Page 2 of The Backup Plan

But I’m not. Won’t. I draw in a deep breath and walk through the doors.

Because she’s right, this is my fresh start.

Because I didn’t come all this way to hide—which was how I felt like I was living life in Colorado.

The bar is dim and warm and full without being crowded. The music is low but upbeat, and the waitresses are wearing tight tops, short shorts, and cowboy boots. On brand for Texas. The décor seems to be one theme—wood. On the walls. On the floor. The tables. The chairs.

From the sign outside, I expected it to be livelier. Now that I’ve stepped into it, it feels like a place where people come to be anonymous or seen—depending on what exactly they need.

My nerve wavers but I force myself to keep walking despite the few heads turning to follow my movement. I slide onto a barstool near one of the ends and draw in a deep, fortifying breath.

Can’t back out now.

“New face,” the bartender says with a smile. “What can I get you?”

“Red wine?” I ask more than a request. “Whatever you recommend.”

“Sure thing. Celebrating something?” he asks as he pours.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You look nervous, like this isn’t something you do every day, so I figured there has to be a reason.”

I smile and appreciate how he’s trying to put me at ease. “Yes. A dream job. A change of scenery.”

“Congrats.” He sets the glass in front of me. “Welcome to Austin.”

I lift the glass, inhale, and take a sip.

Welcome to Austin, Emery.

God, I needed this. No more bad memories. No more shared space. No more hanging on to an unfulfilling life.

“This seat taken?”

I glance to my left and the gravelly voice. The man is . . . fine. Tall. Confident. Wearing a pink polo shirt with the collar popped, he’s smiling in a way that suggests he’s used to hearing yes. First thought—frat boy who never grew up. My second thought?

“Yes. It’s taken,” I say.

He chuckles like he thinks I’m kidding. “By whom?” He exaggerates how he swivels his head to look left and right like he knows I’m lying.

I’m so over men who decide my no is negotiable.

“Me,” I say and turn back to my wine, clearly putting off the I’m not interested vibes.

He doesn’t move. “You from around here?” he asks.

“No.” I keep looking at my glass and how I’m swirling it.

“Figured.” He signals the bartender. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I’m good,” I say, polite but firm.

He leans in closer. “Come on. One drink. A welcome to Austin glass.”

“Thank you, but I’m good.”

I glance his way and something in his smile tightens.