She’d always wanted pets, and she hadn’t had one since her childhood dog, Scotty. She’d missed having a dog to cuddle with.

She shook her head. Back to her list. She scrolled down the list and stopped at the next item.

Oh, right. Not hanging out at the bar with the guys all night. That answer was self-explanatory, since that was pretty much all Bash did. All the time.

She knew he loved sports because there were several TVs set up at the bar, and Bash was always cheering for some team or another. The man was sports-crazy.

And she had no idea what his idea of a perfect vacation would be, but she highly doubted it involved room service. Bash had an ATV and she knew he was an outdoorsy kind of guy.

Whereas Chelsea was allergic to everything outdoorsy. Anything involving the outdoors typically meant you couldn’t wear high heels, and Chelsea lived for her heels.

See? They were not compatible in the least. Bash had failed everything on her list.

She closed her notebook and tucked it back into her purse.

Why was she even comparing Bash to her list, anyway? It wasn’t like he was remotely in the running. Even if there had been that night she and the girls had come here during the holidays. And maybe she had been a little on the inebriated side, and maybe Bash had whispered something in her ear that even several months later still made her blush hot, and still kept her up at night thinking about—

“The perfect drink.”

She pulled herself out of that very erotic daydream and met Bash’s teasing gaze. “What?”

“You were going to give me ideas for the perfect drink. That’s what you were writing in your secret notebook, right? I know you like to challenge me.”

She sighed. “Believe it or not, Bash, not everything is about you.”

He feigned a shocked look. “It’s not?”

She rolled her eyes.

“What are we talking about?”

Her best friends, Emma and Jane, grabbed seats on either side of her.

“Chelsea’s hitting on me,” Bash said.

“She is?” Emma grinned at her.

“I am not hitting on Bash. He’s being ridiculous.”

“She’s writing love notes to me in her notebook and won’t let me see them.”

She shot him a glare. “Are you twelve? Stop it.”

Jane looked over at her. “You’re writing love notes? To Bash? This is the most interesting thing that’s happened all day. Please continue.”

She was going to throw her drink at Bash. “No. I am not writing love notes to Bash.”

“Then who are you writing them to?” Emma asked.

Chelsea wanted to scream. “No one. No love notes.”

“She doesn’t want you to see them, because they’re for me,” Bash said.

Emma looked at Bash, then at Chelsea, a questioning look in her eyes.

“He’s full of it,” Chelsea said. “And he’s just giving me a hard time, because that’s what he does.”

Bash slanted her that look again, the one he’d given her that night a few months back. Smoldering. Filled with promise. The kind of look that made her squirm on her barstool.

“I have never given you a hard time, Chelsea.” And as if he hadn’t just infuriated her, he calmly asked, “What would you ladies like to drink?”

Jane and Emma both ordered sodas, so Bash poured their sodas, then went off to tend to his other customers.

“He drives me crazy,” Chelsea said.

Jane cocked her head to the side, studying Bash’s retreating form. “Oh, I don’t know, Chelse. He’s funny. And so hot.”

“He is not.” Chelsea refused to acknowledge the way Bash’s black T-shirt fit so snugly across his incredible chest, or the bulge of his biceps beneath the hem of the shirt. Or his flat abs, or his incredible ass.

Not that she’d noticed. At. All.

“This is true,” Emma said. “Why haven’t you ever dated him?”

“Bash?” Chelsea slid a look down the bar at him, then at Emma. “Totally not my type.”

Emma laughed. “I think Bash is every woman’s type. Tall, great muscles, killer smile—and those eyes.”

“Phenomenal butt, those tattoos, a goatee. We have discussed your standards being impossibly high, haven’t we, Chelsea?”

Chelsea shifted her attention to Jane. “Like I said. He’s not my type. I’ll just leave it at that.”

“And what exactly is your type, Chelsea?” Jane asked. “Are you holding out for royalty or something?”

She lifted her chin. “No. I’ve actually made a list.”

Emma’s brows arched. “A list? What kind of list?”

“A list of the qualities I’d like my perfect man to have.”

Jane laid her hand on Chelsea’s arm. “Honey. You do realize the perfect man doesn’t exist.”

Chelsea took another look in Bash’s direction, then turned her back to him. “Yes, he does. The perfect man does exist. And trust me, it isn’t Bash.”

Chapter 2

Bash busied himself with his customers. On a Friday night, the No Hope at All bar would be filling up as people got off work and came in for drinks and to play pool or watch sports on several of the televisions scattered around.

While he drew a few tap beers for some of his regulars, he kept an eye on Chelsea, who was waving her hands as she animatedly explained something to Jane and Emma.