“Whoa, darlin’,” a thick masculine voice says behind me, and a hand comes to my lower back as I watch beer cascade over the bar and puddle at my feet.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I twist to face the person.
Then I’m tongue tied.
Zebb?
Before me stands Zebb Scroggs. Scholarship kid. Top athlete. Excellent student. And my high school crush that turned into a secret summer affair before we both went off to college.
I’d always wondered what happened to him. Not that it mattered. We had our summer and went our separate ways, but still . . .
“Eva?” Dark delicious brown eyes meet mine and sparkle like hot chocolate under the twinkle of the Christmas lights suspended over the bar. His mouth hangs open, moist from drink and surrounded by a light brown scruff speckled with white. Snow on damp sand best describes it. Laugh lines crinkle on the corner of his eyes and the eventual smile on his lips causes my heart to race in a forgotten way. The way only he caused it to patter.
“Zebb,” I shout over the noise of the crowded bar. Glancing to the side, the spillage from the beer continues to cascade to the floor. There isn’t much space between the sticky bar and Zebb’s body, but instantly, I’m tugged against his solid chest when a possessive arm wraps around me.
“What the hell?” Zebb chuckles and addresses the man on the stool. “Brock.”
Brock has righted his fallen glass but didn’t bother to mop up the spillage. With unfocused eyes, he stares at me.
“Do I know you?” Brock asks.
“Don’t hit on my girl,” Zebb admonishes.
What the heck?
“You shouldn’t even be here,” Zebb adds.
“I’m here for the freshmen,” he slurs.
“You mean fresh meat and you’re too old for this crowd. You graduated three years before us.”
My mind swirls as I swivel my head from this Brock to Zebb. Then it clicks. Brock is Zebb’s older brother.
Zebb watches the last of the beer spill over the lip of the bar. “This place is a mess tonight,” he shouts. “And so are you.” He scolds his brother as his arm around me tightens.
“Come here often?” I yell again, despite our proximity, which is me plastered into his side with a hand against his firm chest. His flannel shirt is soft. He smells of campfire and whiskey, and his heart pumps beneath my palm.
“Are you trying to pick me up with that line?” He laughs, deep and rich but quiet like I remember. A sultry chuckle, like his laughter is a gift and the sound a limited edition. A secret even. He used to laugh with me, though.
“What? No.” His flirtatious comment has me flustered. I wouldn’t know how to pick up a man any better than the Grinch could properly steal Christmas.
“Okay, sexy Santa’s helper.” He smiles, one side of his mouth curling higher than another. “Was that your drink that spilled? Let me buy you another.”
“Now who sounds like they’re casting out pickup lines.”
“I’m definitely casting.” He winks at me, still holding me at his side. Realizing I’ve been hanging onto him for longer than is probably appropriate, I press on his chest to move away from him, but his arm around my lower back tightens in response.
“Hey AJ, we need a rag here. Help Brock get an Uber and give me two shots of Fireball.”
He definitely comes here often if he’s familiar with the bartender, and I snort into his soft flannel, inhaling him once more before my brain registers what he ordered.
“I can’t do shots.”
“Why not? It’s cinnamon-y goodness. Perfect for the season.”
Groaning, I try again to pull away from him. He smells too good and that voice of his . . . it got me in so much trouble that summer.
“I hate this season,” I admit, loud and proud over the noise.