Christmas In Snowflake Canyon. RaeAnne Thayne

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      He meant it. If Jamie wasn’t here by then, his brother could drive up to Snowflake Canyon to share a beer for his last night in town before returning to his base.

      The digital jukebox Pat hated switched to “Jingle Bell Rock,” a song he disliked even more than “The Little Drummer Boy.”

      “Sorry,” the bartender said as he passed by on his way to hand a couple of fruity-looking drinks to a tourist pair a few stools down.

      Dylan glanced over at the flashing lights of the jukebox just in time to see Genevieve Beaumont head in that direction, mojito in hand.

      Uh-oh.

      More intrigued by a woman than he had been in a long time, he watched as she said something impassioned to the professionally dressed couple who seemed to be hogging all the music choices.

      He couldn’t hear what she said over the loud conversation and clinking glasses wrapping around him, but he almost laughed at her dramatic, agitated gestures. So much for the prissy, buttoned-up debutante. Her arms flung wide as she pointed at the jukebox and then back at the couple. From a little impromptu lipreading, he caught the words bar, idiot and Christmas carols.

      The female half of the couple—a pretty redhead wearing a steel-gray power suit and double strand of olive-sized pearls—didn’t seem as amused as Dylan by Genevieve’s freely given opinion. She said something in response that seemed as sharp as her shoes, judging by Genevieve’s quick intake of breath.

      The woman brandished a credit card as if it was an AK-47 and hurried toward the digital piece of crap, probably to put in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Away in a Manger” or something else equally inappropriate for the setting.

      Dylan chuckled when, after a quick, startled second, the mayor’s genteel daughter rushed forward like a Broncos tackle, her drink spilling a little as she darted ahead, her body blocking the woman from accessing the jukebox.

      “Move your bony ass,” he heard the woman say, quite unfairly, in the personal opinion of a man who had just had ample evidence that particular piece of Ms. Beaumont wasn’t anything of the sort.

      “Make me,” Gen snarled.

      At that line-in-the-sand declaration, Dylan did a quick ninety-degree swivel on his barstool to watch the unfolding action and he realized he wasn’t the only one. The little altercation was beginning to draw the interest of other patrons in the bar.

      Nothing like a good girl fight to get the guys’ attention.

      “I have the right to listen to whatever I want,” Madame Power Suit declared.

      “Nobody else wants to listen to Christmas music. Am I right?”

      A few nearby patrons offered vocal agreement and the color rose in the redhead’s cheeks. “I do,” she declared defiantly.

      “Next time, bring your iPod and earbuds,” Genevieve snapped.

      “Next time be the first one to the jukebox and you can pick the music,” the woman retorted, trying to sneak past Genevieve.

      She shoved at Genevieve but couldn’t budge her, again to Dylan’s amusement—until the man who had been sitting with the carol-lover approached. He wore a dress shirt and loosened tie but no jacket and was a few years older than his companion. While he carried an air of authority, he also struck Dylan as similar to the bullies in the military who had no trouble pushing their weight around to get their way.

      “Come on. That’s enough, girls. What’s the harm in a few Christmas carols? It’s the day after Thanksgiving, after all.”

      “I believe this is between me and your girlfriend.”

      “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my associate.”

      “I don’t care if she’s Mrs. Santa Claus. She has lousy taste in music and everybody in the place has had enough.”

      The other woman tried again to charge past Genevieve with her credit card but Genevieve blocked access with her own body.

      “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with?” He advanced on her, his very bulk making him threatening.

      “Don’t know, don’t care.”

      He loomed over her, but Genevieve didn’t back down. She was just full of surprises. On face value, he wouldn’t have taken her for anybody with an ounce of pluck.

      “She happens to be an assistant district attorney. We both are.”

      Oh, crap.

      Genevieve apparently meant it when she said she didn’t care. “I hate attorneys. My ex-fiancé was an attorney,” she snapped.

      The guy smirked. “What’s his name? I’d like to call the man and buy him a drink for being smart enough to drop-kick a psycho like you.”

      Genevieve seemed to deflate a little, looking for a moment lost and uncertain, before she bristled. “I drop-kicked him, for your information, and I haven’t missed him for a minute. In my experience, most attorneys will do anything necessary to get their way.”

      “Damn straight,” the woman said. She planted her spiked heel on Genevieve’s foot hard and when the effort achieved its desired result—Genevieve shrieked in surprise and started to stumble—the woman tried to dart around her. But the former head cheerleader of Hope’s Crossing High School still apparently had a few moves. She jostled with the woman and managed to slap away her hand still gripping the credit card before she could swipe it.

      “That’s assault!” the woman declared. “You saw that, didn’t you, Larry? The stupid bitch just hit me.”

      “That wasn’t a hit. That was a slap. Anyway, you started it.”

      “True story.” A helpful bystander backed her up.

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