“Can’t strangle what’s already dead,” he mutters, tossing back the whiskey.“That song’s been causing headaches since before I could ride.”
“Grinch much?”I tease.
He tips the glass toward me.“That one’s taken.I’m worse.”
“Oh yeah?What’s worse than a Grinch?”
He shrugs, eyes glittering.“Call me Humbug.”
I lean on the counter, chin resting on my palm.“That your road name or just your general personality?”
“Both.”
“Figures.”I grin.“Well, Humbug, you’re in Evervale now.We take Christmas seriously.Like, it’s basically a religion.You might wanna hide before the carolers come for you.”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting.“They try singin’ at me, I’ll have ’em slayed before the first verse.”
I snort, almost dropping the rag.“Sleighed?Did you just make a Christmas pun?”
His brow furrows.“No.I said...”
“You said ‘sleighed.’Like Santa.On his sleigh.Evervale has officially corrupted you.”
He shakes his head, eyes narrowing but not mean.“You twist words worse than a preacher.”
“That’s bartender training.Comes with the candy-striped apron.”
“I meant slayed as in killin’ ‘em.Though I can think of some much better uses of your pun.”
“Let me have them, Humbug.”
“A sleigh is something you ride… You wanna ride my sleigh, sweetheart?Wanna go sleighing with me after you get off?I’ll sleigh you, alright.We’ll be sleighing all damn night.I’ll show you my big sleigh.Send you a sleigh pic later.”He throws a wink.
I throw my towel at his face.
He nearly sputters a laugh as he tosses his drink back.“Get your mind outta the gutter.Meant my Harley.”
“Sure.”
He slides the empty glass toward me.“Pour me another.Maybe it’ll drown the holly jolly.”
I refill it, grinning.“You sure you don’t wanna try our seasonal cocktail?Comes with a candy cane and a cinnamon stick.”
“I’d rather drink motor oil.”
“Suit yourself.”
He drinks, slower this time, watching me like he’s still trying to figure out why I haven’t backed away yet.Maybe he’s used to people doing that, reading danger and leaving it alone.But I’ve met enough rough types to know when the danger’s tired more than cruel.
“So,” I say, wiping the counter again though it’s spotless.“If you hate Christmas so much, what’re you doin’ in the most festive town in the US?”
“Work,” he says.“My club’s got business nearby.”
“Club as in...?”
He shrugs off his jacket and glances down at his leather cut underneath, Evervale Executioners MC stitched in red and green.“That kinda club.”
“Oh.”The name hums through me, half fear, half thrill.Shit.He’s from the local motorcycle club here, and I’ve been making a fool of myself telling him everything about Evervale he already knows.
