I cough a few times, breathing in sawdust. The place is absolutely filthy and a wreck. It’s deceptively large and long, and the entire back of the pub is covered in plywood. Now that I’m inside, I can make out more of the song booming through the sound system, causing the floor to vibrate. It’s some rock tune with heavy guitar riffs and a lot of drums.

“Hello!” I shout and take a few cautious steps across the dusty hardwood. When no one answers, I call out a second time.

A large, somewhat hulking figure appears in the doorway between the old, dusty bar and the new plywood enclosure. The garish lights behind him eclipse his face in shadow until he takes another step forward, bringing him into view.

Standing about twenty feet away is a well-built man wearing a pair of paint-splattered jeans, scuffed-up work boots, and a red-and-black plaid shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off vibrantly colored tattoos that cover both of his forearms and disappear under the sleeves. His hair is cut short and styled with some kind of product so it’s perfectly smooth, not a strand out of place. An intentional, curated messiness. And he’s holding an axe.

Why is this guy holding an axe?

I take an uncertain step back toward the door, because, as I was saying, he’s holding a freaking axe.

I prop my fist on my hip and tip my chin up as axe man’s gaze sweeps over me. Judging. Assessing. His left eyebrow quirks up. He has eyes the color of bourbon, high cheekbones, full lips and a rugged, square jaw with a lovely five o’clock shadow, despite it barely being eight in the morning.

“What the heck is going on here?” I motion to the mess of a bar.

That quirked eyebrow rises higher. “Excuse me?”

“What is this?” I snap.

Axe man’s full lips pull up into a grin. “It’s called a bar, and judging from the look of it, I think you fell down the wrong rabbit hole, Alice. Wonderland isn’t here.”

chapter two

Hot Lumberjerk

Blaire

My name is Blaire, not Alice, thank you very much.” I want to smack myself for that terrible, unimpressive comeback. I blame my inability to come up with something—anything—better on thinking we were in the middle of an earthquake, the loss of one of my precious unicorn martini glasses that I honestly cannot afford to replace, and this axe-wielding hipster. Oh, did I forget to mention that beyond the fact that he’s filthy and dressed like some kind of GQ lumberjack, he’s also incredibly good-looking?

“Well, Blaire, you’re standing in the middle of a construction zone, and I’m pretty sure those shoes don’t meet the required code, so you can march them right back out the door.” He uses the axe handle to point to my heels—which are adorable and surprisingly comfortable.

I take a step back. “Pointing is rude.” Where the hell has my quick wit disappeared to?

“So is trespassing.”

“I knocked, more than once, but with all the racket going on in here it’s not really a surprise that no one heard me, is it?” I’m irritated and gathering steam, thanks to my embarrassment, residual fear, and frustration over the problems this guy is causing me. I can’t afford setbacks—there’s too much on the line for me. Plus this guy has insulted my outfit. True, I may be silently judging him for his own wardrobe choices, but I’m certainly not going to voice them. Yet. “I own the café next door and all your banging around in here is making my life impossible.”

“You mean the cupcake shop?” Once again, he uses the handle of the axe to point in the direction of my café. It makes his tattooed forearm flex enticingly. I don’t even like tattoos. Well, that’s not entirely true. I don’t not-like tattoos. I just don’t understand how anyone can sit through hours of being stabbed with needles for the sake of wearing art that could very easily be hung on a wall instead—pain free.

“It’s not a cupcake shop. It’s a cocktail and cupcake café.” Damn it wit, I need you!

“Right. My bad. A cupcake and cocktail café isn’t the same as a cupcake shop.” His sarcasm bleeds through in his dry, day-old scone tone.

I ignore the dig, because trying to explain the difference to a flannel-wearing hipster is pointless. He’s clearly the opposite of my target market. “What’s happening back there?” I motion to the plywood room behind him. “Is that even legal?”

“It’s called an axe-throwing enclosure, and yeah, it’s legal.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket and shakes it out so it unfolds, then holds it up in front of my face. When I try to grab it from him he snatches it away. “No touching, looking only.”

I pin him with an unimpressed glare, uncertain as to whether that’s what makes his cheek tic, and raise my hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t want to soil your precious paper with my frosting fingers.”

He lowers the paper so I can see that it’s a permit for an axe-throwing enclosure. “See, Alice, totally legal.”

I glare at him. “It’s Blaire, and you need to move this enclosure thing because all that banging around is making my glassware fall off the shelves.”

Axe man’s eyebrows pop. “Uh yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

I flail a hand toward the mess of plywood. “One of my brand new unicorn martini glasses broke because of you, and they’re expensive.”

“Unicorn what?”

“Martini glasses. It’s a martini glass with a unicorn face on it, and a horn. They’re adorable and they weren’t cheap and all your banging caused one to fall off the shelf and break.” I hold out the box so he can see the damage he’s responsible for.

He peeks inside, but makes no move to take the box. “Can’t you just move your glasses?” His completely unaffected, blasé attitude is driving me crazy.

I set the box on the bar rather aggressively, making the glass inside tinkle. “I’ll have to move an entire shelf. Maybe more than one.” I continue to flail my arms all over the place. I’m sure I resemble an octopus on some kind of hallucinogenic stimulant. All the caffeine I’ve consumed today was obviously a terrible idea because it’s making me edgy and discomposed.

“Okay.” He hooks his thumb in his pocket, obviously not understanding the difficulty this axe-throwing room of his is going to be for me and my business. He’s completely self-centered as well as condescending. I hate him already. Forever. Like a kindergartner.

“It’s not okay at all. Moving a shelf will offset the entire layout of the wall. You can’t just take a shelf down without there being any design consequences,” I tell him. “It disturbs the continuity and interrupts the flow. The whole vibe will be thrown off!”

And now he’s looking at me like I’m crazy. “Well, I’m sorry that taking a shelf down is going to mess with the cupcake vibe, or whatever, Blaire, but unless you’d like to foot the bill to uninstall and reinstall all of this.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “I’m thinking moving a shelf is probably your best bet if you don’t want any more shattered unicorn dreams.”

I huff my irritation, because although he has a point, the only person inconvenienced is me. And all this noise is going to make concentrating impossible today. I avoid responding, because I don’t want to give in and agree with him. “How long is this going to go on for?”