Ford took a desperate gulp of his beer to reinforce his commitment to what he was about to say. “First of all, I’m not twenty-something. I’m thirty-one, Jorg. That’s in no way the same thing. Plus, I’ve been around. Like, all the way around.” Over a decade with Army Special Forces had a way of doing that to a person. “Lilah has barely been across the goddamn street.”
“But now she is ready. Take her hand. Lead her nicely. Like a gentleman. What is the matter?” Those bushy gray brows drew together like two caterpillars mating. “You are ogift. Long-time ogift. Maybe too long? Have you forgotten how to cross a street?” The brows arched up and apart. “Or maybe Lilah is no gift to you? Too homemade?”
Homemade? Was the man referring to her Tlingit blood, or the fact that her father, whom she’d never known, had clearly been white? Race, ethnicity—neither figured into his feelings for her, or anybody else, as far as that went. He was a words-and-actions kind of guy. Lilah was simply…Lilah. “She’s a rare and precious gift.”
Well, fuck. Why had that found its way out of his brain and past his lips? He blamed it on how just thinking about…crossing the street with her…left him slightly lightheaded. “For someone younger and more, uh, appropriate,” he rushed to add. Someone who didn’t, too often, feel like a hungry predator ready to chase her down and gobble her up. Someone who wouldn’t scare her sweet soul straight out of her if he ever unleashed that side of himself. “Good luck getting across your street, old man,” he managed, picked up his drink, and walked himself down the bar.
Jorg’s laugh boomed behind him. “Yah. I think I am not the old man here. I haven’t been standing on the sidewalk so long I can’t remember how to cross a street.”
Har. Har. Without turning, he lifted his free hand and shot Jorg the bird. He remembered how to cross a fucking street. He could cross with the best of them. It just happened there weren’t so many crossable streets in a town the size of Captivity.
He made his way down the bar to where Trace, Izzy, and Archer sat, proving with their presence that once you crossed a street in Captivity, you had to figure out what the hell you were going to do on the other side. Juneau and Anchorage had far more streets. Streets a man could, with proper precautions, cross to everyone’s satisfaction, and then just keep walking without anyone getting hurt.
Deep thoughts for a party. Too deep. He shook them off and approached the group. Quite the sight, these three. Trace and Izzy were fresh off their honeymoon, so big, burly Trace bore only a shadow of his normal beard. Beside him, his tiny, polished city girl shined like a rare gem in this rustic setting. On her other side, Skyline Air CEO, Archer Ellison, ran his hand through his blond hair and settled in his barstool with the worldly sophistication of a man posing for the cover of Anchorage Magazine’s Top Thirty Under Thirty issue. Which he’d done earlier in the week.
Aiming to get under Trace’s skin, he focused attention on Izzy, smiled, and leaned a forearm on the bar, close to her own. “What can I get you, beautiful?”
Izzy returned the smile and fluttered long, dark lashes. Trace, on the other hand, stuck his arm between theirs and pushed into their space. “Are you hitting on my bride, Langley?”
“I was asking her if she’d like a drink. Ladies first, because, unlike some people who shall remain nameless, I have manners.” He aimed his smile at Izzy again. “That whole bride thing still doesn’t compute. She’s way too pretty for a hairy brute like you.”
Trace wrapped a big arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “She likes me that way. Dontcha, baby?” With that, he rubbed his stubbly jaw over her smooth throat, making her laugh and squirm away.
When she caught her breath enough to respond, she patted his cheek. “You have your charms.”
“I have a bar,” Ford pointed out. “Food and beverage at your beck and call. I can grow a beard, too.”
“You have charms as well,” Izzy conceded. “It’s a shame I was already locked into a fake relationship with Trace by the time I set eyes on you.”
Ford rubbed his palm over his heart and nodded. “Huge shame. But”—he straightened and stepped back to avoid the sledgehammer sized fist at the end of Trace’s half-hearted swing—“since all I’m good for now is drinks, what can I get you?”
“What do you recommend?” she asked.
“Got something new, if you’re game? A hard cider.”
“You brew it?” Archer asked.
“Yep.”
The other man gave an easy shrug. “I’m game. I respect your skills.”
“Me, too,” Izzy chirped.
“Three,” Trace said, “but I’m withholding my respect on account of my lack of manners.”
Ford laughed as he moved away to get their drinks. “Four,” Archer said. “Bridget’s on her way.”
“What do you call it?” Izzy asked while he filled pint glasses with foamy amber liquid.
He topped off the third. “I’m still working on a name, but The Wild Goose Chase is the frontrunner.” He set the pints in front of them.
Archer leaned on the bar and grinned at his companions. “In that case, you ought to call it ‘The Isabelle.’”
Ford laughed, despite his alleged manners, but so did Trace, and he was the one courting a lonely night on the couch. An unlikely outcome, judging by Izzy’s pretty blush and good-natured slap to Archer’s shoulder.
“Are you guys ganging up on my sister-in-law?” a sultry female voice broke through their laughter as Bridget slid between Izzy and Archer. He looked into her dancing violet eyes.
“Yes,” Izzy said and started filling Bridget in on the dis, having to do with Izzy’s unfortunate encounter with a flock of wild geese earlier in the spring that had ended with her taking a muddy header down Main Street. Since he’d been an eyewitness to that particular event, Ford tuned out to concentrate on an increasingly audible disturbance in the lobby. It sounded like Rose, talking fast and loud in her native language. Her sharp tone—a deep-seated mix of fury and betrayal—knotted his gut.