Freedom means the opportunity to be 

what we never thought we would be.

-Daniel J. Boorstin

Prologue

Months Ago, Spring

Beckett Roberts preferred not to spend time considering life's many difficulties. Instead, he was a man who took each day as it came, one moment, one experience, at a time. The way he figured it, there was less ache, less loss, when one had low expectations and few ties. Since boyhood he'd taken life with a grain of salt. And since he'd passed over the thin threshold into adulthood, he'd taken life with a grain of salt alongside a shot of tequila when it suited him.

But then again, being part owner of the Plumber's Pub, there was never a shortage of salt or tequila nearby.

With a spring storm thrashing outside, busting its way through Stonebridge, Connecticut, Beckett hunkered down in preparation to ride out the storm that similarly brewed inside of his domain—the kitchen.

Danielle, who'd loyally waitressed at the Plumber's Pub for years to earn extra cash that subsidized her scholarship to Yale, had been steady, dedicated, and as far as Beckett could tell, thoroughly enjoyed his company while they worked. Until now.

Sure, in response to her insulting him during one of their friendly verbal spars, he'd told her he would show her romance. And she'd told him no.

Fine. Her prerogative. But what part of that was cause to be pissed?

Beckett consolidated two bins of chopped white onions into a stainless steel container, loaded a mountain of shredded cheddar into gallon size baggies, moving through his kitchen with one eye on the woman who clanged and stomped her way through the nightly routine of side-work. She topped off the pepper containers, slamming each glass jar down with a finalized thud, then moved on to taking her mood out on the poor, defenseless bottles of malt vinegar.

Beckett braced himself, figuring he could very well be the next poor, defenseless recipient of Danielle's anger.

And just what was the woman angry about anyway? He'd never seen her this upset. Usually she was chipper and smart with a side of sass, an easy comrade to banter with. But somehow, something along the way had been his fault—which wasn't unusual in his world.

"We're leaving," Beckett's older brother, Ben, pushed through the kitchen door with famed author Kara Keaton in tow. "Keep an eye on the front."

"Sure, no problem," Beckett told him, dropping the collection of the day's steam bins into the industrial sink with a clang. "Sex emergency?"

Ben glared at him—an occurrence that pleased Beckett to no end. Having watched Ben drool daily over the mystery writer, Beckett was glad to see his brother finally making his move. Despite the occasional evil eye he received from either of his siblings, seeing them happy also pleased him to no end.

"Storm emergency. Just watch the front. Of the pub," Ben finished before Beckett could make any further inappropriate jokes.

From her workstation, Danielle let out a sigh that rivaled the deep blows of the brewing storm. "I'll take care of it."

Beckett frowned after Danielle as she departed through the kitchen door. The woman was pissed and she was letting him know it—she just hadn't let him know why, exactly. But as a man who preferred to let those jagged-edged difficulties ride out on their own accord, he wasn't sure he wanted to know her reasoning. To his way of thinking, life went its own way, people went their own way, regardless of his involvement, so why spend energy on the matter? There were better ways to put one's energy to use—like tending to sex emergencies, for example.

When a mad and snarling wind howled through the kitchen, Beckett glanced over to his brother who'd opened the back door for Kara to walk through.

"Go apologize," Ben told him, pointing to the front of the pub where Danielle had disappeared.

"I could do that," he replied, unoffended. "But apologize for what exactly?"

Thunder grumbled through the open door, while the wind shoved against stray drops, sending them to bullet into the kitchen like wild rounds of rapid fire.

"You told her you wanted to take her out. She said no. Now go apologize to her for whatever you said that made her mad. She's the most reliable server we have and we don't want to lose her before the summer comes and goes."

Beckett's brows pressed together creating a crease of quick worry. "Why? What happens when the summer comes and goes?"

"A woman with an MBA from Yale isn't going to work in a pub forever. She told Abigail she'd work through the summer after graduation until she got a job. Now, go apologize. She's like family." On that final word, Ben left him alone in the kitchen.

Beckett's arms spread wide, his eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he growled along with the thunder. "She's not family. Family is family," he grumbled to himself since no one was listening.

Because he was quicker on the action than he was on the consideration, he burrowed through the kitchen door and arrived in the pub with the gold of his eyes flashing to life like a wildfire sparking to flame at midnight. And with the chestnut waves of his hair having been neglected for some time, the tall stretch of man looked like an unpredictable brand of blazing temper and cool confusion.

Fine, he thought. While it rarely worked to tackle an issue with an angry woman head-on—something he'd learned at an early age—it did generally work out to trust his brother's sound and steady judgment. Ben was the closest thing to a father figure he'd ever had and Beckett didn't mind taking his cue from him. In most areas.

Fine.

There were a few small handfuls of customers—mostly regulars—left huddled around the scratched and scarred tables in the pub. The newer ceiling lights gave off a glow that beamed against the original pine shiplap walls, creating a cozy nook to hunker down into while the snarling beast of a spring storm battled against the centuries-old brick exterior of the Plumber's Pub.

