Page 15

Joely

If you walk my streets long enough, you learn that love confessions come in all shapes and sizes—on water tower walls, in bar napkin doodles, even in the lyrics blaring from someone’s pickup on a snowy Tuesday night. Folks around here still talk about the last time someone painted their heart for the world to see, and everyone knows exactly what it means when a fresh coat of paint appears on the tallest thing in town. Some call it foolish, some call it romantic, but nobody ever forgets it. And this time, as word spreads about that lopsided number and wobbly heart way up high, most of us just smile and crank up the jukebox, knowing every small town’s got its own kind of John Deere Green.

Playlist: John Deere Green by Joe Diffie

It’s too cold to be doing something this dumb.

I shift my weight on the narrow ladder rung and glare at the side of the water tower like it personally wronged me. The paint can teeters on the platform beside me, half-empty and splattered across my gloves, my jeans, my soul. What’s up there? A lopsided “#29” and something that was supposed to be a heart but looks more like an angry potato.

This was supposed to be a grand gesture. Anonymous. Mysterious. Romantic.

Instead, I’m up here in the freezing wind, fingers numb, looking like I lost a bet with Pinterest.

But the truth is, it’s not really about the paint, or the tower, or even whether he ever figures out it was me. Last night, when he finally said he was scared, it knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t say the right thing—I just got tangled in my own feelings, making it about me, about us, instead of hearing what he was actually telling me. I was raw and exposed and so desperate for reassurance that I missed how much it took for him to say it out loud. And now? All I want is to show him he isn’t alone in it. That I see him, all of him—even the scared parts.

A gust hits me square in the face, and I swallow a scream. My balance shifts, and in a fear-fueled moment, I remember I’m not great with heights. Or ladders. Or planning, apparently.

I cling to the metal and close my eyes, muttering, “This is fine. Totally fine. I’m a strong, independent woman with an artist’s soul and poor judgment.”

Another gust. Nope. I’m out.

I start the awkward climb down, trying not to think about how this all started because I wanted Brogan to feel special. To feel wanted. Because he is. Because I’ve wanted him for as long as I can remember, and the only time I’ve ever felt brave about it was when I was hiding behind a Sharpie and a spark of hope.

I hit the ground and stumble back, paint on my coat, hair in my mouth, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

This was supposed to be the water tower miracle. The one that sticks.

Instead, it’s a cautionary tale.

I yank my phone out of my pocket with frozen fingers and text the only person who won’t judge me too hard. Mostly because she’s already tangled up in this.

Me: You busy?

Lynsie: Define busy.

Me: Busy enough to commit some criminal activity?

Lynsie: Well shit. What do you need?

Me: Meet me. Gloves optional. Bring Heath’s extension ladder.

Lynsie: I hate you.

Me: Perfect.

Lynsie shows up ten minutes later in full-blown Mission: Impossible mode.

Black hoodie. Black jeans. Black gloves. Black face mask with only her eyes showing, which makes her look either like a very chic raccoon or a cat burglar with a Target credit card.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at me, then the water tower, then back at me like she’s mentally compiling a list of regrets.

I hold up the paint can like it’s a peace offering. “Let’s go.”

She crosses her arms. “Where are we going?”

“Up there. To do secret admirer shit.”

“I don’t feel good about this.”

“You’re already dressed like a rogue ninja. Besides, it’s romantic.”

“It’s a felony.”

“It’s a mural of the heart.”

“It’s gonna be a mugshot if someone calls it in.”

I point up at the water tower. “The rock didn’t work. Snow ruined it right away. The coasters are long gone. I need something permanent.”

“You know what’s permanent?” Lynsie deadpans. “A criminal record.”

“I don’t need your negativity.”

“You need a therapist. And gloves. Why are your gloves neon?”

“They’re not neon. They’re coral.”

“Exactly. You’re about to graffiti a town landmark in flaming coral.”

I sigh dramatically. “You know where snow won’t matter?”

“Please say Key West.”

“The water tower.”

“Oh my God.”

“It hasn’t been painted in, like, twenty years.”

“Yeah. Because people are afraid of being arrested.”

I grin. “Give me one good reason not to.”

“Vandalism. Is. A. Crime.”

I pause. “Oh. Huh.”

Lynsie narrows her eyes. “You already started, didn’t you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny—”

“Jesus, Joely.”

I shrug, trying to look innocent but mostly just cold and guilty. “So… now what?”

Lynsie stares at the tower again, then back at me. “We could get a drink. Warm up. Pretend we’re not criminals in the making spray painting potatoes on the town’s water supply.”

“Power Play?”

“Yeah. And Brogan’s working.”

