I stifle the urge to check the carpet for any traces of mud that might have fallen off my cowboy boots, and wonder if it’s the first time a Kentucky girl in honest-to-God shit-kickers has stepped into this joint. Although, these boots are part of my stage costume, so the fringe and rhinestone-encrusted leather is a heck of a lot nicer than the worn-out ones I left in my cubby on the bus.

The bluish-purple glow coming from the ornate domed light fixtures makes it look like someone dunked the whole room in grape juice, giving the bar a kind of otherworldly feel. One look at the handful of folks in here tonight makes it clear that these people are from a completely different planet than me.

But I push aside the comparison and venture closer to the shiny wooden bar. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need another shot of that liquid courage.

I slide onto one of the velvet bar stools, absolutely aware of the fact that my tiny jean skirt is riding up my thighs. A man in a suit one stool down is eyeing my legs while he swirls the liquor in his glass. I can’t tell what color it is, because everything takes on the unnatural shade of the lights.

I’m grateful for those lights. Something about the color is mellow and sexy, and it gives me the guts to follow through with my plan.

My Christmas list may be short, but it’s certainly specific. One man with enough cockiness and a smoking-hot body to take my mind off the grief stalking me tonight.

I snag the drink menu and flip it open. It lands on exactly the page I need. American Whiskey. The best damn kind there is. My jaw drops when I read the prices.

“Holy shit. Sixteen dollars for Jack Daniel’s? What the hell? Did Jack rise from the grave and make that mash himself? Holy . . . damn.” My voice carries, and everyone in the room, including the bartender in his snazzy suit, turns to look at me.

The guy one seat over must take that as some sort of invitation, and slides onto the velvet stool next to me. His smile is as smarmy as his words.

“I’ll buy a pretty girl a drink.” He jerks his head toward the bartender. “Put whatever she wants on my tab.”

Well, that didn’t take long.

I drop my gaze quickly, and the paunch straining the buttons of his dress shirt quickly disqualifies him as having the smoking-hot body on my Christmas wish list. But maybe this is a situation where beggars can’t be choosers?

I’ve never been much of a barfly, but the few times I’ve ventured out after shows with the guys, it seems like I always get these business types who spend a little too much time on the road, and none of it hitting the hotel gym.

Resignation filters through me. Maybe this is as good as it gets? One thing is clear, even through the warmth of the whiskey—this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had.

“Thank you, but I think I’m a little lost tonight.” I flip the menu shut. “I should probably just get back to my room.”

The label put me up at the Plaza as a goodwill gesture for doing the show on Christmas Eve; otherwise, I would never drop that kind of money on a hotel, even if I had that kind of cash to spare—which I don’t.

He lays a hand on my arm. “How can you be lost, when I just found you?”

The line is cheesy, and I’m not even sure it counts as a line. But either way, I’ll be better off with some room-service dessert and a pity party for one.

I slide off the edge of the stool, but his grip tightens before his hand lands on my leg, sliding up my skirt almost instantly.

“You can’t go yet. We haven’t even gotten acquainted. Just let me buy you a drink. I promise I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart.”

Chills of ick run through me at his touch, and I struggle to slide out of his grip, but he’s got me trapped. Apparently he thinks I’m a hooker, but my skirt isn’t that short.

Reaching down to pry his hand off my leg, I dig my nails in, but he just squeezes tighter.

Seriously, world? This is what I get when I try to have some harmless fun? Not. Fair.

I yank at his hand and open my mouth to tell him to let go when a rough, deep voice curls around me.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my wife.”

In one swift move, the unwelcome hands touching me are gone, and the man is stumbling off his stool. My gaze jerks from the handsy guy trying to catch his balance, and darts over my left shoulder.

Another guy in a suit. Except instead of being on the slippery side of fifty and overweight, this man might just be God’s gift to women. Or maybe just Saint Nick’s gift to me in the form of a rescue? Because, holy wow. Dark brown hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his cheekbones could have been carved by one of those Italian master sculptor guys.

A hint of recognition tugs at the edges of my whiskey-soaked brain as his dark eyes burn into mine, as if daring me to play along. I don’t know what his game is, but for him . . . I might just be willing to try it.

The sexy man in the suit lifts a hand to my hair and smooths a lock between two fingers. His dark brown eyes never leave mine. “Darling, I told you that the picking-up-strangers game to make me jealous was for New Year’s Eve, not Christmas Eve.”

The other guy backs away another step, and the memory of his touch is fading just as quickly as it came. It’s like watching the laws of nature play: the beta male bows to the alpha, and the sexy man in the suit is one hundred percent the alpha dog in this situation.

Whatever pheromones he’s throwing off have me shifting on the velvet bar stool and leaning closer to him without thinking. It’s a million times better than the thought of getting up close and personal with Handsy. I reach down to rub my arm where the jerk touched me, and a red mark has already appeared.

Alpha Dog doesn’t miss my move. He lays a possessive hand on my shoulder and speaks to Handsy in a low, dangerous growl. “If you don’t want to be still picking up teeth next Christmas Eve, I’d suggest you pay your tab and get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper. You don’t ever put your hands on a woman who clearly isn’t interested.”

Handsy apparently doesn’t recognize the alpha yet. “She came in here looking like she was trolling for a man. She was fucking interested. Maybe you should keep a leash on your woman if you can’t control her.”

I open my mouth to tell him I was most definitely not interested, but Alpha speaks first.

“I suggest you walk away while you’re still able.”

Alpha’s expression must be even more dangerous than his words, because Handsy snaps his fingers at the bartender, who slides an embossed leather folder down the bar. Apparently he’s been listening to this whole exchange as well, because he’s grinning smugly.