Page 77

Beth hums under her breath, some old country tune about secrets and sinners.

I mutter, “This is why I drink.”

She tosses me a towel and says, “Good. Start with cleaning the tables.”

And just like that, I’m back to scrubbing wood with existential dread and a racing heart, pretending I didn’t nearly fall off a ladder last night for a man who still thinks his publicist is behind his personal pep rally. But I guess Madeline is better than Lucinda of the first set of triple D silicone implants Sorrowville has ever seen.

This isn’t a bar.

It’s a minefield.

And I’m the girl dancing on the tripwires.

The door swings open behind me, and I know it’s him before I even turn around.

Something about the cold draft that follows him in. Or maybe the way my pulse instantly goes rogue, pounding in my neck like it’s trying to signal Mayday. Either way, I don’t have to look to know Brogan Foster has arrived.

“Joely!” His voice slices through the chatter like it’s on a mission. “You seen the sign yet?”

I blink innocently and raise an eyebrow, still clutching a damp bar rag. “Which one?”

“The one outside the arena.” He practically jogs over, skidding to a stop in front of me with a breathless grin that should be illegal. His cheeks are pink from the cold, hair tousled, that boyish energy radiating off him in waves. “It’s epic.”

“Epic,” I repeat. “That’s a bold word.”

“I mean it.” He’s bouncing on his toes like a Labrador. “It’s got my name on it. Well… the number. But still.”

“Oh?” I tilt my head, like I didn’t put the damn number up myself with frozen fingers and shaky hands. “What’s it say?”

He plants his palms on the bar and leans in, grinning so wide I can see the chip in his side tooth. “It says I matter.”

My chest tightens like a corset laced by someone with a grudge. I fold the bar rag in half to keep my hands busy.

“And,” he continues, glancing around the bar like we’re in a spy movie, “I want to celebrate.”

Beth, eavesdropping from the taps, mutters, “God help us.”

Brogan ignores her. “C’mon. Just a quick ride. I want to show it to you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Does it involve more snow? Because I’ve already reached my frostbite quota for the month.”

He snorts. “No. I promise you won’t get cold. Just… me. You. The truck.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

He steps closer. “I’ll even let you pick the music.”

Damn him and his dangerous smile.

Beth glances around the nearly empty bar, where the only action is Virgil griping to the jukebox and a couple of regulars nursing beers. “Honestly, if you don’t have a date night now, you’ll be here till close arguing with Frankie about hockey stats. Go. If anyone asks, you’re checking inventory in the walk-in. If I get slammed, I’ll call your cell.” She slides my coat across the bar. “And don’t let him play any of that sad-boy country crap.”

“Hey!” Brogan throws a hand over his heart. “Garth Brooks is a poet.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “So’s the guy who writes haikus in the men’s bathroom. Doesn’t mean I want to hear him whine about lost love and whiskey.”

I stifle a laugh and toss my towel into the bin. “Fine. One drink. One song. That’s it.”

Brogan beams. “That’s all I need.”