Christmas Clash (4 page)

“No. I decided that part kind of on the fly.”

“So you intended to make him mad and had no plan afterward? After your speech, were you just going to hold out the mic, drop it, and walk out?” Luke started to laugh like a guy headed to the electric chair who just didn't care anymore.

“Something like that. I'm quick on my feet.” She started toward her car. “I'm heading home.”

Luke followed. “Are you going to devise your master plan tonight?”

“Probably. Can't focus on much else right now.”

“How about you come to The Pub and we'll hash it out over a drink?”

Drink? With Luke? Not a stellar idea. She didn't drink alcohol on a regular basis, and when she did, it dropped her defenses. Way down. Fast. The man walking beside her was hotness personified with his auburn hair and day-old scruff. She'd have to be on her best behavior.

“Hmm …”

“Two heads are always better than one,” he said.

What the hell?
She had nothing better to do. And she was always on her toes when there were men and competition around. Luke happened to be both.

“Okay. I'll meet you there.”

He nodded and let out a breath that was ghostly white in the Wyoming night. “I'm right behind ya.”

Candace quickly slid behind the wheel of her trusty Camry, fired up the engine, and jabbed at the button for her seat warmer. A drink with Luke. No big deal. She'd be fine. She could control herself. The only thing she liked about him was his body—and even his looks started to become irritating after three sentences. If she did flirt with him, it would be harmless. And fun. She loved flirting; she'd be right in her comfort zone. What wouldn't feel normal was sitting in a bar with Luke Carrigan having a conversation that didn't involve sarcasm, cutting comebacks, or insults.

Her belly fluttered with excitement.
Not a good sign.

• • •

Luke parked in back of the pub and headed toward his office. He shrugged off his jacket and rifled through the papers on his desk. Bits and pieces of Candace's presentation from the council meeting be-bopped in his mind. Candace Ellison might have been a lot of things: snooty, self-righteous, and impulsive, but a stupid businesswoman wasn't one of them. He couldn't imagine any world in which she would buy a building knowing she'd be forced out. She was going through this just as much as he and the others. No, that was going too far. He and the others had much, much more to lose. And they didn't have a fortune to fall back on. But Candace was clearly fired up and had her heels dug in for a fight. So he'd take what she had to offer and pray it paid off. He could go back to ignoring her when his pub was out of the demolition ball's path.

“Well?” David looked at him expectantly.

“The whole thing was a cluster. I don't know what to think at this point.”

David was a slim Irishman who worked at the pub out of habit. His wife had passed away years ago and they didn't have children. David had always been a part of the Carrigan family—he was like an uncle to Luke and his two sisters.

Luke would be letting down so many if the council voted for his block.

“Call your dad yet?”

“No. They're enjoying the cruise. No need to ruin it with bad news that's not concrete.”

“Your mother would probably kill you anyway. Took her forever to convince him to go.”

They chuckled. His mother, Deidra, did have a flair for the dramatic.

“Candace thinks she has a plan. We're going to work on the ins and outs tonight. She's on her way over.”

David raised an old white eyebrow and Luke shook his head at the silent question. He could see Candace Ellison's potential allure—money, status, full lips, handfuls of curves, and a great sense of humor—but for him there was one major problem: they couldn't stand each other. There would probably never be a world in which they could be friends long enough to fall in love.

He scanned the two tables that contained customers and a couple of stragglers at the bar. He could take care of the patrons during the planning session. Bartending would be a nice distraction, too. He could walk away when she annoyed him, which would probably be frequently.

“I got it covered,” Luke said as he rounded the bar corner.

“Okay.” David nodded and disappeared in the back.

Luke grabbed two bar glasses in time to see Candace open the big wooden front door with its twisted wrought-iron grill, her stride confident as she walked closer and closer toward him. His nanosecond pause before he set the two glasses on the bar scared him. There was no way in hell he wanted to be attracted to Candace Ellison. He blinked away her image and pushed up his sleeves.

