Page 1 of Denim & Diamonds

CHAPTER 1

February

Ugh. My aching head.

I lifted it from the pillow and looked around the room.Where the hell am I?This was definitely not my room at Sierra Wellness Center, and why the heck are my eyes burning so much? I must’ve left my contacts in last night. I blinked a few times, attempting to get rid of the dryness. It helped, but when my vision came into focus, I found myself staring into the eyes of…a giant moose.

“Holy shit!” I jumped from the bed and landed on my ass on the hard floor.

Clunk-clunk. Click.

Clunk-clunk. Click.

My grandfather had loved old westerns, so I knew the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped and cocked. I squeezed my eyes shut and raised my hands into the air. I might’ve also peed my pants a little. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”

“What the hell, Red?” a deep, throaty voice growled. “I’m not going to fucking shoot you.”

I peeked one eye open and found a bearded man standing on the other side of the bed wearing a pair of boxer shorts and holding a gun. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Well, then stop pointing that thing at me!”

“Sorry.” He lowered it. “What the hell did you scream like that for?”

I blinked a few times. “Who the hell are you?”

“Jesus Christ,” the guy mumbled. “You don’t remember last night?”

My eyes bulged. Last night?Oh my God.Did I sleep with this lumberjack? I looked down and was relieved to find I still had all my clothes on, boots and all.

The guy shook his head. “You’d remember it, sweetheart. Trust me.”

“What?”

“You just checked to see what you were wearing, so I’m guessing you were questioning whether we had sex. We didn’t. And if we had, you’d remember it.”

“Why is that?”

The corner of his lip twitched. “How’s your noggin?”

The pain I’d felt when I first opened my eyes came roaring back with a vengeance. I reached for my head. “Who are you, and what the heck did I drink last night?”

Lumberjack bent and lifted the mattress, casually tucking the rifle between it and the boxspring.

“Is that where that gets filed?” I asked.

His lip twitched again. “It is. And an extra dry martini, shaken not stirred, with a lemon twist, dash of orange bitters, and two bleu cheese olives.”

I felt my nose wrinkle. “What?”

“You asked what you drank last night. That’s what your prissy order was. Though that’s not actually what you drank.”

“A dry martini is not prissy.”

“In this town it is, especially the way you order it.”

“What did I drink if my order was tooprissyfor you?”

“Vodka.”

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