He squats to a cooler fridge and mumbles, “Out back having a smoke.”
The woman nods, jingling the dozen little hoop earrings in her ear. Not your typical Paysonite. She doesn’t look familiar either, so she’s probably a transplant. “She’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thanks.” My fingers drum against the bar, and feeling eyes on me, I keep my gaze forward. Maybe this was a bad idea. Last thing I want is an impromptu high school reunion.
“Sit at my bar, you drink.” The fire of hair on her head matches her lipstick. “So?” She lifts one eyebrow and waits.
“Do you have Grey Goose?”
The guy stocking beer snorts.
She scowls and looks offended. “You know you’re in a bar, right?”
“Grey Goose and water. With a lemon, please.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to figure me out, then shakes her head and moves to make my drink.
The feeling like I’m being watched weighs heavy on my back. Another reason to hate small towns—there’s no hiding from anyone. Ever.
My shoulders curl and I consider begging Sam to hit up the diner or a coffee shop, someplace other than—
“Shyann? Is that you?”
Fuck.
I pinch my eyes closed and take a deep breath, mustering up every ounce of fake-happy I have on reserve and turn to . . .
“Adam Bleeker. Wow, it’s been a long time.” The guy is twice the width he was in high school, but even with his face being a little rounder he still looks the same. I take in his plaid button-up and baggy jeans, realizing he also still dresses the same. Not a surprise. People who stay in town end up on permanent freeze frame.
Adam grins and leans against the bar next to me. “I haven’t see you in—”
“Five years, yeah.” Everyone in this damn town seems so intent on reminding me.
“Five years . . . wow.” His brown eyes shine with friendliness. He always was a decent guy, the token nice guy who hung around a bunch of stuck-up jocks. “How the hell are you?”
The bartender comes back and drops a small glass of ice water down in front of me, then a shot glass filled with clear liquid, and a napkin topped with a mushy lemon slice. “There ya go.”
“Oh . . .” I take it all in, thinking I underestimated this woman.
“It’s—”
“Yeah, I get it.” Grey Goose and water with a lemon wedge. “Clever.”
A small curve hits her lips. “Thanks.”
She walks away and I look over to see Adam’s eyes darting between the drink and me. Oh for shit’s sake. He’s waiting.
I throw back the shot of vodka and my throat ignites.
“Never did back down from a challenge. Nice to see Shyann Jennings hasn’t changed.” He holds up his pint glass, half filled with beer, and I clink my water glass to it.
“Ooooh, sure she’s changed . . .” Sam presses into the bar on my other side, an unfriendly smirk on her face. “If she were the same Shy, she’d have run away about ten minutes ago.”
Bitch. Yeah, coming here was definitely a mistake.
“Unless . . .” A sick but gorgeous grin paints her already painted face. “Maybe there’s a little bit of fighter in you yet.”
“You gonna test a theory, Sam? If so, I’ll need a couple more of these.” I slide the empty shot glass to the bar and it gets the Strawberry Shortcake on Acid’s attention.
“Another?”
I fix my eyes on Sam, waiting.
Mountain kids grew up kicking the shit out of each other. I’m too old for it, but I’d rather maintain my dignity than cower. Besides, blowing off a little of this tension I’ve been carrying around doesn’t sound half bad.
I give myself a mental shake. I’m not a mountain kid anymore; I’m a fucking news reporter. Someday if I’m lucky I’ll become a news anchor in a top three market. That means no bar fights!
She tilts her head and holds my glare for a few silent minutes before her expression softens. “I’ll have the usual.”
The bartender pulls out a light beer in an icy longneck and pops the top. “And you?”
Light beer is hanging out booze, not fighting fuel. It’s Sam’s olive branch.
Thank God.
“I’ll have the same.”
I exhale as the tension that surrounds us, along with a few gawkers who had drawn close, dissipates.
With a tilt of the bottle, I swing the watery beer and Sam drops onto the stool next to me. “See you’ve been reacquainted with Adam.”
“He hasn’t changed much.”
She shakes her head and brings her bottle to her lips. “Not a bit. Probably still picks his boogers and eats ’em too.”
I snort, stifling a full-blown belly laugh.
“Enjoying your stay in our fair city?” She swivels toward me, her long, tan legs crossed.
No, I hate it. “Sure. What’s not to enjoy?” I tilt my beer to my lips.