The walls are cluttered with vintage snowboards,faded mountaineering photos, and a chalkboard listing the daily specials in loopy French script.
There’s a crackling fireplace in the corner, surrounded by mismatched leather armchairs, and the hum of conversation blends with mellow indie music and the occasional clink of glass.
Locals and tourists alike crowd the place—rosy-cheeked from the slopes—and the air smells like mulled wine, pine, and fried cheese.
Bar’d Up is warm, a little chaotic, and exactly the kind of place where no one minds if your boots are still caked with snow, or if you look like you’re about to burst into tears.
Which I am.
I find a seat at the bar and nod at the bartender. “Un vin chaud, merci.”
He slides a mug of mulled wine in front of me. I drop a 10 euro note by the mug and tell him to keep the change. People don’t tip in Europe, but I’ve spent enough time in the United States that it feels wrong not to tip.
The coat rack is overflowing, so I drape my coat on the bar stool and sit on it. I place my woolen hat on the bar counter. It’s bright red and has a pompom on top of it. I glare at it.
Should a thirty-year-old woman be wearing a hat with a pom-pom? Is that too childish?
Damn it! Now I’m letting Ransom corrode evenmy simple choices, like a woolen hat I picked up at the airport because I forgot to pack one.
This is not good. Not nourishing. I don’t want to be the woman who keeps dissecting herself to learn what’s so wrong with her that the man she wants doesn’t want her.
I mean, if his type is Calypso, then I’m better off, aren’t I, not being wanted by him?
I sigh and slowly drink myvin chaud. Warmth blooms through my chest. I feel a buzz in my blazer pocket where my phone is. I ignore it.
I rest my cheek against the palm of my hand. My eyes unfocused as I scan the room, watching people without seeing anyone, lost in a tangle of unsettled thoughts.
I’m completely in my own world and am surprised when I hear someone speak close to me. “You look like you just survived a very intense Christmas with the family…or a terrible breakup.”
I glance sideways.
The guy is American, mid-thirties maybe, tall, bearded, dressed in a fitted sweater and a neck gaiter pushed down. He has a Colorado look about him: charming and outdoorsy, with a hint of a Patagonia catalog.
He’s grinning widely as he sits on the stool next to me.
A part of me wants to do what I usually do when someone approaches me in a bar—brush them off,say I’m waiting for someone. But there’s something disarming about this man’s easy smile, the way his blond hair flops over one eye, and how he seems so completely unlike Ransom that I smile back.
“Would you believe both?”
He laughs. “Oof. Tough day.”
“Week,” I correct him.
“I’m Owen.” He extends a hand. “From Denver. Here with my cousin and her family. They bailed on me for a hot tub and cartoons.”
Denver, Colorado.Nailed it!
“Ember.” I shake his hand.
“Ember,” he repeats. “Like the glowing bit of a fire?”
I chuckle. “Like that.”
“Fitting. You’ve definitely gotthatspark.”
I almost roll my eyes—but something in me warms, just slightly. “Thatspark?”
He tosses a shoulder up carelessly and gives me a sheepish smile. “Let me have a beer, and I promise to do better.”