Danielle—with her tidy brown ponytail and wide blue eyes—was busy wiping the glazed wooden bar top that was already clean enough. For just that moment, Beckett paused, watching the long tail of her hair swish with her movements. He watched her lips press together in what he considered obvious annoyance, but they still managed to bow and pout like lips made especially for kissing. Her high cheekbones accentuated the fullness of her mouth and he wondered, vaguely, if she had any American Indian heritage in her genes. Maybe a dash that balanced out the slim and dainty nose that upturned slightly at the end, the narrow features that were framed by brown hair and a widow's peak. But her eyes were wide, her lips full, and her boobs—God bless them—though restrained by a plain black T-shirt, were a voluptuous thing of beauty. Whatever part of her family history that contributed to the present-day manifestation of Danielle Mayberry had done one hell of a job.

And why, he wondered, hadn't he ever thought to ask about her family history? He'd spent almost every weekend for the past handful of years working with her, teasing her, bantering with her, and he liked having her around in his family's pub. Her presence was easy—just as he liked—and she was one of those practical optimists. She believed the best in people, which was something he found intriguing, and she did it in a very grounded, earthy way. She was like one of the fresh flower blossoms his sister had just made him plant outside the pub's entrance—Danielle had strong roots that dug deep beneath the surface, but she still managed to be cheerful and colorful aboveground. And she saw that same cheer and color in others regardless of whether or not she was faced with weeds, bugs, or snakes.

He, on the other hand, had always seen the weeds and snakes for what they were—hell, his own mother had abandoned him when he'd been a boy, he didn't even know his father—and he was well aware there was dark in people. Which was why, he reminded himself, he had no interest in getting to know the depths or dark roots of most people. And that was a philosophy that suited him.

But hearing Ben plant the idea that Danielle would leave the pub at the end of the summer churned something in him. Something that made him want to take a dive into the many shades and layers within the woman he thought he knew. He thought he understood her, as much as any man could understand a woman, but at the prospect of her not being there, he realized he didn't know a damn thing.

Or maybe he did know her and he was just losing traction to the storm that lashed around her.

Taking his brother's advice—and approach—he figured he'd just shoot straight and see where he landed. "I'm sorry," he said to Danielle as he moved behind the bar to where she worked busily with a wet rag and quick, competent hands.

"For what, exactly?"

He'd never seen her so adorably pissed off before.

And since when was a pissed-off woman adorable? he wondered, feeling like he'd been uprooted somewhere along the way, left to spin in the cyclone of the storm. "For whatever has your back up. I think I did it wrong."

The rich cornflower blue of her eyes finally lifted to meet his gaze. "Did what wrong?"

"Asking you out. I did it wrong."

She scrubbed at the wood so hard he wondered if she'd rub through the protective layer of sheen right down to the studs.

"You didn't ask me out at all, Beckett. You told me you were going to show me romance as a flippant response in a conversation. So," she said, her face looking up to his, showing heat in its fine features, "you didn't ask me anything. You told me as some sort of... I don't know. I don't know what kind of joke you were playing out, but it wasn't funny to me."

Funny? Had he thought it was funny? God, he really had done it all wrong. He'd never thought of the right or wrong way to ask a girl out. In fact, he'd never had such a frustrating time of it. The yes came just as easy as the date and the sex. Yes had never been an issue for him.

And did he really want to date Danielle? She'd been off-limits in his mind. She'd worked at the pub for years and his avoidance of all things messy had drawn a deep line in the sand between the two of them.

He simply wasn't good at anything long-term outside of work and family—real family. So he'd avoided a potential heaping mess and instead had kept her in the friend/employee category.

Employee, he thought. At least until the end of the summer. But an employee was an employee, wasn't it? Well, shit.

"You work at my family's pub," he started.

She leveled him with a look. "No way. This is where I work?" Her gaze took a stroll around the bar as if she'd never seen it before, then she relinquished her white-knuckled grip on the wet bar towel and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "What would I do without you around to inform me of such things?"

"You're very quippy with me, tonight."

"Apparently I'm in a quippy mood," she countered. Then, as he approached, her breath held and she took a step back, then another.

"I like it."

"I don't particularly care if you do," she told him, attempting to hold on to her defiance.

"Danielle," he started, the roughness of his voice lowering.

Having taken too many steps backward, she bumped into the back of the bar, but he continued walking toward her until he was close enough to smell the familiar scent of her. She smelled of pub food—french fries to be exact—and some kind of floral scent with a hint of lemon, just as she always had.

So if she smelled the same after all these years, why then was he suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to dip into that scent, to discover more of it?

"Let me try this again," he said to her. "If you don't want to go out with me, that's your prerogative, and I respect that. You've been a loyal employee here and I don't want to mess with that. But I do want to take you out. So I'm asking again." His close-up view had him seeing those big blue eyes more magnified than he ever had. How had he not noticed how clear they were? They were like the far-reaching summer sky—warm, with rays of sunshine in them, bright blue with faint flecks of gold, expanding into places he could only imagine. "Danielle, will you come out on a date with me?"

