Silence builds between us for seconds that stretch into a minute. I don’t know what I was thinking would happen between us now that I’m back. We’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t think either of us missed a birthday party or sleepover. I don’t have a single memory that doesn’t involve Sam to some degree. Then I left her behind without a word.
Fuck, I wouldn’t blame her if she hated me.
“Been by to see Dorothy I guess.” She must know that’s how I’d find her.
“I did.”
“So I’m sure you know about me and Dustin.”
“No big deal.” I push away a tiny twist of betrayal. What did I expect? Dustin would stay single forever, pining for the one who got away?
She nods and presses her lips to the bottle.
“Sam, taking off like I did, it wasn’t right. I should’ve kept in touch.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t do the hiring, Shy. You don’t gotta kiss my ass.”
I pick at the peeling label from my bottle, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not apologizing to get a job. I’m really sorry. After Mom died, I just . . . I don’t do feelings. At least, not well.”
She nods and turns back to her beer, almost as if she’s giving me some privacy to put my tough girl mask back on. People in this town are rugged; they don’t cry in public and they certainly don’t get mushy over beers and apologies.
Having said what I needed to say, I pull my shit together and drown the rest of my apology with a healthy swig of booze.
“Loreen!” she calls, and the bartender moves to us. “This is Shyann Jennings. She’s looking for some work.”
The redhead studies me and blinks. “Jennings . . . as in—”
“Yep.” Sam chuckles and props her elbows on the bar.
“Why the hell do you need a job? You’ve got the richest last name in Payson.”
Is there not a single person in this dirt hole who doesn’t know who my dad is? “It’s personal.”
“I can respect that.” She wipes her hands on a bar towel before shoving one corner of it into the waistband of her jeans. “You have experience in a bar?”
Not unless drinking in one counts, but how hard could it be? I contemplate saying, No, but maybe a degree in journalism and media communications might suffice, but I bite my tongue. “I’m a quick learner.”
“Don’t got much, but if you’re willing to work a few weekends here and there, we’ll see how you do, maybe add more hours as the ski season picks up.”
Ski season. It’s the one time of year where the streets of Payson look more like the streets of Beverly Hills. The dirt and pine trees become the backdrop to thousands of vacationers who line the city’s pockets with enough cash in three months to sustain the nine-month slow season.
“That’d be great. Thanks.” I’m lying. Maybe I should consider swallowing this putrid lump of pride. Taking back my job at Jennings is an easy in, good money, and it’s something I already know how to do. One night every other weekend waiting tables won’t pay me what I’d make at Jennings. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m getting a little sick of the dull twisting feeling in my gut that resembles—but certainly cannot be—guilt at choosing the local bar over the family business. What would Momma think of me turning my back on Dad? I frown at the thought of her disappointment.
Sam leans into my shoulder and whispers, “It’s a shit job, Shy.”
“Then why do you work here?”
Her expression turns sad. “I have no choice. If I did, I’d take—”
“Hot damn, look what the big city dragged in. Is that . . .?”
I drop my chin and groan at the deep baritone of my ex-boyfriend Dustin’s voice.
“Shy Jennings . . .” He pushes in next to Sam, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “I thought you were kiddin’, babe.”
She seems to shrivel a little.
“Dustin.” I nod. “It’s been a long time.”
His thick blond hair is shorter than I remember, but no less gorgeous. Tan skin, dark brown eyes, and the height and girth that epitomizes the mountain man appeal, but I remember too well how all that pretty is only for show.
“I didn’t notice.” He twists his handsome face in confusion and looks at Sam. “How long has it been?”
The bartender hands him a short cocktail glass with what looks like straight bourbon on ice.
Sam mumbles, “Don’t be a dick.”
“What up, Dustin?” A dark-haired guy who looks like a lumberjack, with his dark beard, beanie, and flannel shirt, slaps Dustin on the back. “How’d you end up with— Oh my God!” The guy’s wide eyes point at me.
Crap.
“Is that Shy Jennings?”
Another man overhears him and moves toward us.
My feet burn to run, to get the hell out of here and accept the job back at Jennings, probably what I should’ve just done in the first place.
I flash a weak wave. “Hey.”
“Dude, I haven’t seen you since . . .” His gaze flickers up to the ceiling and then his eyes snap to mine. “The graduation party at Dustin’s house.”