The bar ran the length of the right side of the pub, and tables were scattered on the other. The upstairs loft hadn't been used in years. In his granddad's days, the area hosted poker and other parlor games. Luke had planned on starting up game night again and was in the process of researching the legal ins and outs of offering gambling in Wyoming when he'd received the first notice about the convention center project.

“Hey.” Candace stood at the bar.

“What'll it be?”

“Oh … um …” Her eyes scanned the wall of alcohol lit in green behind him.

Luke watched her features turn serious. He hadn't seen someone contemplate their drink choice this hard in a long time. He couldn't help but chuckle.

“It's not rocket science.” He put one hand on his hip and the other rested on the bar. “What do you generally like? Vodka? Whiskey?”

“Something sweet.” Her brows rose in anticipation.

“You don't drink a lot?” It was a statement in his head, but he posed it as a question.

He didn't drink a lot anymore, an ironic fact as the owner of an establishment serving liquor. He'd have a beer here or there, but he'd given up hard drinking. It wasn't productive to his future.

“I do drink … a glass of wine now and then.” She touched her index finger to the polished wooden counter. “Are we meeting here?”

“Is that okay? I told David he could leave for the night. Shouldn't be a problem. We're slow.”

The melodies of Christmas cheer played low in the background.

“Yeah, this'll work.” She hiked herself up on a stool and shed her red coat. She wore an outfit drastically different than the black suit at the meeting. Now she'd donned faded blue jeans, light brown cowboy boots—he could tell by the tip of the toe—and a nicely fitting V-neck blue sweater with sleeves to her elbows. He was in the same boring jeans and button-down from earlier, just without the pullover.

“When did you change?”
Way to keep it professional.
He reached for the good vodka, then added ginger beer and a couple of lime wedges in a copper mug. Candace swiped her hair behind one ear to reveal emerald and diamond earrings. Her brilliant blue eyes, which matched her sweater, locked with his. “I had clothes at the shop. There was no way I was spending the rest of the night in a suit. Especially not here, planning a war.”

“A war, huh?” Relief replaced regret. Crap like that really shouldn't be forming in his mind, much less tumbling out of his mouth.

“Damn straight. It's on like Donkey Kong.” Her head waggled with attitude and she chuckled.

He smiled, added ice in the copper mug, and stopped himself from pouring a decent amount of alcohol. If she didn't drink very much, except for wine, the vodka would hit her quickly. He needed her lucid for a while—long enough to help him come up with a war plan, apparently. The ginger beer and lime filled the rest of the orange metal cup.

“Try this.” He slid the glass in front of her, careful to remove his hand before she reached.

She tentatively sipped. “Thanks.”

“It's called a Moscow Mule, for future reference. Now. Where should we start, o fearless leader?” Luke asked.

“Yes. You should
always
call me that.”

She winked and the bottle of vodka nearly slipped from his fingers. She seemed to be disarming him by the minute. His only solace was that he hadn't let on she had any effect on him. After he returned the bottle to the shelf, he grabbed himself a regular tall glass.

She cleared her throat and fiddled with the small, white square napkin under her glass. “We need to create awareness. So much so that the outrage becomes palpable.”

“Correct.” He poured himself tap beer and drank. He let the cool liquid slosh the back of his throat.
Damn
. He may have stopped his reckless drinking, but he loved the experience a beer afforded. He moved to hold his glass in front of him and settled his stare back on Candace, who now stared back. Time seemed to stop and so did his thoughts.

“This is the part of the plan where we party.” She motioned her glass toward him, then drank. And drank. She damn near drained the mug.
For someone who doesn't know how to order a drink, she sure knocks 'em back.
She set the glass down and rubbed her pink, shiny glossed lips together. “We'll get the others in on it and have a block party.”

Luke decided not to acknowledge the friendly vibe—it was just stress from their shared situation. When this was all over, they'd go back to being childhood acquaintances.