When she only stared at him, unblinking, his lips tugged into a grin. He didn't pretend to know the minds of all women, but he did know Danielle's, he decided, feeling better. He knew that the many gears and wheels had kick-started into motion, and that sooner or later she'd speak the words that spun in that brain of hers. And that was fine—he had all night to wait.

"Why?"

"What?" he asked, confused at the sudden single word.

"Why do you want to go out with me?"

Well he'd never been asked a question like that. Wasn't that sort of thing obvious?

Considering, challenged, he cocked his head and studied her. He may as well go for honesty, he thought. "I've known you for years. We've worked together most weekends over those years. I've seen you stress out through midterms, I've seen you sweaty on sticky-hot, busy nights at the pub, and I've seen you work through dealing with tough customers in that polite, practical way that you do. My point, I guess, is that I've seen you as part of the everyday for years."

"I swoon," she said flatly when he paused.

At that, his lips twitched. "I'm not good at relationships, I'm not good at long-term anything with women. Hell, I don't want to be, it's just not my path." He thought about his own words as he said them, wondering why he was sharing as much with a woman who already knew all of this about him.

"I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. And I'm not making you any promises, and I never will. But I am asking you out on a date with me. And to be honest, I don't know why exactly, except that I want to take you out."

Feeling like a man sliding backwards down a slippery slope, he wondered when the hell he'd lost his grip. Where the hell had all his charm gone and when the heck was it coming back?

The truth of it, he decided, was that he couldn't dole out anything to Danielle—charm, included. She knew him through and through, and giving her anything less than straight truth wouldn't work with her and he knew that. Because he knew her, he reminded himself. He knew the core of her, at least.

"Okay."

The word washed over him like a hot spray of sunshine on a frigid day. Then, as he considered that sensation, he wondered what the hell was wrong with his head—when had this become so important?

"Okay," he repeated, annoyed with himself. "Tomorrow. I've got to get dinner prepped and going here so how about eight? I'll pick you up."

"Okay," she said, though her eyes were still skeptically focused on his. "Eight."

"It's a date." He grinned in a quick burst of triumph then turned to head back to his kitchen to locate and retrieve his bearings. Never had he been so twisted up over something so simple.

"Beckett?"

"Yeah?" He stopped, his gaze flicking back to hers.

"I know you don't make promises to women, but I'm going to ask you to promise me one thing."

His brow arched over his glowing gold eyes. "What's that?"

"You're very good at getting your way. I've seen you do it, and it's a skill you have. But if you start saying and doing things so you can have your way with me, I'm not going to like you anymore. And I want to keep liking you. Beneath all that sparkling charisma of yours, you've got a good, kind heart, and a generous soul. And I want to keep liking that about you. So I'm asking you to promise to be honest with me, no matter what. If we go out on this date and you pull anything remotely resembling an attempt to dissuade or persuade me in any direction, it'll be over. I'm not looking to be charmed. And I'm also not looking to lose a friend."

Never having heard anything so potent from someone other than his sister or brother, all he could do was let out a breath and take the punch. Her words had a compliment in them, somewhere, but there was also a strike in the mix that he felt the blow of.

Had any woman ever been this difficult? This direct? This...? He ran out of words as his mind scrambled.

"Danielle," he started, unsure what was about to come out of his mouth. He waited, almost as captivated as she was. "I can't promise to be anyone other than who I am. That's just the way it goes. But I will promise to be honest with you. And I'll promise that if you go or don't go anywhere with me, it'll be a direction of your own choosing."

She offered a quiet nod in affirmation.

After a few beats of staring at the enigma Danielle had become over the course of the night, he angled back around and continued toward his kitchen.

A man knew when he'd been put in his place. And, somehow, he was simultaneously insulted and impressed. She'd been right that he was good at getting his way, but that was because his way had come easily for him. But no woman—except maybe his sister—had ever told him he had a kind and generous heart. No woman, he decided as he pushed through the swinging kitchen door, had ever packed such a practical, polite punch. No woman except Danielle.

He was in over his head; he was man enough to recognize such a predicament. The ride had become difficult before it even began. So why, then, as a man who sidestepped around difficult predicaments with women, was he walking head-on into this one?

On his way to the walk-in refrigerator, he stopped mid-stride, his gaze narrowing like a laser. The woman had just told him not to persuade or dissuade in any direction, and yet, she'd persuaded him into making her a promise when he'd stated he would never make one.

Sneaky, he thought. The woman was damn smart and he better unscramble his brain—and fast—if he was going to play with the likes of Danielle.

Play, he reminded himself. Life was for playing, so why was he so jumbled up over one simple date with a woman? Especially when that woman would soon move on to bigger and better things in life.

Play, he echoed, feeling better for it. That's all this was.