Page 14 of Rushing Into Love

Bree was even cuter today. She’d been a little shy, but a lot of people were like that on the table. Sometimes it was awkward, lying there getting worked on. Plus, she was in pain; that knee was pretty swollen.

I logged back into the computer system and typed inBree Hart. Her record popped up and I clicked on her file. Listed were her name, address (Los Angeles, CA), and phone number. I jotted her number down on a sticky note and quickly tapped out of the system, shoving the paper into my pocket.

The rest of the day flew by. I had four more clients, then had to race out of there to pick Charlie up from school. Between homework, dinner, and bath time, I didn’t get a chance to use that number until eight PM.

“Hello?” Bree answered, cautious.

“Hey, Bree, it’s Ryder. Ryder McCauliffe,” I explained, as if she knew multiple Ryders.

“Oh, hey,” she replied warmly. “How are you?”

“Good, I’m good. How’s your knee?”

“Fine. Better,” she quickly added, probably to make me feel good.

Long pause. I was definitely out of practice here. I hadn’t formally dated anyone since Shayna, although plenty of women had offered.

“Uh, listen, I’m not sure if you’re busy tomorrow night, but I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink at The Rowdy Tractor?”

There was a silent beat and my heart hammered harder than I’d like to admit. Then she answered breezily, “Yeah, sure, why not? I mean, that would be great. What time?”

“How about seven?”

“Yes, perfect. Seven pm at The Rowdy Tractor,” she confirmed. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay, sounds good. The Rowdy is right past the fire station, you can’t miss it.”

“Great.”

“Okay, then, see you tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye.”

She clicked off and I blew out a shaky breath, sitting down hard on the porch steps. I didn’t really know what I was doing, asking an LA girl out for drinks, but I figured I had to start somewhere. Maybe something short-term was just what I needed, kind of like a warm-up drill.

* * *

The Rowdy Tractorwas bumping on Friday nights, seeing as it was the only true drinking establishment in all of Peachtree Grove. There was an Applebee’s in town, but that was for the families. The Rowdy was for the singles, the girls’ night out, the boys’ nights, and most of all, for the firefighters who worked next door. At any given moment, at least one firefighter was on the premises, due mainly to its proximity, but also to the nickel drafts available 7-9 PM every night of the week.

Big Ray, the owner, felt fortunate knowing that his investment would never, ever burn down to the ground. He treated members of the fire department very well—better than his own family, in fact—and in return, earned both their business and their loyalty. Plus, he always passed the Fire Inspection, despite some glaring violations. It was a real symbiotic relationship.

I walked into the dark bar a little after 6:45, pausing in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. I spotted Quinn already sitting at the long metal counter, watching the high school ball game on the oversized TV, drinking a beer. Making my way over to him, I tried to ignore the stickiness of the floors. The Rowdy was not the most upscale of establishments, but pickings were slim.

“Brother,” I said, slapping him on the back as I took my place on a pleather barstool next to him. “I’ll have what he’s having.” I motioned to Quinn.

Macy, the woman behind the bar, nodded in acknowledgment. She popped the top, slid it across the bar to me.

“Hey, Ryder, how’s it going?” She smiled cheekily at me, leaning low on the counter, giving me a nice shot of her breasts. I forced my gaze upward, deliberately making eye contact.

“Great, Macy. Just put it on his tab.” I winked at her and she laughed, jotting it down on a notepad. Another patron called out to her and she hustled down to the other end of the bar.

“So, good week?” Quinn asked, glancing sideways at me before flicking his attention back to the game.

“Yeah, it was pretty good.” I took a swig of my beer, then propped my elbows on the bar. “Bree, that girl I told you about came into the clinic.” I dropped this casually, eyes glued on the TV, mimicking my brother’s posture.

“Really?” He shot me another sideways glance. Peachtree Grove High got a first down at the 30-yard line.

“Yeah. Her knee was pretty swollen. I wrapped it for her, gave her some exercises.”

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