Page 17 of Holiday Pines

Wes turned, smirking. “That’s how it’s done.”

Jake shook his head. “Show-off.”

“Sore loser.”

“I haven’t lost yet. This is just practice.”

“Fine. Let’s play a round. Loser buys the next drink.”

“Deal.”

They played three games. Jake lost all of them, but the gap narrowed each time. And somewhere between the second and third rounds, Wes’s shoulders relaxed. The tightness of his jaw eased. He even laughed when Jake’s dart bounced off the board and nearly hit Chuck.

“He’s a hazard,” Wes said, grinning.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Jake bought the next round—whiskey for Wes, another beer for himself—and they leaned against the wall near the dartboards, not talking, just... relaxing.

Cal’s jukebox played on. Something about wicked games. He caught Jake’s eye again, grinning like he knew something Jake didn’t.

Jake shook his head, dismissing. He hadn’t cut loose like this in a long time–and in Spoon, GA, of all places! He was buzzing from the beer, throwing darts with a rugged and handsome man. And though he knew better than to fraternize with a client, it felt good. It felt like maybe, somewhere deep within his lager-induced bliss, the bonding occurring between him and Wes might not be strictly professional. That maybe–

“I should get going,” Wes said. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Jake sighed. “Yeah. Me too.”

They walked out together, the night air cold enough to see their breath. The town square was quieter now, most of the shops dark, just the Christmas lights still glowing.

Wes stopped on the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets. “So. This meeting you mentioned. When?”

“Whenever works for you.”

“Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s good.”

“Okay.” Wes nodded, then hesitated. “And... thanks. For not being an asshole tonight.”

Jake laughed. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m serious. I was ready to hate you.”

“I noticed.”

“But you’re...” Wes trailed off, looking bemused. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you.”

Their eyes met. Held.

Something shifted, and with the cold came sobriety.

Shit.

Wes cleared his throat, looked away. “Right. So, Tuesday.”