Page 1 of Sealing the Deal

ONE

GRAYSON

The woman behind the bar is a one-person serving machine. She’s simultaneously sliding glasses across polished wood, cracking bottle caps one-handed, shouting orders toward the kitchen without even turning her head, and doing it all with a smile, greeting every person by name.

“Two beers please, Flic.”

“Flic, grab us another bourbon.”

Her full name, according to the plaque by the bar, is Felicity Moore, owner of The Hay Barn sports bar. She looks like she’s in her late twenties—tall and slender with an easy strength about her, the kind that commands the room. Long, ice-blonde hair braided into two ropes down her back. Tight black jeans covering impossibly long legs and a perfect ass I pretend not to notice. Black cowboy boots, and the kind of don’t-mess-with-me glare that could stop New York traffic in rush hour.

She hasn’t stopped moving since I slipped through the doors an hour ago, which is understandable considering the place is rammed. It’s wall-to-wall. Like every NFL lover in Denver has pushed through the doors of the Stormhawks fans bar tonight to celebrate the afternoon’s final game of the season and their win against the Las Vegas Desertraptors. Every few minutes someone shouts “Playoffs!” over the country music blasting from the jukebox and the place erupts in a cheer.

From what I can see between the packed bodies, The Hay Barn is pure old-school charm and dark wood paneling. Denver license plates, Stormhawks jerseys, and signed photos of players cover the walls. The air holds a cocktail of victory, sweat, and fried food. It’s loud, loyal, comfortably rough around the edges, and absolutely not the kind of place I usually haunt. I prefer a bourbon in my apartment with my sister, Helena, or my best friend, Donny, but if I’m dragged out it’s usually to quiet, dimly lit places with fifty-year-old malts and a wine list the length of a small novel.

I lean against the far end of the bar, nursing a beer I’ve barely touched, wondering how the hell I ended up here—in a city I don’t know, doing a job I have no business doing, in a bar I don’t belong in.

The crowd surges, red Stormhawks jerseys packed shoulder to shoulder. Someone shouts for beers. Someone else waves a twenty-dollar bill over their head. I watch Flic exhale through her nose. And that’s what does it. Because maybe her vibe is one-woman-holding-everything-together more than damsel in distress, but I can’t stand by and watch for another second when she clearly needs help.

I abandon my beer, squeeze through a gap, and cross to her side of the bar.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s pouring beers. “Hey! Get back.”

“You need help,” I reply.

“No, I don’t.” She grabs two bottles from the fridge with one hand, pouring a bourbon with the other.

“Are you sure about that?”

Her gaze lifts, looking first at the crowd and out to the bar and then at me. Up close, the don’t-mess-with-me glare is even more effective. “I don’t let strangers behind my bar.”

“Fair,” I say easily. “But there’s a lot of thirsty customers waiting for a drink right now.”

“Still no.”

I glance at the waiting wall of bodies. “You’re outnumbered.”

She snorts. “I’ve handled worse.”

I believe her. But the way her shoulders are set tells me she’s running on fumes. I gesture to myself. “I’m harmless.”

She gives me another once-over. I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and barely hide my wince. White button-down, sleeves rolled, dark hair neatly styled, clean-shaven. I look like exactly what I am: a preppy impostor out of place in a fans bar on game day.

Her eyes narrow. “It’s still a no.”

She turns away from me to take a payment, and that’s enough of an opening. I ignore the voice in my head questioning what the hell I think I’m doing and choose to focus on the fact that this woman needs help, whether she cares to admit it or not. I take another step, planting myself fully behind the bar. I’ve always been a jump first, think later type, which is how I landed in this bar in the first place.

“What are you—” she starts, then cuts herself off as a cheer explodes behind her. The crowd seems to grow before us. She grits her teeth and fires off three beers in quick succession.

Voices shout in my direction.

“A beer please!”

“Two over here!”

“Bourbon on the rocks!”

I grab a clean glass and eyeball the beer tap. How hard can it be?