Page 6 of Somewhere You Belong

By the time seven o’clock hits, the bar is swamped. There’s a line of customers around the building, a waitlist a mile long, and the kitchen is pumping out food as fast as the cooks can. My bartenders and servers are running a flipping marathon with a smile on their face, and I am filling in wherever I’m needed.

“How’s it going, gentlemen?” I set three beers on the round table in the corner, where Harold, Baron, and Thompson are seated in their usual spot as the hostess fills the empty booth beside them that I just cleaned. These three men have probably lived in Carrington Cove as long as the town has been established, except for the time they spent serving as Marines, that is.

“Be careful who you’re calling gentlemen, Dallas. I’m about to kick their asses in darts, and that means things are about to get ugly.” Baron tips his glass in my direction before taking a sip of his beer.

“This one.” Harold juts his thumb over at Baron. “Always counting his chickens before they hatch. Everyone knows I’m the reigning champ.”

“Ha! Let me get a few more beers in you and then we’ll see who’s winning,” Thompson interjects, partaking in their usual shit talking before they take control of the dart board in the corner of the bar area.

Even before I took over ownership of the place, these three have spent every Friday night at Catch & Release challenging each other in darts. And since I don’t want to start a fight, I decide to keep the fact to myself that Harold is, in fact, the one who wins the most.

“Well, the night is young boys, and anything can happen, right?” I say as I stand back, placing my hands on my hips.

“When are you gonna play with us one of these nights, Dallas?” Baron asks.

“When you three can stay out past ten.”

They all cackle as I walk away, back to managing the increasing number of people filling the room while making sure the kitchen is staying on top of the influx of orders.

Regulars fill the tables, nodding hellos as I pass by. I recognize many veterans I’ve met over the years, whom I offer a discount—a courtesy I give to anyone for their service to our country since I know personally what that sacrifice is like.

Anyone unfamiliar is assumed to be a tourist or someone from a town nearby, but the chatter and laughter ringing out sends a wave of pride through me. It's a satisfying feeling, knowing my place brings joy to others.

It’s rare to have these moments, where everything feels right and the world is still spinning as it should. So much has happened recently and throughout the years that the axis feels off-kilter more often than not,but nights like this help me feel like my world is slowly returning to normal, or as close to normal as it can get.

Just before nine o’clock, I find myself behind the bar helping fill drink orders. I’m grateful for YouTube videos to add to my non-existent bartending skills, but between Penn, Tabitha, and me, we manage to fulfill any drink order that comes our way. My brother has worked a few nights here with me ever since I bought the place, but he had prior experience tending bar while I was deployed. During the day, though, he works at the hardware store and is known as the residential handyman around our little town. He truly is a jack-of-all-trades, and I’m grateful for his help.

I flick my eyes in the direction of the door, the waiting area still packed with people, and that’s when my eyes land on a woman that certainly isn’t from around here, her tall stature and poised presence sticking out like a sore thumb.

She wears a white silk blouse and a black pencil skirt that hugs shapely curves. Her blonde hair is slicked back into a low bun that rests right at the base of her neck, and her pursed, plump lips are painted a cherry red, intoxicating and forbidden.

Any woman I’ve ever seen wearing red lipstick usually wears it for one of two reasons. One, because she’s feeling sexy and is ready for attention or a little danger—or two, she wears it as a shield, letting everyone know that she’s impenetrable and in need of no one else.

She’s the one in control.

Her eyes scour the room, assessing the crowd with a slight curl to her lips as if the establishment is beneath her. Then her gaze locks onto the last empty seat at the bar, one that was just vacated moments ago, and the click of her heels rings out as she sways her hips with each step in my direction.

I spin around, not wanting to be caught staring at the woman—by her or anyone else. That’s all I need is for Penn to see me before he starts giving me the same shit I give him.

Plus, the last thing I need right now is trouble, and that’s exactly what this woman exudes—trouble with a capital T.

I make myself busy for a few minutes, helping other customers and moving down the bar before finally standing right before the mystery woman. Sliding a cardboard coaster across the surface of the bar in front of her, I wait for her to acknowledge me before I speak. But she’s entranced in her phone.

“Dirty martini, three olives,” she says without meeting my gaze, her fingers continuing to tap the keys on her screen. Studying her, I wait a few moments to see if she’ll finally meet my eyes. But after one long-ass minute, I finally give up and speak to her instead.

“Was there apleasebehind that order?”

That catches her attention. Brown eyes like pools of melted milk chocolate swirled with caramel lift and stare back into mine. And that’s when I feel like someone just slapped me across the face with a brick.

Shit, she’s stunning up close.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, tilting her head at me, a perplexed look on her face.

Trying to fight against the way she just paralyzed me, I reply, “I heard your order, but didn’t hear a please after it.”

One of her brows arches painfully high on her forehead, but her lips curl into a grin. “Are you allowed to speak to me like that?”

“You bet your ass I am.” Resting my forearms on the bar, I lean over it slightly.

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