“Burgers!” Henry’s face lit up in a megawatt smile. “And a root beer!”
“Milk,” she countered. “You had a soda when we stopped for gas.”
“Juice?”
“Milk,” she repeated before closing his door. Always the negotiator, that was her son. She slid into her seat and with a silent prayer put the key into the ignition. The engine balked, hacking and coughing itself awake before settling into its normal state of aggravated compliance. She backed out of the driveway with a sigh of relief.
Henry remained quiet as they drove, likely due to a combination of fatigue and contemplation over the milk debate. Breathing deeply, Chelsea tried to ignore the heavy pressure on her chest. This was bad. Really bad. Other than Henry—who counted on her to make his world safe—she was alone in a strange city with little cash and nowhere to go.
Tears stung her eyes as the reality of her dilemma sank in.
Should they turn around and return to Pueblo? She didn’t have to look in her wallet to know it held one crumpled five-dollar bill and two twenties. There were a couple of ones in her coat pocket and probably a handful of change lurking in the bottom of her purse. All told, she had less than fifty dollars to her name. Enough, maybe, to get them back to Pueblo. If she drove straight through and her car didn’t gasp its last breath en route. But why?
She’d spend most—if not all—of her cash in the process, and frankly, there wasn’t much of anything left for them in Pueblo. No home. No job. No true friendships. Henry’s father—if anyone dared call Joel Marin that—had walked into the sunset shortly after learning she was pregnant. For most of Henry’s life, she hadn’t heard one peep from him, but six months ago, she’d received a postcard—a damn postcard, mailed from California—with a scrawled “Was thinking of you and wanted to say hi!”
Really? Close to five years, zero communication, zero support, zero interest in Henry, and he sent her that? And how had he gotten her address?
She didn’t know, but she’d thrown the postcard into the trash and had put him and it out of her mind. Then, two months ago, she’d heard he was back in Pueblo. He hadn’t shown up on her doorstep, so she’d assumed he didn’t want to see Henry, but just knowing they were in the same city was enough for her to decide to pick up stakes and move on.
Plainly speaking, she wanted nothing to do with Joel Marin. Ever again. And she felt more emphatically about keeping Joel away from Henry. Her son deserved better than a fly-by-night, immature man who had bolted from his responsibilities as a father. The fact Joel was now in Pueblo only added a check mark to the con side of her what-to-do-next list.
And what remained of Chelsea’s family—save her sister, but Lindsay had her own set of problems—would just as soon hang up on her than offer their help.
So. She could be broke, alone and homeless in Pueblo and deal with the remote possibility of Joel popping into her life, or almost broke, alone and homeless in Steamboat Springs, but without the worry of Joel hanging over her head.
Inappropriate laughter bubbled in her chest. When thought of like that, the choice was pretty damn simple. Sad and scary, but simple. She’d rather save the money she had and take her chances here than head back to a place she couldn’t wait to leave.
Okay, then. One decision made. Now she just had to find a new fresh start. She’d done it before and she could do so again.
“You win, Mommy,” Henry said from the backseat. “I’ll drink the milk.”
“You will, huh? That’s good to hear.”
“Yup! Chocolate milk!”
She almost argued, but decided to give in on this front. “I think we can make that happen.” Amused despite the weight of her fears, Chelsea braked at a stop sign. Her son’s tenacious, never-give-up attitude always reminded her of what was important. Even when the world seemed bent on crumbling around them. So, yeah, he’d get his chocolate milk, and she’d keep them safe. Somehow. “Thank you, Henry.”
“For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just for being you.”
Henry laughed, and the normalcy—the joy—of that sound wove into her heart and rekindled her hope. “I like being me,” he said, “so it’s easy. And fun!”
And that, Chelsea thought as she pulled into the parking lot of a place called Foster’s Pub and Grill, was a motto everyone should live by.
* * *
Dylan Foster winked at the curvaceous blonde who’d flirted mercilessly with him ever since sitting down at the bar an hour earlier. She’d started off with a beer before moving on to a rum and Diet Coke, and had just ordered a Snowshoe shooter, which consisted of bourbon whiskey and peppermint schnapps. Three drinks in an hour didn’t cause him concern—he’d obviously seen far quicker consumption rates—nor did the relatively quick uptick in the alcohol percentage in each successive drink bother him all that much.
What worried Dylan was the look in the blonde’s eyes. He’d tended bar at his family’s establishment long enough to recognize when someone was on a mission, and unless he was completely off base, this woman was bent on retaliation. Probably due to some man doing something stupid and ticking her off. Or breaking her heart. Or, he supposed, both.
And he drew these conclusions based on the mix of sorrow and heat in her gaze, her relentless come-ons toward him and the guy sitting next to her—hedging her bets, he assumed—and finally, the way she kept looking over her shoulder toward the pub’s entrance. Waiting for the husband or boyfriend to show up and find her drunk-happy with some other guy.
Not him. He wasn’t interested in a one-night, two-night or any-number-of-nights stand. But the man seated on the bar stool to the left of the blonde had responded eagerly to her not-so-subtle advances. Which could then mean a potential fight if and when Mr. Heartbreaker chose to make an appearance. So, yep, Dylan was concerned.
Foster’s Pub and Grill was, more than anything else, a restaurant that housed a bar. Sure, they’d had their share of rowdy gatherings, and they would again. Typically, though, they were a casual place for the tourists and locals alike to grab a meal, a few drinks and kick back after a day on the slopes. Or after hours of hiking or white-water rafting during the summer season.
He never relished the idea of trouble, but seeing how tonight was one of the last before the winter season ended, he was damn tired. He just didn’t have the energy for trouble. So he winked at the blonde to draw her attention from her other prey, hoping she’d focus on him and forget about Mr. Miller Lite long enough for the guy to seek out greener pastures.
Or just give up and leave. Either would suit Dylan. His plan beyond that was sketchy, but he figured he’d be able to contain the situation, assuming one presented itself, if he removed as many unpredictable factors as possible.
He winked again for good measure and slid the shooter across the surface of the bar. “There you go,” he said. “Might want to slow down a bit after this one.”
“I have no intentions of slowing down,” the blonde said, accepting the shooter and downing it in one long gulp. “And I don’t have to drive tonight, so...another, please.”
Dylan considered cutting her off, but he didn’t really have a legit reason. Her words were clear and she wasn’t swaying in her seat, and she’d just stated that she wasn’t planning on driving. So he went about making her another Snowshoe.
“Anyone ever tell you how sexy your eyes are?” she asked when he set the drink in front of her. “What color are they, exactly? Green...brown...hazel?”
“Depends