. As I go by, two cocktail waitresses at the end of the bar give me the side eye, leaning slightly closer together and whispering something as their eyes follow me.

I give them a quick glance. They’re in trim, black skirts and pretty, as most cocktail waitresses are. They might be worth a gander if I weren’t here for work. Picking up one of the employees would be a great way to fuck up this deal, and I doubt either one of them would be worth the sacrifice.

Ignoring them, I select an empty booth and slide into the seat facing the empty stage. Running my hand over the thick upholstery on the seat, I raise my brows. Impressive.

My eyes land lazily on the cocktail waitresses again. This time, my gaze locks and lingers because a third has joined them.

She’s taller than the others by half a head, and their dusty brown hair is dull in contrast to her full, shiny black mane. Her cheekbones are high and defined, her eyes framed in black eyeliner and thick black lashes. She carries herself with a take-no-shit-from-nobody attitude that goes perfectly with her dark beauty.

She’s a siren, that one. The kind of woman who knows how to handle a man, I’d be willing to bet, when she bothers herself to try. I doubt she finds most men worth her trouble, because most men have no idea what to do with a woman like that.

If I were anywhere else, I would be laying plans, maybe already up out of my seat and half way across the room.

As it is, she works here and is therefore off limits, so I am forced to watch her from a distance.

Which, strangely, has its own heady appeal.

Chapter 2

Raven

OF COURSE THE HOT GUY picks Raven’s table, Allison says as she loads her trays with drinks.

And she will completely waste the opportunity, Peggy responds, winking at me, her empty tray tucked under her arm.

What are you two blabbering about? I ask with a slight grin, my attention on the order I’m entering into the computer. Though I can guess.

These two regularly drool over every decent-looking guy who wanders in. It doesn’t matter if he’s with a woman or not. They don’t have the balls to actually hit on anyone.

Of course, that’s discouraged anyway. The White Horse isn’t some dive and we’re all expected to act like professionals.

Not bothering to look at the latest male in question, I gesture for our bartender to come over so I can tell him my news. He steps over, leaning one tatted arm on the counter. The lady at table seven ordered my Lavender Twist.

Nice, he says, nodding briefly. She’ll love it.

I don’t have a license and don’t tend the bar, but sometimes I play around with recipes during my off hours. The owner and our fearless leader Fitz—greatest man on the planet, for the record—is good about letting me add the better ones to the menu.

I came up with Horse and a Half almost two years ago now and it’s still one of our more popular drinks.

My little contribution to the proud legacy of the White Horse.

Table nineteen, Peggy hisses in my ear. Are you going to check him out or not?

I roll my eyes at her. I don’t have time for males. They’re a pain in the ass and a waste of energy. I have other things to do besides get mixed up in something that’s going to go south eventually anyway.

I do look over to table nineteen. Not to check anyone out but to see how many menus I’ll need. But this time, they’re right. This is one seriously good-looking dude.

No, not a dude, which is what a boy would be.

This is a man.

He looks several years older than me, mid-thirties maybe, but that maturity looks good as fuck on him. He’s in a dark suit and blue button-down, no tie, top button undone. Even in semi-relaxed, post-office mode, he carries a strong presence.

His broad shoulders and square jaw are set solidly in my direction. His eyes are fixed on mine. A zip of electricity runs through my body.

Apparently, one look from this guy is all it takes to remind me what I like about men. He looks like he would know how to deliver, too.

He doesn’t look away but isn’t leering either like so many of them do. He’s just completely sure of himself, practically oozing that alpha male vibe and sexy enough to make that dominating thing appealing instead of annoying.

But, no.

This is a hard no.

He’s a customer and probably trouble. How do I know? Because there’s a very short list of men who got my engine revving with just one look and they were each a shit ton of heartache I’d rather not re-live.

I turn away and grab a set of menus, trying to harden my armor. I learned long ago how to protect myself from, well, anyone. He will be no exception.

