was all he managed to say before the first punch was thrown.
As far as fights went, Dylan had seen worse. Brett got two solid hits in, a clean one across Mr. Miller Lite’s jaw and the other straight into the gut. Mr. Miller Lite retaliated with an elbow punch, also to the gut, followed by several sharp jabs to the ribs. Brett was raring up for another go when Dylan and a couple of the pub’s employees managed to separate the two. From what he could see, no real damage was done, though both men would surely have a few bruises the next day. And, he was certain, very different stories to tell.
Fortunately, when Amber sidled next to Brett, obviously ready to mend fences, Mr. Miller Lite was smart enough not to argue. Dylan shooed him out first, and a few minutes later he sent Brett and Amber on their way. He didn’t know what had started their squabble, but he figured this wasn’t their first—nor would it be their last—go-around. They just had that look.
“The show is over, folks,” he said to the gawkers who hadn’t yet returned to their seats. None of whom had jumped in to help during the fight, thank goodness. That would have resulted in one hell of a mess. Everyone scattered to their various chairs, and within minutes the fight was forgotten and normalcy was restored.
It wasn’t until the hum of chatter had fully resumed that Dylan recalled Chelsea and her plight. Dammit. Nothing had changed. The facts were still the facts. There might be plenty of job openings in the city, but he didn’t know where, and really, that was fine. She was an adult and, despite the effect she’d had on him, a complete stranger. He had no business being concerned.
She wasn’t—in any way, shape or form—his responsibility.
Except when he searched the bar for her and her son and didn’t see them anywhere, knots formed in his stomach. Had she found a hotel? She’d mentioned they’d driven a long way, so he guessed she wouldn’t turn around for the return trip tonight, even if she had made the decision to leave. And honestly, if she didn’t have a job and had nowhere to go, why choose to stay?
Shaking off his absurd worries—why the devil did he care, anyway?—Dylan returned to working the bar and socializing with the customers. He refused to waste another second thinking about some woman he’d likely never see or hear from again.
The next several hours passed swiftly, and finally—thank God—it was closing time. Another hour spent putting the bar to rights and he was heading out through the kitchen, ready to go home and crash for a solid eight. Nine, if he could get away with it.
Haley was still in the kitchen, eating a late-night snack at the small round table the family and employees used. He grabbed a chair and sat down across from her, because as much as he wanted to hightail it home, he wouldn’t let his sister walk to her car alone.
“Long night,” she said in between bites of a turkey sandwich. “Long season.”
“Agreed. We’re almost done, though.” One more night of craziness and everything would calm down for a few months. Of course, as soon as he caught up on sleep and fun, boredom would settle in. It always did. “Any plans I should know about on your end?”
“Huh? Me? Nope.” She shrugged, twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Nothing exciting, anyway. I mean, nothing that you would find exciting.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep, that’s so.” She twirled her hair tighter. “Just the normal in-between-season stuff.”
Dylan tried to find the energy to question his sister further, because she was—without a doubt—hiding something. The twirling of her hair, one of Haley’s tells, was a dead giveaway, but she could keep her secret. She was in a good place in her life. For well over a year now—closing in on two, actually—she’d been happy and in love with a man the entire Foster family considered one of their own. Whatever her secret, he highly doubted there was reason for alarm.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Please tell me you’re almost done with that sandwich.”
Narrowing her more-green-than-brown-tonight eyes, she gave him a protracted once-over. “Are you okay? You didn’t get your head beat on while breaking up that fight, did you?”
“Can’t win with you, Haley,” he joked. “Either I ask too many questions or not enough. I’m fine. Just tired and cranky and ready to head home.”
“Then go! What are you waiting for?”
He gave her a pointed look. “You. Finish eating so I can walk you out.”
“Oh. You don’t have to. Gavin dropped me off earlier, and he’ll be here to get me soon.” After swallowing another bite, she said, “I just called him. So no worries, big brother.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. He enjoys—” she smiled widely, happily “—picking me up.”
Dylan laughed at the innuendo, mostly to hide his reflexive wince of discomfort. Didn’t matter how much he liked Gavin, Haley would always be his baby sister. Some days he still saw her in pigtails. “I’m sure he does.”
After saying their good-nights, he walked outside and strode toward his parked car, which he’d left in the very back part of the lot. Cold wind smacked against his face in waves, so he tugged his coat collar up and over his jaw for protection. The air held the icy-crisp sharpness of winter, making it difficult to believe they were easing into spring.
He was about halfway across the parking lot when he heard the coughing, choking, sputtering sounds of an engine desperately trying to turn over. A stranded customer? Probably. A local, he’d guess, since tourists tended to rent vehicles, and typically those cars were newer and didn’t emit cries of impending death when started.
Stopping, he waited and hoped the engine would fire to life and he’d be free to go on his merry way. But nope, no such luck. The sputtering continued in growls and grunts, the gap in between each cough growing systematically longer by several seconds. In a matter of minutes, Dylan guessed, the car would become completely unresponsive.
Ah, hell. This he did not need.
But because his folks had raised him to lend a hand when one was needed, he switched his direction. Maybe the car just required a jump, which he could do without too much effort. If not, he’d lead the stranded person inside and wait with them until a tow truck arrived.
He approached the car—a decade-plus-old Chevy Malibu, he now saw—and grimaced at the now grinding, winding-down sound of an engine giving up the ghost. The driver needed to stop his attempts, because no amount of key turning and gas-pedal pumping was going to do the trick. And while he hated to admit it, he had serious doubts that the issue was the relatively simple matter of a battery requiring a jump.
This night seriously did not want to end.
Hungry, tired and...okay, irritated, Dylan paused mere inches from the car as recognition hit. His heart dropped clear to his stomach, because naturally, the person sitting behind the wheel frantically twisting the key in the ignition was none other than the too-skinny tall brunette who had consumed his thoughts for the majority of the evening. Chelsea.
And behind her, stretched out on the backseat, curled up in a blanket—and from his vantage point, apparently asleep—was her son, Henry. Dylan swore under his breath, knowing instinctively
