But…carajo! Sometimes she just wished they would stop complaining about life’s unfairness and shut the fuck up.

If forgetting about her sweaty daily grind on the assembly line wasn’t the point of going on a date with one of these dudes, what was? She’d put on a dress and lipstick to remind herself she was a woman, not just a cog in a machine. Or the outspoken coworker who was always nominated to speak on everyone’s behalf to the boss man. There had been a time when she’d wanted more. Much more. Life didn’t always work out the way you expected, though, and she’d learned to be content. Mostly. When she didn’t think too hard about what might have been. Lofty ambitions were no longer part of her psyche, but a decent date once in a while wasn’t a lot to ask.

The night had started off pretty standard. Her date, Carmine, had driven them in his pickup to an Italian restaurant in Montclair—white tablecloths, the whole nine yards. And okay, fine, he’d yapped for forty-five minutes about his idea for novelty bumper stickers that say Mechanics Have Big Tools, but she’d entertained herself with three glasses of red wine. This was her second date with Carmine, although the first had been months ago after which she’d told him, do better next time. It seemed as if he’d taken her directive to heart. She’d even considered kissing his sorry ass good-night. Then he’d gone and done it. He’d pulled up outside the Third Shift, “just for a nightcap.”

What was it about the men in this town and the Third Shift? They didn’t consider their day complete until they’d added their unique man scent to the mélange of questionable odors. Now he was doing this thing. This “reach over and massage her neck while yukking it up with his boys” thing. The kind of move you pull on a long-suffering girlfriend, and she was far from that to Carmine.

When Jasmine’s cell phone buzzed inside her clutch purse and she saw River’s name come up, concern replaced her irritation. It was just past bedtime for Marcy. If River was calling her, something was up.

Jasmine pressed the phone to her ear and edged away from the group of men. “Hey, Riv. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Kind of? I don’t know.” A long pause. “My brother just showed up on my doorstep. Out of nowhere.”

“You’re kidding. Sarge?”

“The one and only.”

A smile sprang unbidden to Jasmine’s lips. She’d always had a soft spot for the kid. Forever pressed up in the corner of the Purcell family’s living room, hair across one eye, playing that beat-up guitar. So quiet and thoughtful all the damn time. His steady intensity would have unnerved her on a guy so young—seven years her junior, if she recalled correctly—if he hadn’t displayed on countless occasions what a massive heart was hiding underneath all those Judas Priest T-shirts. One afternoon, during the hottest summer she could remember, Jasmine had caught him leaving a plastic bag on his elderly neighbor’s porch. Having assumed he was doorbell-ditching like most boys his age, she’d started to read him the riot act, until she’d seen what was inside. About a dozen old VHS tapes.

“Mrs. Grant doesn’t have a DVD player, so I picked these up from the thrift store. Gunsmoke, The Andy Griffith Show…” he’d explained, before vanishing into his own house without giving her a chance to commend him. Yeah, she’d known Sarge would be successful at whatever career he decided on, but she’d never expected such a rapid rise to fame. For music, nonetheless. A dream she’d always harbored for herself that never came to fruition.

Her smile slipped away. When her younger self had encouraged Sarge to follow his dreams, she’d been so confident in her own abilities, positive she would ultimately be the one whose talent earned her a pass out of Hook. But it had been Sarge’s destiny the whole time. God, he would pity her now. The girl who’d once been almost smug in her mentoring was now nothing more than an assembly-line fixture.

Jasmine realized she’d been silent for too long and shook herself. “That’s great, right? You’ll have Sarge home for Christmas.” When River released a slow breath down the line, a realization began to creep in on Jasmine’s end. “Or maybe we’re not happy about this.” She hesitated. “Marcy?”

“Yeah. She’s been asking about her father again.”

Jasmine toed the ancient barroom floor, hating River’s dejected tone of voice. She’d heard way too much of it lately. “What can I do?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but can Sarge use your spare room? I can’t bear the thought of him staying with strangers.” River made an agonized sound. “Maybe I should have just let him stay here—”

“Of course he can use the room,” Jasmine broke in. “Don’t think any more about it. We’re only a few blocks apart—it’ll be just like he’s home, except you won’t have to pick up his socks.”

A meaty arm snaked across Jasmine’s shoulders, beer breath drifting along her neck. He murmured something about her dress fitting her perfectly, a sentiment that unfortunately made its way to River’s ears. “Oh, Jesus. Carmine took you back to the Third Shift, didn’t he?”

“A night wouldn’t be complete,” Jasmine answered, squirming away from her date, who instead of taking the hint, only tightened his hold. “Listen, I have to handle this. Send Sarge over with a fresh change of clothes and I’ll make sure he’s comfortable.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re a saint.” A brief pause. “Hey, Jas? I know this goes without saying, but you can do a thousand times better than Carmine.”

“Now you tell me.” Jasmine’s laugh was hollow as she disconnected the call and replaced the phone in her purse. Could she do better? She wasn’t so sure. Knowing her face was in full grimace mode, she patted Carmine on the chest in a placating manner, the universal signal for go home, you’re drunk. “’Kay, big guy. Thanks for the eats. I’m going to ask the bartender to call me a cab.”

“What? No way. I’ve only had two friggin’ beers.” Ignoring her reticence, he tried to turn her into the cradle of his body. “Maybe I’m drunk on the way you look in that short dress.”

“Yeah. I heard you the first time. Not for nothing, but compliments usually come at the beginning of a date.”

“Awww, I was working up to it.” He leaned in for a kiss, but she dodged him. “What’s this about someone staying at your place? Won’t they interrupt what we’ve got planned?”

“Perdón?” Jasmine’s spine snapped into a straight line. “Of which plans do you speak? I’d answer carefully.”

Her shock was obviously the opportunity Carmine needed to go in for the kill. His chapped lips stamped down onto hers, big, grabby hands tugging her closer. Without being given time to suck in a breath, she had exactly zero oxygen in her lungs to sustain her as he mashed their mouths together. Feeling the beginnings of panic when no one came to her aid, Jasmine’s hand flew up and connected—smack—with his cheek. Once, twice. A third time.

Even after she slapped him, it took a few seconds for him to pull away. “What the fuck, Jasmine?” After a glance over his shoulder that found his group of buddies busting their guts laughing, Carmine’s hand closed around her right biceps. Tight. Tighter. “You’ve been asking for that all night, so I finally give it to you—”

Poor Carmine never saw it coming. To be fair, neither did Jasmine. One second, she was gearing up to knee Carmine in the family jewels and the next? He was on the dingy floor with an even bigger man straddling his neck, taking a punch to the face that gave even a pissed-off Jasmine sympathy pains. She couldn’t see her rescuer’s face, but through her haze of shock, she had one simple yet dominant thought.

Hello Shoulders.

They were broad and flexing and badass. Shoulders that made her think of Tarzan swinging through the jungle with a tiny blond woman clinging to his toga-covered body. Soap commercial shoulders that usually had frothy suds coasting down them in delicious rivulets while the man with a big white-toothed smile on his face lathered. God. Her rescuer could barely keep them inside his white long-sleeved T-shirt.