1
Annabelle
Then
Up ahead, the flickering neon sign for Tank’s Motel and Tavern cuts through the hazy night sky. From the looks of the place, it’s seen better days, but then again, so have I.
Trudging down the frontage road as cars whip by, I pull my jacket tighter around my torso to fight November’s chill.
I cannot believe my plans for the evening went up in smoke. Literally.I shouldn’t be surprised, though. With the way my life’s been going lately, my car dying on the side of the highway is just another entry in a long list of problems.
Shoving open the door to the tavern, I welcome the warmth and drop onto the closest wooden stool with a weary sigh. “Is this seattaken?” I ask the man sitting next to me. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I smother a groan. Without intending to, my question sounds like a cliché pickup line.
He shoots me a look that could sour milk. “No, but to be clear, I’m here to drink beer, not socialize. Capisce?”
“Capisce, asshole,” I spit out, side-eyeing him. “I was being polite. I’m not looking to socialize either.”
His crappy attitude doesn’t stop me from giving him a quick once-over. Shaggy chestnut curls peek out from beneath his cowboy hat, like he’s a week or two overdue for a haircut. His hat's brim is tilted just enough to keep his eyes hidden, but I catch the shadows of his long, dark lashes sweep across his cheeks as he blinks. When he catches me staring, he shoots me a smirk. It's cocky and insincere, but it still manages to send an unwanted zing straight to my belly.
Spinning away from him, I signal to the bartender and ignore my neighbor’s snort when he hears me order a glass of wine in a place that screams cheap beer.
Pulling up the rideshare app on my phone, I type in my hotel’s address. My best friend, Laura, volunteered to babysit my daughters and gifted me hotel points so that I could have a night to myself. Unfortunately, my car had other ideas when it started smoking on the outskirts of downtown, forcing me to pull over and change my plans.
“Damn,” I mutter. Since it’s still rush hour, it’s more expensive than I imagined.I guess I’m stuck here until surge pricing ends.
When my glass of wine arrives, I gulp it down, grateful to wash away the taste of exhaust and disappointment.
The bar is dimly lit, but the music is loud. Since it’s Nashville, of course, old-school country music is playing over the speakers. I dislike country music for a lot of reasons, one of which is that it reminds me of Kyle. A forlorn frown tugs at my lips. That’s the problem with lovingthe same man for my entire adult life. He’s wrapped up in every one of my memories, and as much as I want to escape him, I can’t.
Desperate to keep my pity party at bay, I blink rapidly. If I need to cry, I will. Later. But not in this bar and not while I’m sitting next to this asshole. “Keep it together,” I chant quietly to myself.
Next to me, the jerk scoffs into his beer. He’s pissing me off, so as I slip off my jacket, I not-so-accidentally elbow him in the ribs.
“Sorry, sir,” I singsong, shooting him a saccharine smile.
His gaze darkens, and instead of replying, his eyes rove over my body in a slow perusal. My boobs look good tonight, but they’re not on display for him; that’s for damn sure.
“Eyes up here,” I point to my face. “Capisce?”
Rolling his eyes, he grumbles, “I wasn’t looking at your tits, princess. I was looking at your shirt.” He gestures to my Rolling Stones T-shirt. “You look like the type to wear the vintage tee because it’s cool, not because you like their music.” He refocuses his attention on the television hanging on the wall.
Wrong move.
“Miss You.” That should startle him out of pretending that he’s watching the old replay of a Cincinnati Reds game.
My bet pays off.
The asshole spins toward me, a feral look in his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Miss You.That’s my favorite Stones song, followed byBeast of Burden, Start Me Up,andWild Horses. The Rolling Stones have sold over 250 million records worldwide. Did you know that Mick Jagger and Keith Richards have known each other since they were five?” I pause as he stares. “No, you didn’t, but I did. I wear the shirt because I like the fucking band, you pretentious asshat.”
Something like respect flashes across his face before he turns back to the baseball game. “Settle down over there, Jeopardy.”
“Shut up, Cowboy.”
A sardonic chuckle breaks past his lips. “Not original, but better than asshole, I guess.”
He may be laughing, but I'm not. He’s infuriating. I’m supposed to be relaxing. My goal tonight is to lower my blood pressure, not elevate it by arguing with a broody cowboy suffering from attitude issues.
