Part One
The Prince and The Barmaid
Chapter One
Aren
When you’re a barmaid, marriage proposals are a natural part of the job. A drunkard can find salvation in the bottom of a pint glass as easily as he can find love gazing across a bar. Luckily for me, I’m very good at saying no.
“Still no, Shep,” I say firmly. “Don’t you remember I turned you down yesterday?”
I set another tankard of ale on the bar and blink at the glassy-eyed farmer who just asked me to marry him for the tenth time this month. Will this jackass ever learn?
“Come on now. I’m serious, Aren,” he slurs. His black, beady eyes are unfocused and glassy. “What’re you gonna do with your life? Clean mugs all day? You’d be a good wife. You’re always a’workin’. It’s time you settled down.”
This man exhausts me. Or is it all of the men in this town?In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more tired. I’m tired all the way to my bones.
And I’m only twenty-five.
My shoulders sag as I sigh, long and deep. There’s no point in letting Shephard Belmis get to me. He’s a mouse to be toyed with, and I’m the cat.
His drinking buddy, another ruddy-faced farmer, slaps him hard on the side of his head. “Leave ’er alone, arsehole. You’re wasted. Lady’s already told you no several times.”
“This is your last chance! Marry me, Aren. Ye’d make a good wife and ma. With that sturdy—hic—back of yers. Sturdiest back in all of Evandale, and that’s saying something!”
The nerve of this bastard. Where’s the nearest cliff so I can promptly hurl myself off of it? I would rather die than marry a man who only sees me as a hardworking mule.
Without looking at the geezer, I fold my rag and set it neatly on the bar and prepare to bat around dear ol’ Shep. I lean my forearms on the sticky counter, prop my chin on my hands, and flutter my eyelashes.
“A sturdy back! Such a compliment! Please, tell me more!”
“Well, since the wife passed, my kids ain’t got no one to look after them,” he whines.
“No one? Aren’t you sitting right here? Unless you’re a…” I pause and then gasp for effect. “…a ghost!”
“Blimey! I’m not a ghost!” But he clearly questions his existence on this corporeal plane because he holds his hands up to hazy eyes to inspect them for a second. Once satisfied that he is, in fact, alivingold meat suit, he continues. “I just don’t have those ca’bilities, you understand. Ain’t no one else can cook ’em warm meals or make sure they’s clothes is clean—hic. A man can’t be livin’ a life with no woman—hic. Ain’t natural.”
His buddy groans, having more good sense in him than ale, but Shepherd ignores him.
I slap my hand flat against my chest in fake surprise. “My goodness! I never thought of it like that. My heart—it’s beating so fast! You really know how to sweet-talk a girl. This is all so…so…unexpected!”
The things I would do for one—justone—proposal that doesn’t make me feel as sexy as a sack of flour.
Shep wobbles as he stands from his barstool and bows his head in a certain kind of reverence. His friend outright scoffs at this gesture. I can’t stifle a laugh.
“So, what do you say, my—hic—love? Will you do me the honor of…my wifely honor? My wifely becoming…to me?”
He stopped being totally coherent long ago, but I have to admire his conviction. Shep blinks his droopy eyes as his head bobbles. Sad sack is waiting for an answer.
I’ve had practice rejecting Shephard Belmis and countless other farmers high on liquid courage, but like I said, I’m fucking tired.
I’m tired of running this bar that I still try to find love for. I’m tired of being on my feet from morning to night. I’m tired of never having any time for myself, not that I ever did anyway. I’m tired of this small-minded town. I’m tired of my regulars. I’m tired of my family, as much as I love them. I’m so tired I could scream.
And Shephard Belmis? I’m most tired of him.
So, I’ve taken an extra step to fix that tonight. I point to a wooden sign hanging behind me. Painted in neat black lettering, it reads:
BAR RULES
