I’ve never had a place in Evergreen Falls and never will.
CHAPTER 7
BLAKE
My boots stomp across the floor as a sad country song about a cowboy who loses everything drifts around me.
Cliché, but I’d expect nothing else at Timberline Bar on a Tuesday night.
Pine paneling covers the walls, darkened with age and decades of cigarette smoke. A collection of antlers and old hunting photographs hangs crookedly above booths lining one of the walls. The floor creaks under my boots as a waitress weaves through the room carrying a tray of drinks, burgers, and fries.
Behind the bar, rows of liquor bottles glow beneath the strings of warm white lights. Pool balls crack together from somewhere near the back, followed by a chorus of cheers and groans. The scent of grease, beer, and wood polish hangs in the air—a scent that is unique to Timberline.
Casually taking a seat at the bar, I rest my elbows on the deep wood counter, intertwine my fingers, and wait for the bartender. The deep wooden bar is marred by thousands of tiny scratches collected over generations of bad decisions. Sharp light from neon signs would normally annoy me, but I ignore them.
I don’t remember consciously deciding to come here, but after leaving Mama’s, all I knew was that I needed a drink and didn’t want to do it alone. So here I sit on a high-top stool, waiting to numb the ache inside me.
The bar isn’t so full that it’s overstimulating. There are just enough people that I can blend in and allow their chatter to tune out the voice of self-loathing in my head.
Ranchers fresh off work occupy a handful of tables. A couple sits in one of the corner booths, sharing a basket of deep-fried food. Two men argue over a game on the television mounted above the pool tables.
Nobody pays me much attention, and that’s exactly how I like it.
Near the back of the room, Bridger Reynolds occupies the largest booth despite only having one other person with him. Tailored wool peacoat draped across the seat beside him, expensive watch flashing whenever he gestures, he somehow manages to look overdressed in a place built for denim and mud. Even seated, he carries himself as if the room belongs to him.
People stop to shake his hand as they pass. Others simply nod and keep walking.
The mayor accepts both with the same practiced smile—the kind politicians perfect after years of pretending to like everyone.
I quickly look away before he notices me.
One run-in with the Reynolds family this week is more than enough.
The scrape of polished boots against the floor pulls my attention toward the end of the bar.
Well. Speak of the devil.
Bridger Reynolds strolls over with the easy confidence of a man who’s never been told no. A charcoal sport coat sits over a crisp button-down, and his expensive leather boots look asthough they’ve never stepped in actual mud. His blond hair is neatly combed back, not a strand out of place.
He smiles. It’s the kind of smile politicians wear. Practiced and empty.
“Blake Jennings.”
“Mayor Reynolds.”
His mouth twitches. “You don't have to call me Mayor.”
“I know.” I take another sip of my drink, hoping he’ll go away.
He leans one elbow against the bar. “Word travels fast around here.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“I heard you were staying awhile.” He smirks.
“I heard you got elected.”
His smile widens just enough to look smug. “The town thought I was the right man for the job.”
