Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Huh. I’m usually on track better.” Steve shrugged. “Guess I misread him.”
Jarod came up the back of the bar to the till, his voice already too loud for the quiet between breakfast and lunch. “I’ve already reserved the diner for our reception,” he said, grinning. “And we need to talk about construction for the motel when I get back.”
Amka moved toward him, wiping down the mahogany as she walked. The guy had lost his mind. “Why’s that?”
“Because we’ll probably need to mortgage this place to help pay for it.”
She started sorting through a few receipts left from the early morning tabs. “That’s not going to happen, Jarod.”
He stepped closer, his voice dipping. “The fuck it isn’t. I need money. I’m flying to Anchorage later today to meet with the contractors. Our future is tied together, and we might need to use the equity here for part of the motel.”
Her hand stilled on the edge of the register. “You have the insurance from when the motel burned down.”
“Yeah.” He leaned on the bar. “I need more. We’re going to do it right this time. I don’t want some hole-in-the-wall motel. This is going to be high-end, and we’re going to get more tourists here than ever before.”
She opened the drawer and started pulling change for a half-paid ticket someone had left. “I don’t think the town wants that.”
He slapped the drawer shut with the heel of his hand. She yanked her fingers free just in time.
“Too bad. That’s the plan.” He grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me, or I swear to God, I’m going to kick your balls out.” She didn’t flinch or raise her voice, but she was done. Just done with him.
She also felt the shift. Across the tavern, Christian looked up. At them. She didn’t need to see it to know it was happening. The air changed.
Jarod lowered his head. “That asshole’s way too interested in you.”
“You might want to let go of my arm,” she said.
He did. After a beat. Then he reached past her, popped the drawer back open, and glanced inside. “There should be enough for a plane ticket here.” He took what he needed, counted it without apology, and stuffed the bills into his coat. “I’m not stealing. I’m investing in our future.”
Amka stared at the bar, at the smudges left behind from the breakfast rush. “It’s a good thing you have that video secured in case you die,” she whispered tersely, meaning every word.
He didn’t appear scared. “It’s too late for you to get tough.” Then he leaned in to kiss her.
She reacted without thought, putting both hands on his chest and shoving. Hard.
He fell back a step.
Everyone in the tavern—at the tables, at the bar—paused and stared.
Jarod forced a smile. “Man, you’re in a mood. All right. We’ll have fish and not chicken at the reception.” He rolled his eyes and looked at Steve. “My chick is turning into a bridezilla, right? Let’s go.” He stepped away and walked around the bar, shoving the door open with more force than was necessary.
Steve gulped, frowned, and put a ten on the bar. “Thank you.” He spun off the stool and followed Jarod, glancing back once before disappearing into the spring day.
Amka took the money and put it into the till, ignoring all of the questioning expressions on the familiar faces around her. What in the world had she just done?
Chapter 9
“What’s going on here?” Christian asked as he stepped into the room, the rear door of what he thought was Puck’s Bar closing behind him with a dull thud. Tika had taken off from his place earlier that day, and he didn’t expect to see the wolf for a few days. The animal seemed to be stretching his legs and boundaries a bit.
Dutch snorted. “Ah, the AWT has rented this back room for as long as I can remember.”
Puck’s was a street over and south of Sam’s Tavern and served as the only other bar in town. Owned by one of the Puck family through the years, it was as old as Sam’s and had been a fixture in town since before anyone bothered keeping records. A rough mash of logs and river stone, it served cheap, burning liquor and not much else. No food, no snacks, and definitely no wine. It was the kind of place built for drinking and fighting. Sometimes both, often in that order.
But this room—this back room—had been updated. Someone had paneled it in light oak that still smelled faintly of fresh-cut wood and industrial varnish. A small stove sat tucked in the corner, right now silent but with logs already piled perfectly inside.
The rectangular space held a long, heavy table made from a carefully cut and polished slab of cedar. Three folding chairs, none of them matching, were pushed up to one side like someone had lost interest mid-arrangement. The tile floor was cracked and worn smooth in spots. There were no windows. Two massive corkboards blanketed the far wall covered in pinholes and ragged tape ghosts, with a monstrous map of Alaska spreading across the entire adjacent wall.