I flush at his compliment. “No, not my type of dress.”
“Who picked it out—Mrs. Rattles?”
“Of course.”
“Fancy dress and a shotgun,” he teases me. “Somehow I don’t think this is the bridesmaid look Ginny’s mama was going for.”
“Probably not.”
I shoo Mr. Bingley back inside the bar then close the door so he can’t come back out.
I pace fifty feet through the hard-packed dirt and burnt grass to the target box. I set up my pyramid of beer cans in front of the bullet-ridden wall that remained after the last jailbreak and right before the prison was retired.
I return to the hash marks, take aim, unlock the safety, and shoot four perfect shots in a row. I hear Logan’s cheers, and I turn to face him.
As the hot sun beats down on our heads, Logan and I stare at each other.
“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” I say slowly. “All awkward and shit?”
“No. Put the gun down and come have a drink with me,” he says.
I lock down the gun. “What did you want to talk about?” I ask him as I walk inside and go behind the bar.
Logan follows me inside and takes a stool as I pick up a dishcloth and start to clean the taps.
“You looked good shooting out there,” Logan says. “How’s practice going for this year’s county fair?”
“Great,” I say. “I hate to brag, but…”
“Oh, come on, you love to brag.”
I break into a real laugh for the first time since he told me he was engaged hours earlier. It already feels like a lifetime ago.
“So where’s your fiancée?” I ask. “Can I meet her?” I don’t know what possessed me to ask that. I have no interest in meeting this woman. And yet, part of me feels like I have to.
Logan flushes. “Sure,” he says noncommittally. “Someday.”
“It better be someday soon,” I say, hating how sharp my tone is but not able to calm my pulse enough to speak normally. “You’re marrying her in a couple months.”
Logan grabs my right hand, which is now soaked with beer and water. “You’re sure you want to meet her?”
I pull away from him and stare down at the counter in front of me. Thank God for this dishrag. I go vigorously after a large stain.
“Is that wipe down a yes?” Logan says. “Or just polite country slang for ‘no, thank you?’”
I exhale and look up at him with a friendly face I find somewhere inside of me. This must be how Hollywood stars manage to always look happy for the camera; even if something horrible happens they can pose with a million-dollar smile.
“Of course I want to meet her. She’s going to be your wife. I’ll be seeing her for the rest of our lives.”
Logan exhales. His mouth turns up in a smile that looks forced. But I can’t read him for shit right now, so I stick out my tongue and grab two canned beers. As I go to open the first one, the beer fizzes and comes out too fast, soaking my dress.
“Shit!” I hold the can away from me too late.
Logan grimaces. “You may have to change.”
“You think?” I look down at the enormous wet stain all over the front of the dress.
“You have clothes in your office?”
