“I get it. Not all mornings are good,” she says with a relatable tone. “Mine wasn’t the best either.”
“My night is better though,” I admit and she smiles. “I think it’ll be perfect if you give me your name. I’m Meleck.”
“You’re the first Meleck I’ve met. I’m Wren,” she says before quickly adding, “And I know. It’s a guy’s name. The doctors told my parents they were having a boy. So they planned for a boy inevery way and my dad chose his middle name for mine. When I came out a girl, he kept the name.”
“I like it; it fits,” I tell her and she cuts her eyes.
“Fits how? Are you calling me manly?” she asks but I can hear the slight laugh in her tone.
“Nah. Not at all. Everything, and I do mean everything, is all woman.”
“Glad you straightened that up,” she says, then drinks more of her cocktail. She turns on her barstool, facing me. “But who are you, sir? I’m born and raised here and I know everybody in Miller’s Pointe but I don’t know you. Do you have fam here or are you seasonal?”
“Both. My uncle works at The Phoxes Den and I came here to work there.”
“Oh, for Beauden. I do business with him…Well, mostly his wife but he’s really nice. You’re gonna love it there. That ranch is beautiful but you were there and you saw it. What do you do?”
“I grew up on a small ranch so I can do anything but electrical is my specialty.”
With raised eyebrows and curiosity in her tone, she asks, “Electrical, like what?”
“I’m an electrician. I work on electrical systems: transformers, circuit breakers, electrical boxes, and even lightning rods. Anything electrical.”
“So, if your sockets don’t always work but your breaker box doesn’t show anything, what can that be?”
“I mean; it depends. It could be a number of things.”
“Expensive things?” she asks and this feels very specific.
“That depends too. Is this your house?”
“My barn and it’s been acting weird for a minute. My freezer is there and I keep all my goat milk inside. I’m scared it’s going to just stop working and I’ll lose all of my milk.”
“You have that much goat milk?” I question, just out of pure curiosity. Most people don’t store or freeze goat milk unless they can’t drink cow milk or are selling it.
“Yes. I make and sell soaps made from it. Christmas is a big season for me and I need my milk,” she explains and I nod.
“Then I can look at it for you,” I tell her.
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered. Let me look at it for you.”
“My jars didn’t cost that much. I’ll pay you.”
“I don’t think you know what volunteer means,” I joke. “I’ll look at it, no charge.”
“Are you sure?” she asks and I nod. “If it wasn’t so late, hell, I would say let’s go now. I really can’t afford for anything to happen to my milk.”
“Then, we can go. I can look at it after this drink.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am,” I say and her entire pretty face lights up.
She lifts her glass, as if to take another sip, but the music changes, the beat drops, and she turns to me with wide eyes. “That’s my song,” she says as she snatches my Jaxson off my head. “And I need this.”
She places my hat on her head, hops off the stool, and rushes to the dance floor. Damn near every woman in the bar does, including her friend. They line up and start dancing but my eyes stay glued to her. While holding my hat with one hand, she sways those hips, steps to the side, then to the front and back then drops down, slow and sensual. When she comes back up, she sways her hips and sticks her tongue out.
