Whoever said you couldn’t drown your sorrows in alcohol was wrong.

After three beers and an equal amount of tequila shots, Jace Carson was feeling no pain. In fact, he was feeling quite content. He figured more alcohol would make him feel even better. A few minutes later, Jace had another beer and a shot of tequila in front of him. He toasted the bartender who had brought them.

“To good women, good times, and good bartenders.” He downed the tequila before chasing it with a swig of beer.

The bartender, who looked too young to be serving liquor, smiled. “So what’s your story, man?”

“My story?”

“Yeah. There are all different types that walk through these doors. Some come in because they’re lonely and looking to hook up or just share a drink with other lonely people. Some come in to watch sporting events without screaming kids or nagging wives. And some people come in to get drunk and forget about their problems. Since you haven’t hit on that hot woman at the end of the bar or glanced once at the baseball game on the television, I’m going to say you’re here to forget.”

Jace lifted his beer in a silent salute. “Smart man.” As he took a drink of beer, he couldn’t help glancing down the bar at the woman. It showed how preoccupied he’d been with drowning his sorrows that he hadn’t noticed her.

She wore a flat-brimmed western hat—the kind country singer Lainey Wilson wore. The hat, combined with the dim lighting, kept Jace from seeing her face, but he could see the wealth of wheat-colored hair that hung in golden waves well past the edge of the bar.

He’d always been a sucker for long, blond hair.

He lowered his glass and smiled at the bartender. “Although hot women work just as well at making you forget your troubles.” He started to get up, but the bartender stopped him.

“You might want to think twice about trying for that one. She’s already turned down two guys . . . and harshly. When I brought her the beer she ordered, she took one sip and informed me it was the worst shit she’d ever tasted. After that, she’s been ordering tequila shots. I think she’s got some troubles of her own.”

Jace smiled. “Then we’re a match made in heaven . . . or maybe hell.” He grabbed his beer and got to his feet. The room wobbled a little. He took a moment to steady himself before he carefully made his way to the other end of the bar.

The woman didn’t even glance over when he took a seat next to her.

This close, he could see the profile of the lower half of her face that wasn’t shadowed by the hat. The bartender was right. She was hot. Not in a made-up metropolitan way, but in a fresh country girl way. No makeup covered the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her button nose. No lipstick concealed the pouty mouth that begged for a good kissing.

Below the neck was the same. She hadn’t dressed to entice. And yet, Jace was enticed by the way the well-washed T-shirt with the beer logo on the front stretched over her full breasts and the way her soft denim jeans hugged a curvy butt that would fit real nice in his hands. Cowboy boots finished off her outfit. Not the designer kind most girls wore to a bar. These boots were scuffed and well worn. He could easily picture them hooked in the stirrups of a saddle . . . or wrapped around his waist.

But before he could start flirting his way into her bed, she spoke.

“I’m not interested, cowboy. So please don’t waste your time coming up with some ridiculous pickup line. Believe me, I’ve heard them all.”

“All of them?” Jace squinted at the firm set of her jaw. “Really? So you’ve heard . . . ‘You know what you’d look beautiful in? My arms,’ and ‘I love my bed, but I’d rather be in yours.’ Or what about ‘This might sound cheesy, but I think you’re grate.’ Get it? G-r-a-t-e. Grate. Or my favorite, ‘I’d give up my morning cereal to spoon with you instead.’”

A husky laugh burst out of her pouty lips. The kind of laugh that made a man think of cool bedsheets and hot naked skin. “I’m still not interested, but the last one wasn’t half bad.”

Her comment gave Jace the motivation to keep flirting, but his next words got stuck in his throat when she turned to him. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to ignore the ping of recognition that went off in his brain.

He’d met this woman before.

He stared at her and tried to blink away the blurring at the edge of his vision. “Do I know you?”

She laughed that husky laugh. “Now that is the worst pickup line ever.”

“No, I’m serious. I think we’ve met before.”

She sobered and reached out to tip up his cowboy hat. Her lips parted on a startled inhalation of breath. “Jace . . . Jace Carson.”

He tried to figure out how he knew her. Seeing as how he was already physically attracted to her, he figured they’d hooked up before. If he couldn’t remember her name, that wouldn’t be good.

“Uhh . . . hey.”

A smirk lifted the corners of her kissable mouth. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” She placed a hand on her chest. “I’m heartbroken. And here I thought you and I had a lifelong connection since I pretty much have known you since I was in diapers.” She tipped up her own hat to reveal eyes the color of a freshly mowed high school football field. Jace felt like a three-hundred-pound tackle had sacked him on that field.

He knew the color of these eyes.

They had haunted his dreams since he was fourteen years old.

Sweetie Holiday had been his high school sweetheart and the only woman he’d ever loved. When she had broken up with him their senior year, he’d been devastated. But he’d dealt with the pain and gotten over her . . . until she’d gone and fallen in love with his cousin. Then all those feelings of not being good enough had resurfaced and he was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that Decker was able to hold on to Sweetie when he couldn’t.

Although that seemed to be the story of Jace’s life.

He struggled to hold on to anything he loved deeply.

Sweetie.

Football.

His father.

“You still with me, Jace?”

He blinked out of his daze and stared at the woman sitting next to him. Same color of eyes. But different girl.

Sweetie’s little sister.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “How are you, Teeny Weeny?”

The smile turned into a mean scowl. “That has to be the worst nickname ever.”

“Would you rather I call you by your real name . . . Halloween Holiday?”

“Not unless you want your balls relocated into your ears. I prefer Hallie and, after knowing me for most of my life, you damn well know it.”

“I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop calling you Teeny Weeny—not when you won the hot dog eating contest when you were only ten years old. I still can’t believe you put away eleven wienies without throwing up.”

“Oh, I threw up. But only after I got my blue ribbon.”

He laughed again. It felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed without forcing it. He sobered and studied her. Hallie had definitely outgrown the nickname. She was no longer the feisty little tomboy who used to follow him all over the Holiday Ranch giving him pointers on how to win the next high school football game. She was a beautiful woman.

Although she was still feisty.

“Damn, you look like hell,” she said. “Is that scruffy thing on your face supposed to be a beard?”

He ran a hand over his whiskered jaw. “I misplaced my razor and just haven’t bought a new one.” It was a lie. The truth was he just didn’t care about shaving . . . or anything, really.

“You know they sell razors online and ship them right to your house. It’s the wonder of online shopping. And speaking of houses, don’t tell me you live here in Austin now.”

He knew whatever he shared with Hallie would be shared with Sweetie and her four other sisters—who would then share it with the rest of the Holidays and subsequently the entire town of Wilder, Texas. While everyone at home probably already knew about his career-ending injury, he didn’t want them knowing about his pathetic attempt to keep playing football.

“No. I don’t live here. I’m just passing through. What are you doing here?”

“I live just a few blocks away.”

“And you always stop by for shitty beer and tequila?”

A defeated look settled over her face. He understood the look well. “It’s been one helluva day.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I get it. Although it’s been more of a helluva year for me.”

A mischievous twinkle entered her green eyes. “Then maybe I should buy you a drink.” (Wrangling a Texas Hometown Hero by Katie Lane)