“Is now the best time to have a party?” he asked. They didn't need to be celebrating; they needed to be winning. “We're doomed.”

“Settle down, party pooper. We'll have stations at each of our businesses. We'll offer people something fun or delicious, all the while educating them on what the city council plans to do to us. It'll work. Trust me,” she said. “We aren't going down without causing problems.”

Trust her?
Yeah, right. Luke rested both hands on the bar in front of Candace. “Do I have a choice?”

“Luke, there's
always
a choice.” Her head swayed back and forth and he cursed under his breath. No matter how many times he told himself Candace was trouble, he still got sucked in—to her eyes and lips and hips. They'd been forced to work as lab partners in chemistry one semester in high school and they managed to come out of that experience unscathed and even with a good grade, so they could work together as adults now. Only back then, his future wasn't blatantly on the line.

“Choice depends on where you're sitting,” he clarified, if only for his own sanity.

She tilted her glass toward him. “Another?”

He mixed a refill and set the cold mug on a new napkin, taking the wrinkled one and tossing it in the trash under the bar. She clasped the little black straw between her lips.

“Don't drink too fast.”

“I saw the amount of alcohol you actually put in there. I'll be fine, thank you very much.”

“Just sayin'.” He shrugged and grabbed the white bar rag. A man drinking alone left and Luke cleared his spot. When he returned, the air around her had shifted.

“What's up?” he asked.

“People aren't going to give a crap.” Her expression was in stark contrast to her excitement ten seconds ago.

“You don't know that.”

“I do. It's the way people are. They don't care unless it affects them or is a social injustice. We aren't either.”

“Sure we are. We are hard-working citizens being forced by government to move locations. I'd say we fit the bill.”

“Yeah.” Her enthusiasm had weakened by a factor of twelve.

“What happened to all of the ‘controlling the narrative' talk and telling people why they should care? I liked
that
Candace better.”
That's the Candace I need.

“She got realistic.”

“Geez. One drink really affects you, huh?” He saw his chances of keeping the pub slip away and rubbed the back of his neck. If Candace didn't deliver, what was he going to do? He'd been trying for months to figure out a way to solve this problem and hadn't come up with one decent idea. She was his only shot.

“It's just … what if we're fighting a battle we can't win?”

Her soft voice and wide eyes were the most vulnerable he'd ever seen. He took a deep breath. His conflicting opinions about Candace were becoming hard to manage.

“Then we fight harder.” He didn't let go of her blue eyes. “We are about tradition, and they're trampling on the very heart of it.”

“Hmm … that's good.” She bobbed her head and the ends of her lips curved.

Really?
He'd stopped processing the words coming out of his mouth when she started looking at him like he was impressive.

“Don't let the city council trample on tradition,” she said. “Trample on tradition. That's good. We have our catch phrase.”

“There ya go. Let's get signs printed up.”

“Hold on. We have a catchy slogan. Now, we need the fun.”

“Right. Do we want one big street thing or little booths at each business?” he asked.

Now they were getting somewhere. His breathing came easier.
There's hope yet.

“Yes. Both. We'll need to shut down the street and talk to the other businesses about their roles. And promotion. We need promotion.”

“I know some people over at the radio station I can call.”

“Perfect,” she said.

“And doesn't your family own a TV station or something?”

“Yup.” She focused on her straw.

“Can you call and tell them to cover our event?”

She slid her bottom lip between her teeth and held onto the plump skin for a moment. “It gets kind of tricky.”

“Why?”

“Well, with reporting bias and all, I'm not sure we should rely on them.”

“Ohh-kay. So this is a
nice
war we're waging, then?” His livelihood hung in the balance and she was worried about reporter ethics? No. Dean wasn't playing fair and neither should they.

“I just have to be careful. It would be best if you called them. I'll get you the contact information. You can be the spokesperson and deal with them. You're okay with that, right?”