I pause for half a second too long.

Lynsie smirks under her face mask. “Thought so. You’re hoping for a little post-illegal activity flirtation.”

“I’m hoping for a beer and plausible deniability.”

She heads off toward her car. I take a moment to hustle the paint cans and ladder back into my trunk, slamming it shut with a shaky exhale. Evidence stowed, heart pounding, I catch up to Lynsie as she’s unlocking her door.

“Come on, Banksy,” she calls, waving me toward my own car. “Let’s get you a drink before you start tagging your love notes on police cruisers.”

I may not be as talented as the famous street artist, but I follow her direction, tucking what I just did back into the box of mistakes I keep in my soul. This wasn’t the plan. But maybe it’s exactly what I need.

A drink. A distraction.

And maybe a glance from the only guy I’ve ever wanted to notice me on purpose, but who has now put hockey before me and our fledgling relationship.

By the time we pull out of the lot—me in my car, Lynsie right behind—the adrenaline’s already crashing and my hands are starting to thaw. I drive through town in silence, the streetlights blurring past and my stomach tangled in knots equal parts nerves and regret.

As my fingers grip the steering wheel, all I can think about is Brogan standing guard at the door. Both of us park outside Power Play, and I force a smile, trying to shake off the cold and the panic. Maybe all I need is a drink, a distraction, and a glimpse of him acting like everything’s normal—even if nothing feels normal anymore.

Power Play is buzzing in that warm, lowkey way it always does when the snow falls heavy and the regulars pile in like the storm’s a sign from God to drink more whiskey. Virgil’s already staked out his usual spot by the jukebox, and his mutt, Hank, is asleep under a barstool.

Lynsie and I step inside, the heat hitting my cheeks like a hug from the universe. I peel off my gloves, shoving them deep into my coat pockets.

Since it’s my night off, Beth has Brogan behind the bar while she’s in the kitchen.

And sweet mother of meatballs, he looks good.

Like, unfairly good. Black Slammer’s tee clinging to all the muscles that did very questionable things to me a few nights ago. He’s shaking a cocktail. Focused. Intense. Completely unaware that he’s the star of a whole damn romcom unfolding in my chest.

Lynsie nudges me hard enough to send me bumping into a barstool. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring,” I mutter, climbing onto the stool and clutching the edge like it’ll save me from drowning in my feelings.

“You’re picturing him naked.”

“Am not.”

“You already saw him naked.”

“That’s not the point!”

Brogan glances up just then, and his whole face lights up. It’s subtle—like a sunrise. Slow and soft and entirely dangerous.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. When you’re not on the clock, you shouldn’t be here.”

Lynsie slips onto the stool next to me. “We were committing light vandalism but got cold.”

He blinks. “Come again?”

I elbow her. “Ignore her. We were just walking.”

“Uh huh,” he says, lips twitching. “What can I get you?”

“A beer,” I say quickly.

“A coffee with Baileys. Mostly Baileys,” Lynsie adds.

Brogan quirks a brow. “Rough walk?”

“Snowbanks and regrets,” I mutter.

He chuckles and turns to grab our drinks, and I’m left trying to get my pulse under control.

Lynsie leans close. “He looks at you like he remembers everything.”

I steal a glance at his back. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”

Our drinks land in front of us, and Brogan leans on the bar like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“You singing tonight?” he asks.

“What?” I blink.

“Karaoke,” he says, nodding toward the setup in the corner. “Figured you and Lyns might be feeling brave.”

Lynsie downs half her spiked coffee. “If you’re singing, I’m backup dancing.”

“I’m not singing,” I protest.

Brogan smirks. “You sure? I hear your version of ‘Jolene’ is legendary.”

My face burns. “Who told you that?”

“Mom. And Virgil. And Bennett. Basically the whole town.”

Lynsie claps. “Then it’s settled. One song. For the man who just made us the best drinks in Sorrowville.”

Brogan tips an imaginary hat. “I live to serve.”

I shoot him a look, but the smile tugging at my lips betrays me. Damn it. I should be playing it cool.

Instead, I’m about to sing a tragic song in the bar he’s working at, while the memory of his mouth is still imprinted on my skin like a brand.

What could possibly go wrong?

In all honesty, I have no business being near a microphone.

None.

And yet, here I am, clutching it like it holds the answers to all my life’s questionable decisions, including the one where I let Brogan Foster unzip me out of my dress and blow my entire emotional equilibrium to bits.

Lynsie is already shimmying beside me. Gisele’s in the corner with her phone up. And Brogan? He’s behind the bar, elbow on the counter, chin resting on his fist like he’s about to watch me unravel in real time.

