CHAPTER 1
Being an adult sucked.
Bill Torben didn't like to think of himself as a complainer. In fact, he thought of himself as a good-natured, get-on-with-things kinda guy. But things had been lurching along from okay to bad to worse for the past few years, and as far as he could tell, he was the only one in his family who was concerned about any of that.
It was fair enough that his parents had stepped out of the ring, as far as running Thunder Bear Brewery and the accompanying brew pub was concerned. They'd started it in their early twenties, and were retirement age now. God knew they'd earned that retirement, between raising four boys and developing an award-winning IPA along the way. But Steve, the next oldest and next-most-reliable brother, had moved away years ago now, and the younger two...
The two youngest Torbens, Jon and Laurie, were great. Charming, good-looking, funny—God knew the women thought so—and terrific performers. Butseriousandresponsibleweren't words that Bill would apply to them, and it didn't seem to matter how often he explained that renaissance faires werefun, butalso expensive and drew time and attention from running the brewery itself.
Bill couldn't exactly blame them. He'd been as into it as they were, up until just a few years ago. Before he'd started taking over more of the family business. And he missed it, especially when the younger brothers came home sweaty and slightly sunburned and happy from days of selling brew at the faires, but...it didn't deal with the day to day realities of running a small business.
Sometimes he wished he'd done what Steve had done: move to another state, start his own business, find love, and get married.
A low chuckle shook his shoulders. The truth was, probably half his grumbling right now was that Steve had gotten married the past summer. He and his mate were a wonderful pair, and Bill was happy for them. What had gotten under his skin was that their cousin, who'd come up from Australia for the wedding, hadalsofound his fated mate about ten seconds after arriving in small-town Virtue, New York, which was half the size of Renaissance, Colorado and apparently justteemingwith love waiting to happen. Bill wanted to find that for himself.
Unfortunately for him, he was currently awaiting a 73-year-old jazz musician who had been married longer than Bill himself had been alive. She was the main event for the upcoming Octoberfest that the brewery held annually, and even if she wasn't going to be his true love, Bill was looking forward to meeting her. He'd been listening to her music for years.
A knock sounded on the office door, startling him out of his grim examination of the books. He glanced at his phone: ten to two. Gwendolyn Brooker was early, but that was a hell of a lot better than late, by Bill's standards. He started tidying the desk, calling, "Come in!" and stood with a practiced smile and an offered hand as the door opened.
No, as the doorflewopen, bouncing all the way to the wall and off it again with a protesting squeak of its hinges.
The woman who blew in was as unlike the sedate, white-haired pictures of Gwendolyn Brooker as Bill could imagine.
She was tall. Rangy. Massive amounts of wild, rough-cut dark hair that was currently tied up in what could only be considered a punk-rock ponytail. Winged eyeliner like knives, haunting vividly blue eyes. Cheekbones that could cut, and a mouth slashed with a drinkable wine red lipstick. She wore rows of hoop earrings and a choker necklace of black lace with a plunging pendant that fell into the cleavage of a hand-cutRamonest-shirt beneath a studded leather jacket. Multiple belts fell in silver-punctured loops around her hips, and her blue jeans were torn at the knees, one of which sported a bandage with blood staining through the absorbent layer, making it clear the torn-out knees had been come by honestly. She wore thick black boots with untied laces, and carried an electric guitar slung over her shoulder like a weapon.
She wasfabulous.She wasmagnificent. She waselectrifying.
She was, unquestionably, his fated mate.
And, Bill knew with a sinking feeling, she was going to ruineverything.
CHAPTER 2
It wasn't that Gwen hadn't played bars before. God, no, she'd played more of them than she could count. But most of the time those bars had a certain vibe to them, and that vibe was "ew."
