Suspicion and jet lag weren’t a good look on anyone, but with one eyebrow raised, her glasses couldn’t maintain their perch. If she’d taped them with Scotch tape, it couldn’t have been more adorably dorky.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Behind the counter, where she wouldn’t be able to see, Graham used his soda gun to fill crystal clear water into a glass with ice. Then he added a drop of the yellow food coloring he kept for this exact purpose before giving the water a spin with a spoon. The drink he gave her was tinted faintly yellow, the color of pale urine.

Either she didn’t mind a dash of pee in her water or she was too tired to care, because she took the glass. That eyebrow did climb a little higher.

Easton was still pushing the trash bin around the room, so Graham watched her as she lifted the drink to her lips.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked just before she took a sip.

She paused, lips to the rim of her glass. “You wouldn’t risk the health and safety of all these people serving tainted water.”

Graham chuckled. “Glad to know you have faith in me, Zoey.”

Furrowing her brow, she of the glasses and ice water frowned, the tendril of hair falling back in between her glasses and nose. “How do you know my name?”

Graham cut his head toward the stunning woman holding court in the center of the restaurant.

“I remember my customers, and Lana said you were a Tourist Trap”—pausing at the word virgin, Graham cleared his throat—“newbie. I’m Graham.”

Someone must have said something exciting because a roar of guffaws made Zoey wince. The brief respite from the jukebox ended as they cranked it up again. He blamed Lana. She always loved to blast “9 to 5” every time he made her work. The tourists found it hysterical.

When Zoey glanced around at the cheering crowd and grimaced, Graham rested his forearms on the counter and leaned in toward her. “Yeah, me too. My ears don’t work anymore. Not a Dolly fan?”

“Not after a nine-hour flight. I’m not even sure where I am right now.”

Customers he had already served started lining up again, ready for their free beers, but Graham kept his attention on the woman shifting from one foot to the other, her fingers tugging on the hem of her Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. She took a sip of her water without gagging.

“We’re in Moose Springs, Alaska. An hour and fifteen minutes outside Anchorage and a thousand miles away from everything awful except your hotel. That place is a dump.”

When Zoey choked on her water, Graham admitted, “Okay, it’s not too terrible up there. Lana said you wanted a Growly Bear?”

“Umm…I’m worried what that means.” She must have noticed what they were doing to the statue near the jukebox. Barley—the life-size carved grizzly bear guarding the far corner—had been groped more times than Graham ever had, lucky son of a gun.

“You should be.” Gesturing toward Barley with his chin, Graham added, “Look at that. It’s not right.”

Zoey swirled her glass of moose pee in her hand, ice cubes clinking. “Do you think the artist meant for that…part…to look like that?”

“True artistic expression should never be qualified or quantified.” Graham swallowed the last bite of his hoagie. “Besides, got to let the guy keep his dignity.”

“Yes, but why is the grizzly wearing chaps?”

“It’s a biker bear.”

“Oh. Huh. I guess I can see that.” Zoey started to turn, then she hesitated. Curling her finger at Graham to lean in closer, she lowered her voice.

“Watch that guy at the end of the counter. The one in the blue shirt.”

Blue shirt, khaki pants, third to enter the diner in a group of six. They’d been working their way through Graham’s selection of Alaskan brews, vocalizing their thoughts on each loudly enough to impress the poor schmucks stuck sitting nearby.

“Don’t worry. I keep count of how many drinks they’re having,” Graham promised her in reassurance. “Counting to three is one of my many skills.”

“I think you might have lost count on Lana already.” Zoey’s lip quirked up a little. “And he just took a twenty from your tip jar. Thanks for the drink.”

Graham’s head snapped around, but all he saw was blue shirt and his buddies lifting their beers and simultaneously chugging, frat boys grown up to be no more refined than they’d started.

When he turned back, Zoey had reseated herself at her small table, book in hand and glasses slipping down her nose.

She was reading a book. In the loudest restaurant ever. Fascinating.

To be exact, she was reading Luffet and Mash’s How to Do Alaska. There wasn’t actually a Luffet, and Mash was a guy named Jerry who had passed out on Graham’s floor last year after an ill-conceived notion the entire resort needed burgers after their Christmas celebration. Sobering him up in a snowbank had been fun, but Jerry’s idea of how to do Alaska was nowhere close to the real—or right—way.

When blue shirt came up and asked for another round, Graham kept close watch out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, his elbow was right next to the tip jar.

“Watch out,” Graham said in gruff warning as he scooped out a massive order of fries and grabbed their last beers. “I keep a trap in there.”

“What?”

