IZZY:I didn’t ask you to do that!
DYLAN:You spelled “thank you” wrong.
IZZY:I can fix my own roof!
DYLAN:I didn’t say you couldn’t. But I had time and I didn’t want you to wait until a snowstorm to go back up there.
IZZY:Sullivan…
DYLAN:??
IZZY:Thank you.
DYLAN:Why does it seem like you have a gun to your head saying that?
IZZY:Feels like it.
DYLAN:You’re welcome.
IZZY:And you sound smug!
“Two of my favorite people in the world are banging. I can’t believe it.” Flic’s warm hand presses against my back. She leans in, tweezers in hand, and digs the splinter from my skin.
“I don’t think people still say ‘banging,’” I say, wincing at the sting radiating from my back. “And we’re not banging,” I hiss as she digs deeper. Even with the pain, heat floods my face remembering the way my body ached from the kiss in the barn this morning. Dylan’s touch… “We’ve kissed three times. And judging by the way Dylan walked away this morning when I tried to talk to him about what he’s doing with the horses, it was a mistake.”
Flic huffs. “A mistake is climbing on a trailer roof in the middle of a rainstorm,” she says. I’m already regretting telling her that. “A mistake is?—”
“Buying horse stock without having the first clue what you’re doing.”
Flic laughs. “A mistake is something you regret. A mistake is something you don’t repeat.”
“We haven’t?—”
Her reply comes in a sing-song voice, like she’s so goddamn pleased with herself. “You kissed him in the bar, you kissed him last night, and then you kissed him this morning, right?”
I groan. “Should’ve just left the damn splinter in there if this is the abuse I’m going?—”
A final sharp scratch cuts the words short, and a second later, Flic is spinning me around on the barstool, brandishing the splinter like a trophy. “Got it!”
I reposition my tank top and make a face. It’s barely a thorn. “It’s tiny.”
Flic pulls a face. “That’s what she said.”
“Really?” I say in a deadpan voice. “Are we doing that now?”
“Always,” she quips, tossing the splinter into the trash before settling back on the barstool. Her long, white-blonde hair falls over her shoulder as she tilts her head, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. She’s makeup-free, in sweats and a loose tee, looking like a different person from the badass bartender she’ll be later tonight when the Friday crowd rolls in.
The Hay Barn feels different, too. The overhead lights are on full, and the place is empty. The smell of cleaning products lingers in the air, competing with the aroma of the take-out coffees sitting on the bar between us. It turns out Flic’s “payment” for splinter removal is a double-shot oat milk latte with caramel syrup, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. I swear she only orders it because she knows it drives me nuts. What’s wrong with black coffee?
I look up at the row of NFL team merch stapled to the wall, confiscated by Flic from anyone foolish enough to step into her bar wearing anything but Stormhawks red. Then across the room, I spot a mop and bucket leaning against the wall.
“I thought you had a cleaning team,” I say, looking back at Flic.
“I did.” She sighs. “Until the landlord hiked the rent up, and…” She pretends to hold a magic wand in her hand, like the fairy godmother she tells Mad she is, making a joke of her cleaning. But I see the pinch of worry beneath it.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
“Because there isn’t room in this friendship for us both to be in crisis. And I’m fine. Seriously. I like cleaning, and if it means I can keep this place, I’m happy.”
