CHAPTER 1
KELSEY
“Doyou really have to do that?” I look at Monica, who rolls her eyes from the barstool next to me and continues neatly stacking the coasters she’s collected.
“You know I’m a neat freak and this bar is always a mess, even if I love it,” she scoffs. “Seriously, why do you still bother to come almost every Friday when you’re going to be such a downer?”
OK, that’s fair. The bar’s only a block away from the town square with all the fancy tourist restaurants, but the clientele here is largely Jackson, Wyoming locals.
“For your moral support,” I tease. “And because you wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I didn’t.”
“You know it’s tradition.” She levels a glare at me. “We have to keep it alive.”
I roll my eyes and give her a dismissive nod. “Yeah, yeah.”
I might give her a hard time, but it’s not just tradition—it’s also a necessity. We both work at Cowgirl Coffee, the town’s favorite coffee shop. Her grandma opened it decades ago, back when Jackson was just a small, off-the-beaten-path town only on the radar of diehard skiers in the winter or National Parks visitors in the summer. Between the expensive rent in townand pricey drinks at the other bougie bars, Bridger’s fits the bill for us and our budget—literally. Most of the touristy places also close early and this is one of the few bars around that’s both cheap and open this late.
Looking around the bar, I recognize more than a few of the resort workers and restaurant staff coming for after-shift drinks. Even now, in the summer time, when the ski resort has been closed for months, Bridger’s is still busy with people visiting the National Parks only a short drive away.
Monica flags down the bartender and orders our next round of beers before turning back to me.
“It might be tradition, but that also doesn’t change the fact that it’s slim pickings. I haven’t seen fresh blood here in weeks.”
“Are you really trying to find someone to take home tonight?” I quirk a brow at her. “Because that hasn’t exactly been working out for you lately.”
She groans before flattening her long blonde hair and smoothing out her short denim dress with embroidered sunflowers. If someone didn’t see us come in together, no one would guess that she was with me. My go-to black skinny jeans, lace up black leather boots, and a black cropped t-shirt don’t exactly go with her sunshine and perky disposition.
“Maybe, maybe not. But I’d at least like the illusion that I could.”
After so many people we grew up with left town, I’m glad that my best friend is still here. We’ve been roommates since we graduated high school, sharing the small apartment above the coffee shop. Thankfully, her grandma owns the building and gives us a great deal on rent.
Growing up in a small rural town, we learned fast that the dating scene isn’t exactly stellar. The population is mostly transient, short-term residents—seasonal workers and tourists—leaving the pool of single locals pretty limited. Dating hashardly seemed like a priority, even after I turned twenty-seven a couple of months ago.
Deep laughter erupts near the door of the bar, and Monica turns first to scope out the source.
“Speaking of illusions, do you see them?”
I don’t even bother responding when I turn around and seethem. It’s impossible to miss the two men that just walked in, emphasis onmen.They’re both tall, imposing, and utterly striking.
The taller one almost has a menacing presence. Everything about him is intense and calculated. From the perfectly styled hard part in his dark, almost black hair and neatly trimmed beard to the meticulous geometric patterns tattooed on both of his arms. Nothing is out of place. Every little detail about this man has clearly been thought out. Even his damned v-neck t-shirt is so clean and smooth it looks like it was ironed. He looks like the physical embodiment of order and control.
The man walking in beside him is something else entirely. He’s not quite as tall as Captain Control, but he still must be six-foot-two or six-foot-three. He has the same inky dark hair, except his is unkempt and tousled, hanging just above his eyes. He oozes that boyish, carefree charm that makes him look younger than the other one. He definitely has that pretty boy-next-door charm going on.
“I think the word you’re looking for is mirage. And yes, I see them and they’re very real,” I say, taking the last sip of my beer.
She practically gawks as they grab a high-top in the corner, by the dartboard. They’re so similar—but equally different—two sides of the same coin. They must be brothers.
Captain Control turns to Pretty Boy and whatever he said makes Pretty Boy smile, revealing a set of dimples.
Yep. Pretty Boy is right. Those dimples are to die for.
I turn and find Monica still staring at them, mouth agape.
“If you keep staring, I’m going to have to wipe your drool off the floor.”
She glares at me over her shoulder. “I don’t believe you. I think I need to confirm they’re actually real, and not figments of our horny imaginations.”
I roll my eyes as she gets up, knowing full well she’s going right for Captain Control because her neat freak tendencies don’t end with stacking coasters. And while she might be Miss Sunny-and-Bright compared to my dark and gloomy, she always seems to like the intense ones.