“Smart. But the offer stands whenever you need it.” She stood, collecting plates. “Now, you want dessert? Cassie made peach cobbler.”
“I never turn down peach cobbler.”
Cassie grinned. “Smart man.”
By seven-thirty, Jake was full, warm, and more optimistic than he’d been earlier. He helped clear the table despite Barb’s protests, then grabbed his jacket.
“Heading to Tucker’s?” Cassie asked.
“Thought I’d check it out.”
“Tell Tucker we sent you. He’ll take good care of you.”
“Will do.”
Outside, the air was cold and sharp, biting at his face and hands.
The town square was lit up with white lights strung through the trees, and storefronts glowing warm. A few people wandered the sidewalks, couples mostly, holding hands and window shopping.
It was... nice. Quiet in a way Atlanta never was.
Tucker’s Tavern sat on the corner, a brick building with wide windows and a neon sign that buzzed faintly. Inside, Jake could see people at the bar, hear the indistinct murmur of a crowd, and muffled music from a jukebox.
He pushed the door open.
Warmth hit him first, then the smell—beer and fried food and something sweet, like barbecue sauce. The place was long and narrow; the bar running nearly the entire length. Booths lined the opposite wall, with tables down the middle. Halfway down, a jukebox glowed. In the back, near the restrooms and rear entry, two electronic dartboards lit up the dim space, chirping as darts thumped.
A man behind the bar looked up. Big guy, broad-shouldered and blond, with a friendly face. He was wearing a navy Oxford shirt withTucker’s Tavernmonogrammed on the pocket.
“Welcome,” he called. “Grab a seat anywhere.”
Jake headed to the bar, sliding onto a stool. Up close, the bartender was younger than he’d looked from the door—maybe early thirties, with an easy smile and the kind of build that said he didn’t just serve beer, but could bench-press the keg.
“First time at Tucker’s?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Barb and Cassie from the Hawthorne House sent me.”
The bartender grinned. “I’m sure they did. I’m Barb’s nephew, Tucker.”
“Jake.” He extended a hand. Tucker shook it, firm and friendly.
“What can I get you?”
“What’s good?”
“Everything. But if you want my recommendation, try the wings. Evan—my partner—swears by them.”
Evan was nowhere near hungry, but he was a firm believer in supporting small businesses.
“Wings sound great. And a beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
“Coming right up.”
Tucker moved with practiced efficiency, pulling a pint and calling the order back to the kitchen. He set the beer in front of Jake, then leaned against the bar.
Near the jukebox, an older man fed quarters into the machine, humming along to whatever played next.
“That’s Cal,” Tucker said, following Jake’s gaze. “He’s got a song for every occasion. Sometimes they’re a little too on the nose. Fair warning.”
