Page 7 of Rookie Season
I’ve never cut down a tree. Never lived somewhere with trees like this until I moved to Denver.
“You’d make a great lumberjack.” Trista’s hands find my arm.
A cough comes from somewhere, along with a muffled laugh.
“Thanks for your help,” I say.
She blinks. “Any time. You have my number. Call if you need anything. Or stop by. My place is literally a five-minute walk.” She points toward the door. “If you come without a coat, I can warm you up.”
“Bye, Trista.”
She waves and closes the door behind her.
“Oh, Ryan,” Brooke coos in a high-pitched voice. “You should come by my place. You have my number.”
Chloe weighs in. “Wear your jersey. Or maybe I’ll be wearing it.”
I grin as I pull bottles out of the box, setting them on the counter. When I glance back, I find Sierra right behind me. “You’re not jumping in on this?”
“Nope.”
“Right. Insulting me is below your paygrade.”
Sierra inspects the bottles and I inspect her. The pale skin and freckles, the full lips and lined eyes, the piece of black hair falling across her face I’d tuck behind her ear if I weren’t concerned I’d lose a finger.
“You know you want to say something.” I nudge her hip with mine as she comes up next to me.
She shoots a look over the island toward the others, all caught up in conversations and laughing. They’re oblivious. At least for the moment.
“She all but announced she wants you to rail her through New Year’s.”
Her lips press together as she reaches for the box and pulls out items. Bar ingredients, things to mix with. She pauses on the third jar—maraschino cherries.
I can’t resist leaning in. “Missed that tongue.”
That’s when it happens.
Sierra fumbles the glass in her hands. She doesn’t drop it, but for a second, I think she might.
Yeah, well, it’s about time.
Because Sierra’s been acting as though she has an epic case of amnesia, and there’s no way I’ve gotten that hot night out of my head.
Guess it took being here in these cozy mountain quarters to get under her skin.
I’m not about to let it go.
3
SIERRA
LAST CHRISTMAS
“Another usual?” I ask Clay.
He nods and I slide a soda over. He takes it in his big, tattooed hand.
It’s Christmas Eve and the bar is full. From the moment the Kodiaks poured in, the vibe changed. It always does when they arrive.
