Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter

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      Jude cursed the circumstances that had brought him here. Ignore her. Ignore everyone. He had work to do, and a very short time to do it.

      The Dushku motto: Don’t Bend, Break.

      As soon as the family had moved into Blueberry Hill, only minutes from Jude’s home in Strawberry Valley, he’d done background checks on every member. His motto? Can’t Be Too Careful.

      Ryanne was in serious danger. Years ago, Dushku moved to a small town in Texas. He offered to buy out every bar, restaurant and liquor store in the area. Soon after, anyone who’d refused to sell suffered a tragic fate. Some were arrested for a crime they swore they’d never committed while others were injured in some kind of accident.

      Dushku was never charged.

      On edge, Jude counted the number of cameras and lights he would need, and tested the reliability of every lock. Something he’d done several times before, as he’d waited for Brock to finish drinking and say the magic words: take me home. He repeated the process, checking and double-checking his findings. His analysis remained the same. Anyone with a tire iron and a couple minutes to spare could break in without difficulty.

      How had Ryanne survived so long?

      His gaze sought the beautiful brunette unbidden. She’d settled behind the bar, her attention locked on Daniel and Brock.

      Daniel had dark hair, though not as dark as Ryanne’s. His eyes were light brown and there was a slight bump in the center of his nose. That nose had suffered one too many breaks.

      Overall, he looked like the soldier he was: rough, tough and solid as a rock.

      On the other hand, Brock looked rougher and tougher with multiple piercings and arms sleeved in tatts. His jet-black hair was cut close to his scalp, and a thick five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, a complete contrast to the pale green eyes that often reflected skepticism, disdain and warped cheerfulness.

      Brock had grown up filthy rich, but as the old saying went, money hadn’t bought him happiness. Just like a lack of money hadn’t been the source of Jude’s problems. Wealth had nothing to do with emotion. Both he and Brock had parents who never should have had children.

      Daniel hadn’t been rich or poor, but he’d had the kind of childhood most people only dreamed about. He’d been born and bred in Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, adored by his parents, cherished for the boy he’d been as well as the man he would become.

      He was the reason Jude and Brock had moved to the speck-on-the-map small town. Any time their military unit had gotten stuck in a shit storm, waiting for escape or death—whichever came first—Daniel had spun fairy tales.

      Dude. Check it. Strawberry-scented air.

      All the peace of a beach without sand in your ass-crack.

      Magazine perfect. If there’s heaven on earth, it’s Strawberry Valley.

      Unwilling to go back to Georgia, where Jude had been stationed after joining the army, and equally unwilling to return to Texas, where he’d grown up—where beloved and hated memories waited to torment him—he’d moved to Oklahoma with his friends.

      Ryanne’s eyes flashed with merriment, and Jude almost smiled. Had anyone ever loved life with such abandon?

      Part of him hated her for that abandon.

      Damn it! When had his focus slid back to her?

      Daniel spotted him and waved him over. “There you are.”

      Ryanne smiled with feline satisfaction, as if she’d discovered a particularly juicy secret.

      A muscle clenched low in Jude’s gut.

      Though he would rather avoid the bar owner until he’d calmed from whatever she continued to do to his emotions, he closed the distance between them.

      The scent of strawberries and cream filled his nose, courtesy of Ryanne. Every time he neared her, he was reminded of his favorite dessert, strawberry shortcake, and his mouth watered. When his mouth watered, his teeth gnashed, because a wave of crackling heat always followed, as if—

      No. I do not want her.

      Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “Ryanne said you’d taken off.”

      “Ryanne isn’t always aware of her surroundings,” he replied, flicking her a cool glance. “She’s usually too busy flirting with customers.”

      She puckered those red, red lips and flipped her glorious fall of hair over her shoulder. “If I can convince just one more man to buy another penny beer, I might be able to afford that solid gold bi-deet I’ve been wanting. Fingers crossed!”

      Brock snorted at her—purposeful?—mispronunciation of bidet. “What are you doing here, anyway, my man?” he asked Jude. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”

      “Changed my mind.” More and more, he’d had trouble avoiding the Scratching Post, knowing Dushku could strike at Ryanne at any moment. “LPH will be taking over security here.”

      “Well, it’s about time,” Daniel said with a nod.

      Ryanne batted her lashes at Jude. “Can I get you another water with lemon, Mr. Laurent?” Her voice was sugar sweet, but strangely, also as mean as a rattler.

      “And let you charge me another two fifty for roughly five seconds of your time?” He shook his head. “At your rates, I’ll owe you nine thousand dollars for an hour of our meeting tomorrow.”

      She winked at him, sensual, erotic—so beautiful it hurt to look at her. “Trust me. I’m worth that and more.”

      Raising an empty bottle, Brock told her, “Before you guys go and drag me into this odd little mating dance you’re doing, I’ll have another of those penny beers. Please and thank you.”

      Jude bit his tongue in an effort to remain silent, annoyed by both the comment and the request. Mating dance? Hell, no. He and Ryanne argued, nothing more. And though he’d never asked his friends to give up alcohol, he’d wanted to, which made him loathe himself a little more. Their pasts were as painful as his own, and they needed an outlet.

      “Daniel?” Ryanne asked. “Another ginger ale?”

      “Yes, please,” Daniel replied with a grin. “I’m Brock’s designated driver tonight.”

      “Well, then, I’ll make sure your sacrifice is rewarded and add a cherry and a lime wedge free of charge.” Slowly, languidly, she leaned toward Jude. “You see anything you want, Mr. Laurent?”

      Another clench of muscle low in his gut. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

      “Oh, sugar. I’d bet my unmentionables you’re very, very bad.” Hooded gaze locked on him, she flattened her hand on his shoulder. He had to hide a jolt of surprise, the warmth of her skin burning through his shirt, the scent of fresh strawberries and cream strengthening.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

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