“The tip jar. Be careful. There’s a live fox trap in the bottom of the jar beneath the bills. It will shatter your wrist.”

Blue shirt looked at him like he was crazy, but he didn’t stick his hand inside the tip jar this time when he dropped in a couple dollars. Idiot. Graham wasn’t a hunter. Killing defenseless wildlife had never appealed to him, but even he knew enough about hunting to know traps were rarely smaller than seven to eight inches across when set. At most, the tip jar was five.

Maybe he would get a larger jar and actually keep a trap in there. Would serve anyone with sticky fingers right. Speaking of serving…

Zoey and her book were still at the table near him. She should have stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd, but Zoey blended in to near transparency.

For some reason, he found that refreshing.

Since she had saved his tip jar, Graham stopped what he was doing, ignored the yowls for more food, and leaned over the counter. Easton was still waiting for the last of the tables to finish clearing their trash, much to his friend’s obvious annoyance. Graham could have helped him, but talking to her seemed a lot more interesting.

“Hey, Zoey. You want that Growly Bear? Last one of the night.”

“Umm…maybe?”

“Yes or no, darlin’. If you’re going Growly, you’re going all in. If you have doubts, step away from the bear.”

When she lifted her chin and pushed her glasses higher on her nose with the tip of her pinkie, Graham couldn’t help the wide grin stretching across his face. Damn, she was cute.

“I’m in.”

* * *

What had she just gotten herself into? She didn’t even drink.

Those same words had been replaying in Zoey Caldwell’s head ever since she’d gotten off the plane in Anchorage. She wasn’t a risk taker, far from it, but she’d dreamed of coming to Alaska her whole life. Zoey had scrimped and saved every spare penny she could scrape together for years. When she had finally saved up enough and Lana mentioned her plans for her next trip to Moose Springs, offering to share a room as she always did, Zoey couldn’t pass up the chance at her dream vacation.

A trip to Alaska wasn’t just the top item on Zoey’s bucket list. Alaska was the whole bucket and the water inside it.

Never had Zoey been so excited, so overwhelmed, and so ready to sleep off the jet lag her nine-hour flight had given her. But Lana insisted on them coming to the rustic little hamburger and hot dog joint, claiming this a rite of passage. The Tourist Trap was charming in the same way the guy at the grill was charming. A little rough around the edges, but amusing. There weren’t any menus, only a whiteboard sign with a Magic Marker. It read Menu: Same crap we always have. Specials: Whatever you jerks didn’t eat yesterday.

Zoey liked it here already.

Swirling her glass idly, Zoey decided the gorgeous cook should have at least added salt to her yellow water and made it room temperature.

If one was going to be a smart-ass, it was important to go all in.

Graham was disturbingly attractive. Too attractive. Grab your moose pee and run back to the hotel on the mountain type of attractive. In Zoey’s world, that level of attractiveness was almost off-putting. Medium attractive was more her type. Safer. Calmer. Less…whatever was happening over there behind that grill.

If the Tourist Trap wanted to make money, they needed cooks who were remotely approachable. Not tall, muscled, scruffy-faced men in blue jeans and snug white T-shirts with warm eyes.

He caught her looking at him and winked.

Graham gave exceptionably good wink.

“Oh, you’re a bad, bad idea.” Zoey groaned, shaking her head. “Nope, not doing that.”

“Not doing what, love?” Lana dropped down in the seat next to Zoey, drumming her fingernails on the tabletop. “Who are we not doing?”

“No one.” The clack of rattling ice cubes against metal pulled her attention. Yep. Sexy T-shirt man was shaking something in a makeshift cocktail shaker fashioned from a YETI tumbler. Strong fingers held the shaker closed with a single hand, biceps flexing as he absently shook the YETI and scooted fresh-seared burgers to the far side of the flat top grill.

Competent and gorgeous just didn’t seem fair.

Lana followed Zoey’s eyes. “Oh, trust me. He’s not for sale. That boy is locals only. But he can shake a cocktail, can’t he?”

Blushing, Zoey took refuge behind her book.

In the land of the midnight sun, June was technically the month with the most hours of sunlight. And since she’d arrived on the summer solstice—the longest day of the year—it was no wonder this day seemed like it had lasted forever. The first flight from Chicago to Seattle had been a series of children kicking her seat back, strangers trying to talk to her despite her earphones, and rushing through the airport terminal because someone—who would remain unnamed—hadn’t given herself enough layover time between flights. Added to her natural reluctance of flying, Zoey nearly clawed her way out of the plane from Seattle to Anchorage, the final leg of her trip.