◆ Finn ◆
Used to be, the family bar was hopping until last call every night. Now? If the bank doesn't take her away from me in the next two months, it'll be a miracle. All because some fatcat politician thought building a new highway would earn him a few more votes. The last thing I need? A firecracker who has curves in all the right places and a smart mouth, telling me what to do to save my own damn bar. I can do this alone; except I recognize the pain I see in those moss-colored eyes. Sure I don’t need any help, but it seems like she does.
All I wanted was a relaxing vacation. Fresh mountain air. Some uninterrupted time with a book. Yeah, right. Maybe I could relax if the bar I stumbled upon—literally-- wasn't run by the sexiest, and most annoying, man in the world. Five minutes in, I couldn't decide if I wanted to drag him across the bar and kiss him or pour my beer down his flannel shirt. He won't ask for help, but what he doesn't know? I've never backed down from a challenge. Finn's going to learn just how stubborn I can be. And maybe…we'll find out happily ever after.
Set against the rugged charm of Baren Hill, this heartfelt romance delivers a swoony grumpy sunshine dynamic, a heroine rediscovering herself after divorce, and a cinnamon roll mountain man with a beard—and a bar—to fall for. Readers who love a confident, capable older heroine, romantic tension with payoff, witty banter, and filthy dialogue will consume Beard on Tap by Willow Sanders.
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Excerpt
Copyright 2025, Willow Sanders
Time had morphed in hyper speed. One minute Finn and Emmett were loading me into the front seat of the biggest pick-up truck I’d ever laid eyes on, and the next Finn was helping me out of the truck, and balancing me against the door while we waited for the bellhop to bring the wheelchair.
“Thank you,” I said. My hands wrapped around his biceps, though I don’t remember putting them there. He looked filled out but not bulky. I wouldn’t have ever guessed that he was as firm in the arms and shoulders that he actually was. “I know I didn’t say it earlier. But, I appreciate it. Well, you. Especially hauling my ass out of that ravine.”
“It’s a baby ravine. More like a gulch than anything.”
I could smell the whiskey on his breath too. It was a homing beacon for the part of whiskey that controls your libido. One minute we’re standing there awkwardly waiting for the bellhop, and the next I’m nibbling on his lips, testing how firm and heavy they felt caressing mine.
“You’ll be gone in a few days.” His fingers cradled my shoulder, holding me at the slightest distance. “This isn’t a good thing to start.”
“That I’ll be gone in a few days is precisely why it’s the best kind of thing to start.”
I tried to go in again, because the first swipe of my lips did little to dampen the molten desire that threatened to erupt.
“Princess, you start this, and I promise you won’t want to stop.”
My fingers itched to bury themselves in his beard. To feel for myself if it was soft or wiry, if he liked being caressed there or if it bothered him. The truth was I just wanted to feel his mouth again. I wanted more of the heaviness of his lips pressed against mine, being wrapped in his scent like a scarf on a snowy day.
“Someone’s overconfident.”
Me, apparently. While I can’t say that this “wasn’t like me” because quite honestly, I’d been a “me” alongside someone else for so long I don’t even know what my singular identity was.
“Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m not the kind of person that has missionary style penciled in my agenda– sex, with a blow job kicker for birthdays and anniversaries. I’m a flip you over, pull your hair, plunge my finger into your hidden treasure and tell you to take it like a good girl. I’ll wreck you. You won’t want it any other way after me. And I’m not the matching retirement account and monogrammed towels kind of man.”
“The towels just end up going to the Goodwill anyway,” I tell him, before pushing myself into his space. It was all the invitation he needed. He cradled my jaw firmly between his thumb and finger, and plundered my mouth like there was buried treasure that could only be unearthed with a very adroit tongue.
My whole being melted. Liquid heat erupted down my spine, sending the most delicious of sensations from the tips of my ears all the way to my curling toes.
“Ahem.”
The bellboy appeared. Top notch customer fucking service. Great timing too. The Yelp review practically wrote itself.
“Ms. James, I'm here to take you to your room. I’ve just come from there, the staff is setting your dining room for dinner, so we best get moving so it doesn’t get cold.”
Alistair, according to his nametag, had the good sense to school his features and not indicate he’d just walked into what felt like a pornographic display of lips, teeth and tongue.
The atmosphere cooled. Finn stepped back wiping his lips and shooting me a sheepish wink.
“Feel better, Ms. James. Hopefully I’ll see you around.”
Before I could even say thanks for rescuing me, or hey come back to my hotel room and prove it, he was behind the wheel of his truck and pulling out of the roundabout.
Unfortunately for me, every blood cell in my body vibrated in concert, and the song it sang was about a bar owner named Finn with concrete gray eyes, and a dirty, pouty mouth.
About Willow Sanders
A marketer by day, and author by night, Willow Sanders is a best-selling author of sweet with heat Contemporary Romance and Romantic Suspense. She loves to write spunky, take no shit women, and understanding men with a strong side of sarcasm and an extra helping of BDE. When not writing you can find her torn between her loyalty to the Fighting Illini and her husband’s loyalty to Michigan State, bemoaning traffic, feeding her caffeine addiction, and trying to find the connection between her and the Gilmore Girls–because she is certain she is a long-lost family member.
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