Oh my god, Allison whispers. Did you see the way that guy is eyeing you?

I smile and make a quick sweep of Allison’s section, which is nearest the piano. Check on table four before their drinks run out.

She sighs and exchanges a friendly, exasperated look with Peggy. I told you this would be wasted on her.

So, the guy is hot. So what? Hot jerks abound in life and I’ve been burned one too many times to give a fuck about this one. No matter what kind of desire he’s kindling in my body.

Hell, I can take care of that on my own.

We each head to our separate sections. Hot alpha is watching me approach.

As the impact of his gaze zips through my body, I force myself to look away and assess the other tables in my section, making a mental note on who to check on next. As I draw up to his table, I put on my hostess smile and bring my attention back to him.

His eyes rest comfortably on mine. They’re a dark, smoky blue.

Welcome to the White Horse. I set the main menu in front of him, followed by the thick, leather folder containing the drinks list. My name is Raven and I’ll be helping you out tonight. Have you been in before?

First time. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly.

There was nothing overt about the way he said that. And yet, something about the strong timbre of his voice and steadiness of his gaze made my mind think dirty things.

Like, what it might be like to have sex with him for the first time. Or feel his mouth on my breast for the first time. Or drop to my knees in front of him.

Jesus, what is with me?

I do not make a habit of clenching my thighs over every good-looking male who crosses my path. Maybe I’m orgasm deprived. Maybe my lady parts are all, Hello, remember us? A little attention would be nice.

Can I get you started with a drink?

He doesn’t bother to open the menu. Have any specialties here?

I skip telling him about the new Lavender Twist. That’s probably too fruity for him. He strikes me as someone who likes his drinks straight up, but since he’s asking.

You might like the Horse and a Half. I open the drinks menu and tap my fingernail on the cocktail in question. He glances at it briefly before returning his eyes to mine. I give him the rundown of what’s in it. It’s actually my recipe.

Well, why did I say that? Customers don’t care whose recipe something is and I don’t care if they know either. But my chest gets a tug of satisfaction as his right eyebrow lifts slightly and his eyes sparkle a bit.

Really? Are you also a bartender?

No. I thought about getting my license but... I shrug. I don’t want to get into the long, complicated, sensitive topic of my educational goals.

I need to stop talking about myself anyway. Being friendly and making customers feel welcome is one thing. No need to get too personal. Especially with someone who’s making my body perk up with interest.

Not looking to make a career as a cocktail slinger, huh? Bigger plans?

Yep. Great big plans.

As if I have any clue what my plans are.

We also have an extensive tequila selection. I turn the thick page of the menu to show him our listings, which go on for a few pages. We’re known for it.

As I outline some of the highlights, he scans the pages. It’s a strange relief to be released of his attention. I’m a sucker for tequila, he remarks.

If you’re interested in a sampling, our flights are a good way to go. This one is our most popular. I point to our bestseller.

He nods briefly and shuts the thick menu with a soft thud. Sure. Why not? Then he flashes a full smile at me.

Whoa. That smile. If I thought he was handsome before. Shit.

Can I see some ID? Even though he’s clearly old enough to drink, we card anyone who looks under the age of forty.

Oh, you get brownie points for this. His hands are strong and agile as he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and withdraws his ID. I’m careful not to touch him when he hands it over.

My eyes go to the picture first, of course. Even his ID photo looks hot. Geez. Mind if I just pocket this, sir?

As I scan the card, I make note of three things. One, he’s from out of state, which I feel a twinge of disappointment over. Two, quick math reveals his age to be thirty-seven, older than I had him pegged for. Eight years older than I am. Not that it matters. And three, his name. Spencer Griffin.

Nice name.

From Idaho, huh? I hand it back to him.

Not anymore, Spencer says, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. I moved here from Boise about seven months ago. I have family there, though. My grandfather’s on the other side of the state, near Idaho Falls.

