Page 9 of The Mistletoe Mix-up

Clark shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re talking like this. Do you have anyone in mind?”

Sam shook his head. “No, but I’ve got time. Been waiting around for thirty-seven years. What’s a few more?” Sam stared out into the trees, his jaw stiff with determination. “When I do find someone who gets me, everyone in this town who said I wouldn’t commit is going to eat some serious crow.”

“Falling in love shouldn’t be about proving people wrong.”

Sam shrugged. “Why can’t it be both?”

Chapter Four

Wren drove through downtown, slowing to roll down her window and holler at a couple running across the road. “Use the crosswalk!”

If she wasn’t on her way to another call, Wren would have stopped and given them each a ticket. Why couldn’t people follow simple rules? It was like people thought that breaking laws meant to keep people safe were no big deal, but people died every day speeding and getting hit by idiots because they crossed roads willy-nilly like a bunch of headless chickens.

She parked the SUV cruiser in front of the Wolf’s Den, studying the dark building with a rush of nostalgia. This was the place she’d snuck into with Sam as a teen, barely old enough to drive. She should have been home watching TV or studying, not sneaking into the bar with her fake ID or letting Sam take her into one of the back rooms to show her a new way he could make her body tingle. While things could have taken a bad turn any time she visited the Den, the bar owner, Quint, had always kept an eye on her because he knew she was underage. He’d told her once she was safer drinking in his bar than getting drunk at the lake or some house party with a bunch of idiots. He’d taken a risk letting her hang around, but Wren’s rebellious years had been safe.

Well, except for the whole broken heart and pregnancy scare.

Wren climbed out of the SUV, looking into the far back where Duke sat watching her. “I’ll be right back, possibly with a friend.”

Wren headed around to the front, nodding at the man guarding the door. He took one look at her uniform, and his lips twisted in disgust. Wren couldn’t blame him. Mistletoe police and the crowd at the Den had never been on the same page, but Wren was only there because an old friend called about a disturbance.

Wren took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Although she’d attended department-mandated therapy after her shooting last year, Wren fought back a rush of panic every time she went to a disturbance call. Even in Mistletoe, where violent crime was minuscule, the anxiety always hung in the back of her mind.

She stepped into the bar, smiling as she stared up at the dark chandelier that disappeared into the high ceiling above. To the right and against the far wall was a stage, where a black karaoke machine was tucked in back against the wall. Tonight, a live band played a lively rendition of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” while the dance floor was packed with couples bouncing along to the beat. There were several tall tables scattered among shorter ones, but the biggest crowd was by the bar, waiting to get the attention of the two bartenders on duty. Wren knew that the back area would have one man on the door, taking passwords from bikers who needed a little R & R before they got back on the road.

For Wren, those private rooms had been a safe place to be with Sam, to experiment with the first boy she’d ever been with. At the time, she’d been swept up in being in love and experiencing passion. It had been nearly twenty years since she’d been back there, and Wren had no plans to revisit and drag up old memories.

“Wren, darlin’!” A booming voice hailed her from over the Beatle’s song. Quinton Gains was average height and barrel-chested. His dark, silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, and his Fu Manchu was salt and pepper, perched happily above a wide, welcome smile.

“Quint!” Wren found herself enveloped in a bear hug and returned it as best she could with her shorter arms. “You look good.”

“I look like grizzled jerky, and you know it.” Quint stepped back and gave her a once-over. “You’re a stunner, though! Has Blondie Boy seen you yet?”

Wren’s cheeks warmed at the familiar nickname for Sam. “I’m sure in passing.”

“Never could figure out how he let you get away, but I’m glad to have a friendly face on the Force.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Disturbance is back this way.”

Wren trailed behind Quint toward the private rooms in the back, passing by the other bouncer without issue. The hallway was dimly lit, with a red light overhead and numbered doors on either side. They stopped in front of number eight, and Quint opened the door. A man sat on the chair in the middle of the room, holding his eyes and wailing.

“What happened to him?” Wren asked.

“Apparently, old Dan has been coming here for two weeks, creating his own little peep show on either side of the room and cleverly hiding his peepholes from us. But today the guest next door spotted the holes in the wall, and when she realized those were eyes staring back at her, she poked him.”

“She poked him in the eyes?” Wren nodded her head approvingly. “Good for her.”

“Yeah, except now Pervy Boy here is threatening charges against her and to sue me.” Quint folded his arms over his chest, scowling at the whimpering man. “I want him booked for trespassing, destruction of property, and anything else you can throw at the little weasel.”

“I need a doctor!” the man hollered, covering his eyes with both hands. His balding head was bent over, obscuring the rest of his features. “I think I’m blind!”

“Doc already looked at you and said you were fine!” Quint growled.

The man removed his hands for a split second and blinked at Quint before slapping them back over his face. “I want a proper examination.”

Wren pressed her lips together disapprovingly when Quint took a step toward the man. “I’ll give you an examination, you little—”

Wren stepped between Quint and Dan, shaking her head. “If he’s injured, Quint, I have to take him to the hospital.”

“Oh, come on, Wren!” Quint objected, pointing at Dan over her shoulder like he was stabbing the air. “He’s full of shit.”