and slide my body through the gap, still clutching my box with the broken unicorn martini glass. My dress nearly gets caught, but I yank it free before I get stuck in the door.
I cough a few times, breathing in sawdust. The place is absolutely filthy and a wreck. It’s deceptively large and long, and the entire back of the pub is covered in plywood. Now that I’m inside, I can make out more of the song booming through the sound system, causing the floor to vibrate. It’s some rock tune with heavy guitar riffs and a lot of drums.
“Hello!” I shout and take a few cautious steps across the dusty hardwood. When no one answers, I call out a second time.
A large, somewhat hulking figure appears in the doorway between the old, dusty bar and the new plywood enclosure. The garish lights behind him eclipse his face in shadow until he takes another step forward, bringing him into view.
Standing about twenty feet away is a well-built man wearing a pair of paint-splattered jeans, scuffed-up work boots, and a red-and-black plaid shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off vibrantly colored tattoos that cover both of his forearms and disappear under the sleeves. His hair is cut short and styled with some kind of product so it’s perfectly smooth, not a strand out of place. An intentional, curated messiness. And he’s holding an axe.
Why is this guy holding an axe?
I take an uncertain step back toward the door, because, as I was saying, he’s holding a freaking axe.
I prop my fist on my hip and tip my chin up as axe man’s gaze sweeps over me. Judging. Assessing. His left eyebrow quirks up. He has eyes the color of bourbon, high cheekbones, full lips and a rugged, square jaw with a lovely five o’clock shadow, despite it barely being eight in the morning.
“What the heck is going on here?” I motion to the mess of a bar.
That quirked eyebrow rises higher. “Excuse me?”
“What is this?” I snap.
Axe man’s full lips pull up into a grin. “It’s called a bar, and judging from the look of it, I think you fell down the wrong rabbit hole, Alice. Wonderland isn’t here.”
chapter two
Hot Lumberjerk
Blaire
My name is Blaire, not Alice, thank you very much.” I want to smack myself for that terrible, unimpressive comeback. I blame my inability to come up with something—anything—better on thinking we were in the middle of an earthquake, the loss of one of my precious unicorn martini glasses that I honestly cannot afford to replace, and this axe-wielding hipster. Oh, did I forget to mention that beyond the fact that he’s filthy and dressed like some kind of GQ lumberjack, he’s also incredibly good-looking?
“Well, Blaire, you’re standing in the middle of a construction zone, and I’m pretty sure those shoes don’t meet the required code, so you can march them right back out the door.” He uses the axe handle to point to my heels—which are adorable and surprisingly comfortable.
I take a step back. “Pointing is rude.” Where the hell has my quick wit disappeared to?
“So is trespassing.”
“I knocked, more than once, but with all the racket going on in here it’s not really a surprise that no one heard me, is it?” I’m irritated and gathering steam, thanks to my embarrassment, residual fear, and frustration over the problems this guy is causing me. I can’t afford setbacks—there’s too much on the line for me. Plus this guy has insulted my outfit. True, I may be silently judging him for his own wardrobe choices, but I’m certainly not going to voice them. Yet. “I own the café next door and all your banging around in here is making my life impossible.”
“You mean the cupcake shop?” Once again, he uses the handle of the axe to point in the direction of my café. It makes his tattooed forearm flex enticingly. I don’t even like tattoos. Well, that’s not entirely true. I don’t not-like tattoos. I just don’t understand how anyone can sit through hours of being stabbed with needles for the sake of wearing art that could very easily be hung on a wall instead—pain free.
“It’s not a cupcake shop. It’s a cocktail and cupcake café.” Damn it wit, I need you!
“Right. My bad. A cupcake and cocktail café isn’t the same as a cupcake shop.” His sarcasm bleeds through in his dry, day-old scone tone.
I ignore the dig, because trying to explain the difference to a