Page 112 of Promised Love

“You deserve it all, Keith.” Without thinking, I’ve taken the highway to Cherrywood.

Keith doesn’t comment, but I know there’s no way he missed it. I’m about to take the exit when he says, “There’s a bar before we get inside Cherrywood. It’s called Rendezvous.”

I nod and he doesn’t say anything more. That’s the best thing about Keith Adams. He doesn’t pick at your wounds like Gavin freaking King.

We walk through the heavy doors and into a large room occupied by only a few people. Keith and I march toward the bar and take seats.

“What will you boys have?” a bartender asks as she wipes the counter with a rag.

I place my order first. “Whiskey neat, please.”

“Make that two,” Keith adds.

Seconds later, she places two tumblers filled with the amber liquid before us and asks, “What the hell are two good-looking men like you doing at a bar on a Wednesday night?”

“I didn’t know there was a good day for a bar visit,” I reply wryly before taking a long gulp.

“Don’t mind him, he’s going through something,” Keith provides.

“I’m here,” I grit. I’d wished for a quiet night with a good, stiff drink to drown away Autumn’s memory, which seems to have invaded every corner of my brain. But now, with a cheerful Keith and a nosy bartender, I guess there’s no hope my wish will be granted.

“And you’re being a good friend,” the bartender says.

He nods. “Yeah, but also my new wife and teen daughter are having a girls’ night.”

“Teen daughter?” she asks. “How old are you? You don’t look more than thirty.”

I let go of a dry chuckle. “You’re good,” I say before pushing my empty glass to her, asking for a refill.

Keith slides his untouched drink toward me.

Why do I have a feeling he’s not going to take a sip at all and just carry my drunken ass home?

I look at him for another second before picking up his glass and bringing it closer to my lips.

“So, you got married recently?” The bartender places a fresh drink before Keith.

“Yup. She’s fifteen years younger than me.”

“Wow! Did you have a lot of trouble getting her to agree?”

“It was the other way around,” I explain. Don’t ask me why I feel the need to tell Keith’s story. Maybe because I was a close observer to it. “Clem was madly in love with him. He was the one who had his head stuck up his ass.”

“Why?” The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Because of her age?”

“That too, and the fact that I was still in denial about my wife’s death.” Keith shrugs. I know he doesn’t like to talk about his first wife.

“Oh, honey.” She places her hand over his. “But your wife wanted you to be happy.”

Keith’s eyes widen as he stares at our nosy bartender, or I may have chucked back my whiskey too fast and am now seeing things that aren’t there.

“And what’s his story?” She cocks her head to me. “The girl doesn’t like him?”

“I don’t think that’s the problem,” Keith comments, his hand grazing over his jaw.

“Don’t—”

But I’m immediately interrupted by him. “Lukas, I told you I’m in your lifelong debt, and I can’t let you give away something good just because you’re scared.”

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