This is such a bad idea.

“Okay,” I say into the mic, my voice crackling through the old speakers. “If this goes south, I blame peer pressure.”

“Woo!” Lynsie shouts, raising her mug.

“No! No! Watch and learn, rookie!” Shep leaps up from his chair, nearly knocking over his beer, and throws his arm in the air. “Woooooo! That’s cute, Lyns, but you gotta put your back into it!”

The track kicks on.

Dolly Parton’s Jolene .

A damn classic. And probably not the wisest choice when I’m one mild inconvenience away from falling in love with a man who still might see me as a glorified little sister.

I start singing. And I may or may not be looking at Lucinda whose girls are about a half inch away from spilling out of her bra.

The first note wobbles. My hands shake. But then—I see him.

Brogan.

And he’s watching me like I’m the only person in the bar. Like he remembers everything about that night. Like he’s still tasting me in the back of his throat and wondering if kissing me again will undo him.

I pour it all into the song.

Every unsaid word.

Every late night I spent doodling his name on a bar coaster.

Every look he never saw and every day I spent wishing he’d wake up and realize I was right here. Always.

By the second verse, I’m in it. No holding back. No playing it safe.

No puck bunny is gonna take my man.

Lynsie spins beside me, nearly knocking into a table and sending half of Gage’s beer flying. He doesn’t care. Nobody cares. All eyes are on us, and Brogan hasn’t blinked once.

When the song ends, there’s applause. A few cheers. One very loud “Damn, girl!” from the back.

But I don’t care.

Because Brogan’s not clapping.

He’s just… staring.

Like something cracked open inside him.

I hand the mic back to Gage, who’s running the karaoke machine tonight, and hop down, my knees a little wobbly. Lynsie wraps me in a sideways hug and practically drags me to our seats at the bar.

“You leveled him,” she whispers in my ear.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s still staring.

“Good,” I say, breath catching.

Because he leveled me first.

Once I’m back on my stool, I slam back the rest of my beer like it’s something stronger. It’s not. Maybe I need a shot instead, because if I don’t numb myself somehow, I’m going to launch myself over the bar and kiss Brogan in front of half the team, three regulars, and Virgil’s dog.

Lynsie fans herself dramatically. “Well, that was a moment. I’m sweating.”

“You didn’t do anything but spin and knock over beer,” I mutter, cheeks still blazing.

“You’re welcome for the atmosphere,” she deadpans.

I glance down the bar again. Brogan’s not there—he’s vanished from behind the counter, leaving my nerves jangling.

My heart stutters. One second he’s watching me like I’m the answer to every prayer he never knew he had and the next? Poof. Gone. Houdini’d his way out of my life again.

For a second, panic flickers through me. Maybe I pushed too far. Maybe I showed too much. Maybe I ruined it.

“Bathroom?” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“Yep,” Lynsie says, smug. “Go check the mirror. You look like sin and secrets.”

I ignore her and head toward the hallway, heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to beat out a warning. I pass the jukebox, dodge a couple doing a very aggressive two-step, and nearly run into Virgil who’s crouched down cleaning up a spilled drink with exactly one paper towel.

“Living the dream,” he mutters.

“Aren’t we all,” I reply.

Then I see him.

Brogan.

Not in the bathroom. Not outside.

But by the back exit. Leaning against the wall like he needs it to hold him up. Head down. One hand in his pocket. The other gripping the back of his neck like he’s trying to work something out of his spine—or his soul.

He looks up.

And boom.

There it is again. That look. Like I’ve wrecked him in some deep, irreversible way. I hesitate at the corner, watching him—head down, knuckles white on the back of his neck—wondering if I should just turn around. But I can’t. I want him, even if it’s reckless, even if it’s raw.

“Hey,” I say, soft. Cautious.

“Hey,” he echoes, voice gravelly. “You, uh…you meant that? The song? The claim .”

I shrug. “I meant every word I sang.”

A beat.

Two.

“Was it about me?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

I blink. He knows. He finally freaking knows.

I nod.

His jaw flexes. His eyes flicker down my body like he’s trying to memorize the version of me I finally let him see.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he says. “But I know I don’t want it to be over.”

“Me neither.”

He steps forward. Stops just short of touching me.

“Then don’t walk away, JoJo.”

I smile. Just a little.

“Don’t give me a reason to.”

And just like that, we’re right back on the edge.

One wrong move and we fall.

One right one?

And we fly.

Our eyes lock, and Brogan reaches for me, fingers tangling in my shirt and pulling me with him, not toward the exit but sideways—right into the dim little supply closet off the hallway, slamming the door with his boot. I barely have time to yelp before his mouth is on mine, hungry and wild and all the things we’ve both been holding back for way too long.

