“Yeah, I do.” My mouth sours as the fib drifts over my tongue.
“I heard Colby is up there now. Isn’t that something?” Literally nothing gets by this woman. I swear, she has Google keyword alerts set for everyone she’s ever met.
“Yeah, she’s big time now. Pretty cool.”
My mom is silent for a few seconds, likely waiting for me to give her a more well-rounded update on Colby’s life. But before she can inch her way into my business, and my past with Colby, I spot a full parking lot at Earl’s across the street—and a very tallbrunette slipping through the front doors alongside our pitching coach.
“I should let you go. I’m grabbing a late lunch with some of the guys,” I say.
“Okay, love you. And say hi to Colby for me.” My mom slips that last line in before ending our call. I’m sure it’s her way of signaling that she’s not yet done questioning me about my former best friend.
Colby and I in the same place is the exact opening my mom’s been praying for—andyes,I firmly believe the idea of us getting together makes it on her prayer list. My mom had our wedding planned long before I admitted to having any sort of feelings for my best friend. She loves Colby like a daughter. If only Colby’s family saw me through the same kind of lens.
Neither of our families is within five hundred miles of us, though. And Earl’s is less than five hundred feet away. So maybe, for just an hour or two, we can pretend our past isn’t complicated, and that she doesn’t have every reason in the world to hate me.
THREE
COLBY
Part of being invited into the boys’ club is actually hanging out with the boys, but it’s hard not to be guarded in a bar that caters to testosterone and rowdy behavior. And so far, that’s exactly what Earl’s seems to be.
I slip onto the stool at the far end of the well-loved wooden bar and trace my finger over a pair of initials that seems to have been carved into this bar top with a fork or a really dull knife. I can’t tell if the first set is YT or TJ?
“What can I get ya, Coach?” A tall woman with light brown hair piled into a messy pile on top of her head whips by me on the other side of the bar, scooping up discarded beer mugs along the way.
“What’s on tap?” I’m not much of a drinker, but I do enjoy a cold one straight from the tap. It reminds me of celebrating big games in college with my dad, when he’d fly out for one of my big series so he could coach me from the bleachers and celebrate afterward at an expensive—well, expensive for us—restaurant. He always got the house beer on tap and toasted me. I never told him I couldn’t hear a word he said from the stands. That wasn’t the point.
“I’ve got all the usuals, and then there’s the local brew from the college—they call it the Dog Special.” She slides a rag along the bar, cleaning as she approaches again, then stops directly across from me and leans over. “I’ll tell you a secret, though. It tastes a hell of a lot like Coors, and it’s twice the price.”
I snicker and nod. “I’ll take a pint of the cheap stuff, then,”
She winks and hustles to the tap, returning with a frosty, amber-filled mug.
“I’ll start you a tab. Settle up whenever.” She pats the bar top with her slender palm, and my gaze trails up her arm, noting the toned muscles that accent her forearm and bicep. She’s wearing a tight white tank top that reads EARL’S in orange across the front. Her name tag says Daisy, I think, along with the abbreviation for manager.
“So, does everyone around here know who I am?” I ask when Daisy works her way back in my direction.
She lifts a shoulder as she mixes a cocktail.
“Everyone around here knows everything; it’s how Sweetwater works. This town runs on rumors and gossip.” A sharp laugh leaves her lips, but she doesn’t smile. I get the feeling she’s speaking from experience, and maybe a place of resentment.
Daisy busies herself at the opposite end of the bar, so I slip one of the frayed menus from the silver basket tucked next to a condiment rack at the end of the counter. There’s a brief history of this joint on the back, and I learn that Daisy is Earl’s daughter, and this place? It’s hers now after being run by her father for forty years.
A swift thud rattles my ribcage from behind, and I spin on my stool to scope out someone setting up a drum kit in the corner of the bar. I didn’t know this town had live music. I haven’t heard more than a few taps on a snare and the kick of the bass, but the set looks legit, as do the guys dressed in denim shirts andtight cowboy jeans tuning electric guitars at the back of the small stage.
“You stick around long enough, I may just talk you into being my dance partner,” Jayden says. It’s strange, but I swear I sensed his nearness before he spoke. The familiar spicy scent of his cologne and the sloppy cadence of his steps as he approached gave him away. Some traits are ingrained, it seems.
“It’s been a while, but my guess is you’re still not much of a dancer.” I turn in my seat, my gaze matching his as I reach for my beer and take a sip, staring at him over the rim the entire time.
“I’ve two-stepped a few times. I might surprise you,” he says, a flirty chuckle pulling the corners of his mouth into his trademark smile.
“Hmm.” I pretend to muse, buying my brain a few extra seconds to talk my mouth out of getting me in trouble. “Too bad you didn’t learn how to dance before you stood me up for prom. Maybe we could have gone.”
I purse my lips, but my insides are caught between feeling indignant and sad. The words feel childish.Prom.My grudge isn’t about prom. It’s about him. And his abrupt exit fromus.
Jayden’s head tips to the right as his lips part, but instead of speaking, he chews at the side of his mouth as if considering his words. His gaze drops for a moment, but when his brown eyes lock back on mine, my world tilts. My chest fills with a strange warmth that stops my breath mid-intake, and my body buzzes at its core. I’m not sure whether it’s an overwhelming sense of dread or something less ominous, but before Jayden can speak, Chet slings an arm around his neck and gestures my way with a beer in his hand.
“Coach was a fucking badass! Did you know that?” Chet’s a bit buzzed, which actually makes the attention—and compliment—easier to take. I’ve never been good at accepting praise.