Really? I was born near there. Something very few people know about me, but I guess the place of my birth isn’t exactly a secret. It’s all the other crazy shit about my family I prefer to keep to myself.

Oh yeah?

I nod. We left when I was eight. I was so happy to get out of there.

Why’s that?

Well, I’m not going to tell him that part. No one but my closest friends get to know the truth about my family history. People get very weird ideas when I tell them what my family was involved in, so it’s easier to just let it stay in the past.

But whatever part of me feels compelled to be so damned chatty with him also wants to tell the truth about why I don’t live there anymore.

I’m not going to, of course, but this desire to fess up is enough to make me hesitate, for our eyes to linger on one another and for the corner of his mouth to curl up as he anticipates the answer.

I smile slowly, too. It was boring.

A full smile blooms on his face and he laughs. This guy has a great laugh. Of course he does. I’ll bet he’s hung and rich, too. Why the hell not?

You must not have been on a horse ranch then, he says. No boredom there.

You grew up on a ranch?

No. I grew up in Salt Lake City. But I spent a few summers on my grandfather’s ranch when I was a kid.

It’s kind of endearing, thinking of him as a kid. Are you a cowboy at heart then?

Hardly. When I relocated to Idaho, I chose the only decent size city in the state and lived in a condo right downtown.

You can’t take the boy out of the city, huh?

He nods, still giving me that delicious smile. It occurs to me that he knows how good he looks. I put my hand on my hip and give it right back to him.

His eyes sharpen with approval, and I ask myself what the hell I’m doing because it’s been quite a long time since I’ve flirted with anyone. And I’ve never flirted with a customer, even back when I was plenty game for finding a guy.

But this one’s fun. Give him a little smile and he gives me a scrumptious one right back. I could do this all night. It’s not like it’s going anywhere anyway.

I’ll get that flight ordered for you.

Actually make it a Don Julio Real, straight.

I see. Mr. Money Bags. Makes me wonder if I was right about him being hung, too.

Chapter 3

Spencer

WHEN RAVEN LEAVES MY table, I try not to watch her too much, but that’s hard to do because I chose this spot specifically to keep most of the room within my line of sight.

Also, because she’s gorgeous.

And easy to talk to. That’s not uncommon for people in her line of work, and likely doesn’t mean much, but still. It was nice to talk about more than just the menu. Maybe a touch nicer than it should be.

But hey, anyone who gets me thinking about the good old days with my grandfather gets automatic bonus points. It’s been awhile since I’ve thought about him.

Too long.

For good reason.

I don’t think my grandfather would be much proud of the road I’ve taken in life. He did his damndest to keep me from following my father’s path. He warned me.

Why didn’t I listen better?

Maybe because as a teenaged city boy awkwardly trying to keep himself in a saddle, I had a hard time relating when my grandfather would say, All a man needs to be happy is some land and a good horse.

By contrast, the first time my father guided me through a multi-million dollar contract, he made me a believer in his philosophy: there aren’t too many problems a fat bank account can’t solve.

Only recently have I begun to wonder about the wisdom of that. But my life is what it is. Regrets are pointless, and a damned annoyance, frankly.

I bring my attention back to work, which is one realm, at least, that I can navigate with confidence.

I take stock of the crowd, which is an interesting mix. There’s a group of guys front and center, in business suits. They look like they’ve been here long enough to have a few drinks in them already. They’re laughing and talking loudly.

Not as loud as the guys next to them. There’s a guy with a sunburned face who laughs like a barking dog. Ar ar ar ar!

Farther down, a group of middle-aged women are sipping cocktails and chatting quietly, patiently waiting for the entertainment to begin. They’re dressed casually, in jeans and nice tops. A girls’ night out, I’d bet.

Space around the piano is filling in quickly, with no real theme to the clientele. An old married couple here. A group of twentysomething college kids there.

I’m not sure if this diversity will play to my advantage or not. Is this the kind of crowd that will band together to save what they love? Or will they quietly go back