I had picked up the skirt on a whim during the team’s last road series to Nashville. It was short, black, and cut with a deepslit on the left side that would have made my mother cringe—just the way I liked it. It was snug but not suffocating, showing off the tattoos that curled up my legs like wild ivy, and it paired perfectly with my deep burgundy tube top that left little to the imagination and even less room for a bra. Not that I would have worn one anyway. I was a card-carrying member of the itty-bitty titty committee, so the girls were doing just fine on their own.
Platform combat boots completed the look, because five-foot-three or not, heels had never been my style. I liked knowing I could stomp someone if I needed to—metaphorically or otherwise.
If I was going to ring in another year full of questionable decisions, I might as well do it while looking like a bad ass bitch.
“Thirty minutes to go,” Nero shouted from behind the bar. “If you want a fresh drink before midnight, grab it now. Don’t be the dick who waits until 11:59.”
Hoots and hollers sounded over the music.
Thorn Tavern was glowing. Not in a flashy, gimmicky kind of way meant for attracting social media influencers, but rather in the warm, familiar glow of a place that had been well-loved for generations.
Nero wouldn’t have it any other way.
It was a neighborhood bar through and through—always had been, even well before the Roasters had moved into Rose City, Oregon. He had made some cosmetic changes since inheriting it from his mom, but something told me he would sooner burn the place to the ground than see it turned into an Instagrammable watering hole. Hell, he’d nearly blown a gasket last week when Pink’s sister, Bella, had recommended he stock kombucha.
“This is a bar, not a farmer’s market,”he had told her, this coming from the man who infused his vodkas with yuzu and orange peels.
Thorn Tavern had become the Roasters’ favorite postgame spot, which meant men and women alike came from far and wide to enjoy a game—along with the game-day drink specials—and hopefully, if they were lucky, take home a hot baseballer.
In my experience, a quick and dirty fuck—even with a professional athlete—was easy to come by. The tavern’s famous “Totchos,” on the other hand, were one of a kind. I had hadnaughtydreams about those ooey-gooey, bacon-covered potatoes on more than one occasion. Positively sinful.
Speaking of sinful things that were no good for me . . .
I checked my phone for the umpteenth time and then cursed myself for doing so.Don’t go there.New Year’s Eve was all about starting over, after all. A fresh start. Yet here I was, decked out in sequins and dripping in sex appeal, and all I could think about was a certain bearded and bespectacled behemoth—more specifically, about how that beard felt between my thighs.
“Nope,” I said, popping the “p” with my copper-painted lips.
“No, you don’t want Champagne?”
I looked up from my phone just as Nessa settled back into the empty chair to my left, armed with two Champagne flutes. Her silver-gray jumpsuit hugged every delicious curve of her size-twenty body. Seriously, if Pink didn’t wife her up someday soon, I would happily volunteer.
“Earth to Dani,” she said when I didn’t answer. “Champagne?”
I waved her off, gesturing to the glass in my hand. “I’ve already had more than I probably should.”
“And I haven’t had enough, so gimme!” June demanded. “We’ve got thirty minutes until the new year. That’s plenty of time to squeeze in at least one more bad decision. Two, if I’m lucky.”
Nessa, June, and I had taken over the corner booth next to the jukebox. Pink was currently at the bar with Nero, probably arguing over pour size, a losing battle if I ever saw one. Clarkewas holding court in one of the large, leather reading chairs beside the fireplace, half on Soren’s lap, half in her umpteenth glass of punch. Her party hat was on sideways—not that she or Soren seemed to care. He was too mesmerized by her exposed cleavage, and she was too focused on trash-talking our shortstop’s new girlfriend. A match made in heaven.
“I’m just saying,” Clarke slurred lightly, “Matty deserves better.”
“Blondie, you only met her once,” Soren soothed, stroking her bare shoulders with love and admiration, like she was the most precious gem in the world. To Soren, she was.
“Once was enough. The woman has her nose so high in the air she could . . . drown in a rainstorm.”
I snorted around my sip of vodka lemonade. Clarke and I had been working together for nearly a year and yet somehow, she still managed to surprise me with her Southernisms. They certainly made the workday more interesting—because yes, believe it or not, even being the social media director for a pro-baseball team had dullish moments.
Nessa leaned into my side, close enough for her minty-fresh breath to fan my cheek. “Who is she talking about again?”
“Matty’s new girlfriend,” I answered. “Lila something. Apparently, she talks about herself in the third person.”
Nessa grimaced. “That’s notthatbad.”
“Andshe’s a wine snob,” Clarke added.
We all collectively groaned—even Soren. There was a special circle in hell reserved solely for wine snobs, just between the losers who didn’t return their shopping carts and men who never washed their assholes.
“Yikes,” June said through gritted teeth. “A double whammy.”
