It's actually kind of charming, if you're into the whole quaint mountain village thing. Brick storefronts with hand painted signs. Strings of lights that probably look magical at night. A coffee shop called Bean & Bloom that has a line out the door despite the weather. And everywhere, everywhere, Valentine's decorations. Red hearts in windows. Pink banners stretched across the street. A giant cupid statue in what appears to be the town square, bow drawn and ready to shoot someone in the ass with an arrow of love.
I need a drink.
According to the GPS, the bed and breakfast where the wedding guests are staying is on the other side of town, but I spot a place called The Velvet Antler and decide my blood alcohol level needs adjusting before I face my family.
The parking lot is nearly full, which seems promising. At least the locals have good taste in bars. I find a spot near the back, cut the engine, and take a moment to check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The sixteen hour travel day shows. My dark skin has that ashy undertone that means I desperately need moisturizer. My braids, which I got fresh last week in anticipation of being photographed at my sister's wedding, are frizzing at the edges from static. And my eyes have that slightly manic look of someone who's been running on airport coffee and anxiety for too long.
"You are a successful, accomplished Black woman who is taking a brief professional hiatus," I tell my reflection. "You do not need a man to validate your existence. You are here to support your sister and drink wine and not commit any felonies."
It's a good pep talk. I almost believe it.
The Velvet Antler is warmer than I expected, both in temperature and atmosphere. Rustic but upscale, with exposed wooden beams and a massive stone fireplace dominating one wall. The bar is packed with what looks like a mix of locals and visitors, everyone rosy cheeked and laughing like they're in a Hallmark movie about finding love in unexpected places.
I find the one empty stool at the bar and slide onto it, already scanning the drink menu. Wine. They have a lot of wine. Something about an attached vineyard called Iron Vine Estate. I'm debating between a pinot noir and just asking for whatever's strongest when a voice to my left cuts through the ambient noise.
"You look like you're about to order something you'll regret."
I turn, ready to deliver the withering glare I've perfected over years of fending off unwanted attention in Chicago bars, but the words die somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
The man taking up the stool next to me is... substantial. There's really no other word for it. Tall, even sitting down, with shoulders broad enough to block out the fireplace behind him. Dark hair shot through with silver at the temples. A jaw that could cut glass. And eyes the color of a winter storm, pale gray and piercing, fixed on me with an intensity that makes my spine straighten involuntarily.
He's older than me. By at least a decade, maybe more. And he's looking at me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve.
"Excuse me?"
"The wine." He nods toward the menu in my hands. "You've been staring at the pinot noir for three minutes, but your shoulders are tense and you checked your phone twice since you sat down. You don't want to sip something. You want to something that burns when you gulp."
I’m annoyed. Who does this mountain man think he is, reading me like I'm some open book he can just flip through at his leisure?
"And I suppose you have a recommendation?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Depends on what you're running from."
"Who says I'm running from anything?"
He raises an eyebrow, and I hate that it's attractive. "Chicago plates on the rental in the parking lot. Louis Vuitton bag that costs more than most people's rent. And you walked in here like you were bracing for a fight, not looking for a good time." He takes a slow sip of what looks like whiskey. "You're not a tourist. You're here for something specific, and you're dreading it."
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to decide if I'm impressed or offended.
"That's a lot of assumptions from a stranger."
"I'm not wrong though."
He's not. That's the infuriating part.
"Fine." I set down the menu and turn to face him fully, crossing my arms. "Since you're apparently the bar psychic, what would you recommend for someone who just got laid off from her job, is about to spend Valentine's weekend at her little sister's wedding without a date, and had to listen to her mother's boyfriend describe his prostate surgery for the entire second half of her flight?"
He’s wearing an unreadable expression. Interest, maybe. Or amusement. It's hard to tell with a face that co someone without looking away from me. "Two fingers of the Macallan. Neat. And whatever the lady wants."
An older man with a knowing smile appears behind the bar. Though he doesn’t give me bartender vibes. "And what does the lady want?"
I hold the stranger's gaze. "The same. But make it three fingers."
The man behind the bar, Silas, chuckles and reaches for a bottle on the top shelf. "Coming right up."
The mountain man doesn't say anything for a moment, just watches me with that assessing stare that makes me feel like I'm being catalogued. Measured. Tested.