“Brogan—” I gasp, but he’s already got his hands under my shirt, fumbling at my waistband, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re gonna get us caught. What if your Mom walks in here.”

“Worth it,” he mutters, kissing a path down my throat. “I can’t wait, JoJo. Not after that. Not after you sang to me like that.”

My back hits the shelves, cold bottles and cleaning rags pressing into my spine, and in this desperate moment, nothing else matters. Not the team, not the noise, not the risk—just his hands, desperate, worshipping, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.

He slides my jeans down just enough, his mouth finding mine again, one hand slipping between my thighs, fingers quick and practiced, making me arch and bite back a moan. His other hand unzips his zipper, his own need rough and urgent. Somewhere in the mess, he pauses just long enough to fish a condom out of his wallet, tearing the foil with shaking hands.

I almost laugh—can’t help it. “You really keep one in there?”

He grins against my neck, breathless. “Only for emergencies. And, JoJo? This is a five-alarm situation. Need to be inside you.”

He rolls it on, awkward and fast, our laughter muffled by the way our mouths collide again—fast, frantic, half-mad with want. It’s messy and perfect and so impossibly us.

Before I can catch my breath, he’s got my back pressed against the shelves, jeans shoved down to my knees, one of my legs hooked over his wrist. The angle’s filthy, perfect, my shirt bunched around my waist and his eyes wild and hungry.

“Jesus, JoJo… you’re so—fuck, how did I live without this pretty little pussy?” His mouth drags along my jaw, and then he’s lining himself up, the tip of his cock nudging at my entrance.

My whole body is aching for him, desperate and wide open, every nerve ending lit up with anticipation. “Brogan,” I whisper, half pleading, half promise. “Please. I need you inside me—right now. I can’t wait anymore. I don’t want to.”

He stutters out a broken sound, voice wrecked and low. “You—sure? We—shit—gotta be quick, but—God, I need you. Been thinking about this—all day—all damn week.”

“Fuck me,” I whisper, bracing myself, digging my fingers into his shoulders. “Just… now, Brogan.”

He pushes in, slow at first—like even now, even here, he doesn’t want to hurt me. The stretch is fast, perfect, my gasp swallowed up by his mouth as he sinks all the way in, hips jerking like he can’t hold back.

“Shit—JoJo—so tight, so wet for me. Fuck, you feel… you feel like… like—like mine.”

He barely gives me time to adjust, one hand braced behind my head, the other sliding between us to find my clit. He circles it, thumb pressing down, clumsy but determined, making my whole body arch and quake against the cold metal shelf.

I don’t want more time anyway because I want him, deep and filthy and raw. The second he bottoms out, I swear I almost come right then—he’s so thick, so hard, I can feel every inch, and the stretch is delicious, perfect, everything. I can barely breathe, can barely think. It’s messy and hot and desperate, my pussy sucking him in like it’s starving. I dig my nails into his shoulder, grinding up to meet him, my mouth pressed against his ear as I let the filth spill out.

“Fuck, Brogan—your cock feels so fucking good. Fill me up. Don’t stop. God, I can feel everything.”

“Wanna—wanna make you come first, babe. Need to—need to feel you… fuck—just like that. That’s it. God, that’s it—”

His words dissolve into half-formed curses and praise, hips snapping, breath coming hard and desperate. Every time he rubs my clit, I feel the coil inside me wind tighter, and his mouth keeps stammering out all the things he can’t say when the lights are on.

“You—shit—you’re so good, so perfect, babe—never—never gonna get enough—”

I break first, coming hard around him, biting my own fist to muffle the sound as my whole body shudders. Brogan loses it right after, muffling his groan against my neck as he pulses inside me, holding on like he’s never letting go.

For a moment, we just breathe—hot, frantic, a mess of tangled limbs and barely-contained laughter.

He sets my leg down gently, brushing my hair from my face with a shaking hand. “You—uh—okay?”

I grin, still breathless. “I’m so much better than okay.”

Both of us are shuddering, breathless, the supply closet still spinning as we tug ourselves back together, hands lingering, lips swollen, hearts pounding out the same wild beat.

Brogan ties off the condom, glances around, and discreetly tucks it into a paper towel to toss in the nearest trash on his way out. “Don’t you dare tell my mom what we just did.”

I breathe out a laugh, smoothing my hair and straightening my coat. “Like I would ever do that.”

He kisses me one last time, soft and slow. “You’re worth everything, JoJo.”

And with that, we slip back into the noise and lights, secrets still clinging to our skin, both of us a little wrecked and a lot more alive.