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breath.
    “What?” Jase asked as he turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare running through the upper part of town.
    “It would be a lot easier if vintage clothing wasn’t all the rage right now.”
    He gave her a perplexed look, then clued in. “I can see where that might make things a bit difficult,” he allowed, tongue in cheek.
    “Oh, shut up,” she grumbled. “I mean, unless someone is sporting a pierced earring or dreadlocks, how am I supposed to know ?”
    “Actually, dreadlocks have been worn since ancient times, so they aren’t a good indicator.”
    Jordan just shook her head.
    “I’m not running anyone down, am I?” he asked, looking worried about what he couldn’t see.
    “I’ll let you know.”
    He slowed as they neared her street. “Pub or home?”
    She considered. If she went home, she’d avoid having to talk about Holt. But she hadn’t gotten around to grocery shopping this week, and Jase had a killer wine selection. “Pub,” she decided.
    “You need to stop by the house for dry shoes?”
    “Not unless you mind me wandering around in socks. Thanks for coming out to fetch me, by the way.”
    He shot her a look that clearly said it hadn’t been a hardship. “I enjoy being out on the water now and again.” He pulled the truck into the parking lot behind All That Jazz, his pub that was located in the small, gentrified business district at the crest of the hill. “Want to help mix drinks this evening?”
    “You do realize the last person for whom I mixed a dry martini never stepped foot back in my house, right?”
    “You sure the martini was the reason?”
    “Humor. Ha.”
    He reached over to tug on a lock of her hair, his blue eyes twinkling. “Relax. The job mostly entails pulling pints of beer, pouring the occasional shot of hard liquor, and washing glasses. I can help you with anything exotic.”
    “Okay by me,” she said, opening her door. “But if you lose customers, it’s your fault.”
    She roused Malachi, who had settled in for a snooze on the backseat of the king cab. Once he realized where they were, he scrambled to his feet and pushed his way out the passenger door. Organic hamburger patties, cooked medium-rare by Kathleen, the pub’s cranky chef, had become the nightly treat.
    Jase offered to carry Jordan inside, but she refused—there was no way she trusted her hormones to behave while being held in his arms. Instead, she picked her way gingerly across the gravel parking lot.
    He held open the rear door to the pub, his amusement plain. She hadn’t fooled him in the least.
    They walked down the back hall past the kitchen. The pub was housed in a building that was a historic landmark in its own right. Jase had done a marvelous job of restoring the distressed brick walls and huge timber beams that crisscrossed the arched brick ceiling. A local stone artisan had used rugged slabs of granite to build a freestanding fireplace, which Jase kept lit with a cheerful fire most evenings. Oak tables with captain’s chairs created casual groupings throughout the spacious room, while more private leather booths lined one wall. An old-fashioned bar, built of ornately carved mahogany, stretched the length of the opposite wall.
    For Jordan, the pub had already become a home away from home, where she could count on finding friendly conversation, live jazz most evenings, and excellent food. The fact that dogs were welcome was also a plus.
    The room was already crowded, and since the majority of the patrons appeared to be drinking, Jordan decided that they were most likely still on this side of the veil. Jase took her jacket and hung it along with his own on the coat tree in the entrance.
    Jase’s full-time bartender, Bill, a slender man with a long silver ponytail who was rumored to have once been a Wall Street broker, moved from table to table, taking drink orders. Though Bill remained somewhat distant with Jordan, she’d felt nothing but affection for him since he’d shown