Page 5 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)
“Whoa now, you’re a ray of sunshine on a cloudy, autumn night.”?
She lets out a dramatic sigh, and I take a moment to really look at her.
Bold red lipstick painted perfectly on her mouth, a tiny, black hoop piercing in one nostril, and a dark, fitted shirt that screams she’s trying to blend in tonight, but it does nothing to disguise the heavy swell of full breasts from my eyes.
She doesn’t even glance around the room.
That tells me everything I need to know—she’s not hoping to bump into someone she knows.
She’s hiding in plain sight. Wearing armor made of eyeliner and attitude, hoping no one sees through it.
But I do. Hell, I can’t stop looking. It’s not just the way she’s dressed.
It’s the way she’s sitting—like she’s waiting for a fight or someone to give her a reason to bolt.
“I’ll just take a vodka,” she says, her tone flat. “Whatever your mid-level brand is.”
I can’t help it myself. I slap my palms against the bar to steady myself and throw my head back to laugh even louder than the first time.
The noise must startle her because the scowl she was wearing is immediately wiped from her face, replaced with a look of shock instead.
“All our liquors are from Whitewood Creek Distillery, darling. We don’t do mid-level here. ”
She rolls her eyes like I just told her we’re out of free breadsticks. Another thing we don’t serve here on account of most of our food revolving around eggs. “Okay… sure. I have no idea what that means.”
And honestly, it should mean something to her.
She just walked in this bar full of strangers without realizing that we make our own liquor and demanded me to serve her mid-level after saying she might throw her drink at my head.
I’m not one to be easily hurt, but that’s deserving of some sort of offense. At least a misdemeanor.
“Might need to call up Molly to have her come in here and arrest you for that.”
Her brows raise. “Who’s Molly.”
I chuckle. “You’ll find out soon enough. So,” I drawl, leaning on the bar again, my eyes never leaving hers, “just the vodka? Nothing else in it?”
“Don’t judge me.”
Alright, then.
I move to make her just vodka, pouring a shot and then adding a little extra splash, because she seems like she needs it tonight. Pushing the glass across the counter, I watch as she eyes it suspiciously, sniffs it like it might bite her, and then downs the whole thing in one impressive gulp.
My eyes widen slightly. Damn. Girl drinks like she’s done this before.
Or maybe she’s just that determined to forget something.
I see it sometimes—the ones who don’t sip, just swallow, like they’re hoping whatever ache is riding them will drown if they’re fast enough.
Or they’re chasing a way to lighten up. Problem is, it never works.
It just makes the ache meaner. Cleverer.
“So,” she says, setting the glass down with a soft clink and not batting an eye. “How do people make friends around here?”
I bark out a laugh. “Well, it’s certainly not by walking in dressed like a doll from Monster High Barbie and shooting straight vodka.”
“I don’t get it,” she deadpans, her green eyes blank.
“Then the joke’s not for you.”
She rolls her eyes again, an art form for her, apparently.
“Why are you trying to make friends so… aggressively?” I ask, leaning a little closer, keeping half an eye on the rest of the bar that I'm supposed to be paying attention to.
She puffs out a sigh. “My sister said I needed to.”
I prop an elbow on the counter. “And who’s your sister?”
“Laken Black.”
Now that’s interesting.
I tilt my head, studying her again. Yeah, I can kind of see it—the resemblance is there, underneath all that gothic flair.
Laken Black is practically a saint in this town.
She moved here about twelve years ago with her special ops husband, and she’s been a staple ever since.
An eye doctor with a heart of gold who loves kids, people, and Whitewood Creek.
The perfect picture of small- town charm.
When I was coaching basketball a few years ago, I'm certain I coached one of her sons and when my nephew Beckham injured his eye during a football game on a Friday night, she dropped everything to take care of him.
But this woman? She looks like she’d rather hang out in a crypt with bats and skeletons than spend five minutes volunteering at a bake sale or watching a kid’s sporting event.
“So… you’re Laken’s sister?”
“That I am,” she mutters, drumming her fingers on the bar as if she’s impatiently waiting for people to come up to her and say they want to be friends. But now I’ve got questions.
Lots of them.
“Don’t know her,” I lie as I grab an empty glass and begin making a vodka cranberry for Mrs. Bellview who I see is almost out of hers.
I know she’ll ask, so I’m getting a jump on the request and using it as a distraction to draw Oscar the Grouch out of her shell so that she starts confessing all her deepest, darkest secrets to me.
“She’s an eye doctor,” she offers before nudging the glass back my way, asking for a refill without saying a word.
“And how do you say please?”
She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t I paying you for this service?”
“Just because you’re receiving a service doesn’t mean you can’t have some manners, darling.”
Her lips twist like she’s not sure how to handle that.
One of my regulars, old Smythe, is seated next to her.
He chuckles behind his beer, trying to hold back his smile and failing.
He’s a sixty year old, retired farmer who now that his grandson has taken over the family property, just sits around town drinking, playing pool, and cheering at the town’s high school football games with me.
Our weekly, fall football game meetups are a whole thing which is why I’m surprised he’s still here tonight and not already at the game.
I lean up against the bar, completely ignoring Morticia Adams next to him. “Shouldn’t you be at the game, old man?”
“About to head over there.”
“Method of transportation?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m walking, don’t worry Cash. I wouldn’t drive.”
I tap the bar. “Good man. And you're cut off. Beckham’s playing tonight in the pre-game.”
“Can’t wait to see him. He's going to be a force when he makes it up to the high school.”
“That he is. Your tab is on the house,” I say smiling while I hear the little grave digger next to him scoff loudly.
“How does the bar make money if you put all the drinks on the house?” she says.
“Not something for you to worry about, but never fear, your drink is definitely not on the house tonight.”
“Well in that case, may I please have another?”
“Not of just vodka, no.”
“Why the hell not?” she demands. Her cute nose scrunches up as she attempts some sort of glare at me that only makes me even more attracted to her. Underneath all that black clothing, she has a heart. Just like the grinch. And now I want to see if I can find it. Preferably while I undress her.
“Because if I keep giving you straight vodka, you’re never going to make friends and Laken told you that you needed to so therefore, I’m respecting her wishes.”
“Thought you didn’t know her,” she scowls.
I shoot her a wink and she rolls her eyes.
“Fine, how about we do a whiskey sour then.”
“That I can do, and since you obliged to my demands, let me introduce you to an old friend of mine,” I say.
Smythe vacates his chair to head to the game just as my sister Regan and one of her best friends Lydia enters the bar, her blonde hair bounces as she gives Smythe a big hug in greeting then slides into his empty seat.
Lydia doesn’t drink, but I know she’ll eat and she’s good for carrying a conversation with a shoebox.
“Hi Cash!” she shouts with a smile and leans over the bar to give me a quick one armed hug.
“Hi Lydia,” I smile and pull back then look between the two women seated in front of me now. “Wow, it’s like Barbie and her best friend Skipper if skipper only listened to Dashboard Confessional and loved the color black. ”
“You’re really milking this, aren’t you?” the pretty woman asks on a sigh though her lip is twitching at the corner like she's fighting a smile. She thinks I’m funny. I’ll take it as a win.
“You two have fun now. I have work to do,” I call over my shoulder, and then I turn and spin on my heel to go refill drinks for my other guests.