The Thunder Bear Brewpub was about as far from "ew" as could possibly exist in a bar. It was only mid-afternoon, so there weren't crowds hanging around, which let the broad, log-cabin-style exterior walls gleam gold in the autumn sunlight. The main doors were flung open, giving the place a welcoming air, and there was a delightful-looking maze of outdoors beer gardens with corrugated plastic roofing that looked like it was either new or kept religiously clean. The beer gardens all had half walls with plexiglass windows ranging from all the way closed to all the way open. The seating, made up of benches and bar stools with tables to match their heights, had suspiciously comfortable-looking cushions. They came off the seats: Gwen could see the ties that held them in place. She bet they got industrial-washed at least once a week, and for some reason that pleased her, so she was smiling as she went into the main building.
Like the exterior, it was open, clean, smelled good, and had a friendly feel to it. There were a few people around, staff workingbehind the bar, tidying up, raising their eyebrows to see if she needed seating or a drink or anything, and going back to work but keeping an eye on her when she indicated she was okay. A handful of patrons were scattered comfortably around the interior seating, like they were in a place where everybody knew their name. One lifted his chin in greeting, and a woman gave her a curious look, which was fair. Gwen didn't, at a glance, look like she fit in with the local crowd.
Which was fair enough, as she was neither local nor even all that fond of beer, so a place known for its home brews generally wasn't her scene.
The entirely decent stage set up at one end of the biggest roomwasher scene, though. Wonderfully, it didn't have any chicken wire, either rolled up or already hanging down, to protect the musicians from bottles being thrown by the audience. That, Gwen thought, was a great sign. She'd played at way too many dives where getting beer bottles thrown at her was just part of the job. She nosed around a bit, checked the time, went to use the bathroom—also clean, smelling like lemon, and with mirrors that were neither warped, cracked, nor weirdly yellow from cheap backing. "I love this place," she informed her reflection as she washed her hands, then bopped back on out to the main room, skidding the soles of her boots across the floor to see how the traction was.
Good, just like everything else in this place. Not that Gwen was planning to have to make a run for it, but it had happened before, and she liked to be prepared. She went over to one of the staff. "Hey, I've got an appointment with Bill Torben…?"
The woman, white, in her forties, and with the practiced disinterest of long-time bar staff, looked her up and down. "Really?"
"Yeah, at two. Gwen Booker."
"Wow." The woman looked Gwen up and down again, taking a particularly long moment to examine the electric guitar she had slung over her shoulder. "Not what I was expecting when he booked you, but okay, sure. If you head back past the bathrooms, the hallway takes a left and there's a staff door there. Go through it and Bill's office is the last door."
Gwen was used to not being what people expected, so she just grinned, said, "Thanks," and scooted herself on through the staff door and down the hall toward Bill Torben's office. She knocked briskly, heard a "Come in!" and pushed the door open with the thrill of excitement that always came before a performance, even if it was just a one-man 'meet the guy who hired you' show.
To her horror, the door flew open like it had been waiting its whole life just for this moment. Like it had been practicing a vigorous swing that would slam it all the way into the wall and bounce it back again like a freight truck. Gwen slapped her hand up, catching the door before it smashed into her face, but honestly, the fact that she'd been able to do that was a freakingmiracle, because the guy standing up at the far side of the room was the mostridiculouslyattractive human being Gwen had ever laid eyes on.
He was 'tollandthicc,' in the parlance of her tweenage niece. Like,toll-toll, one of the tallest guys Gwen had ever personally met, maybe six five or so, and he was built like a brick outhouse. There was no particular taper from his shoulder to his hip: he was justlorg,as Cindy would also say. Barrel-chested, thick-thighed,hugehands. Gwen found herself focusing on the hand he'd reached out toward her as soon as she'd opened the door. It would engulf her own hand. She could think of some really incredible things to do with those thick fingers. The dude could use her for biceps curls, was all she was saying. She lurched forward and put her hand in his.
Yep. Engulfed. Also suddenly very warm and comfortable, like her hand belonged in his and always had. Gwen started to smile without really meaning to, gazing up at this huge, magnificent mountain of a man. He had tremendously thick dark blonde hair in a remarkable pompadour, and a beard that was just thiiiiiis much more than scruff. His deep-set dark blue eyes, strong nose, and wide mouth suited his face perfectly.
