Page 7 of Naughty or Nice?

Kendall

The Uber dropsme off in the heart of downtown Morrow. The last time Nate and I were in town, we didn’t have much time to explore. We’d only had time to eat at one of the local restaurants and do some Black Friday shopping.

Tonight is different. I peer down the street lined with bars and restaurants, each one adorned by twinkling Christmas lights, and try to decide where to go first.

I end up going to a place called Brewster. The door swings open to a barroom full of people in party hats, drinks in hand, mingling to loud Christmas music. Several of them look up as I walk in, their instant confusion scribbled on their faces.

“I’m sorry, doll. This is a private party,” calls one of the women. “Invite only!”

“Oh. Um, my bad. Sorry.” I back up without looking, accidentally stepping into a man behind me and spilling his spiked eggnog on the front of his shirt. “Shoot, sorry. Here, let me help?—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, wiping at his shirt with a square napkin. “Just get out of my way.”

“No need to be an ass. It was an accident.”

Thrown by the less-than-warm reception, I roll my eyes and dart toward the exit.

The second bar isn’t a much better option—it’s closed.

I pull on the door handle to the Lion’s Den only to realize it’s locked. Then I notice the sign on the window that reads it’ll be closed for the remainder of the year.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

The third bar is open, and not by invitation only, but from the moment I enter, I’m sure it’s not the place for me either. Cigarette smoke hazes the air, and a man sits slumped at the bar counter, clutching a beer bottle like he’s on the verge of passing out. Another pair of men are in the far corner shooting pool while a couple sits in a booth sucking on cigarettes that no doubt contribute to the bar’s cloudy air.

I cough at the smoke, my lungs feeling strangled.

“Can I fix you a drink?” asks the bartender, wiping down a counter that’s sticky.

“Um, no… that’s okay. I think I have the wrong place.”

Before the bartender can ask any more questions, I’m ditching the place.

Back to square one.

I sigh, looking up and down the street. Most of the restaurants have already started closing for the night and the boutiques have too.

This was probably a bad idea. I should’ve bought some wine from the local market and drank by myself in the Airbnb. I turn to go, deciding that I’ll take an Uber and spend the rest of the night binge watching Netflix.

The golden neon glare of a sign from across the street catches my eye first. It’s a frothy pint of beer overflowing to spell out the name of the bar.

Short and simple.

The Tavern.

The lights are on and the glowing front window shows a couple patrons inside. Nothing too crowded like Brewster but nothing underwhelming and off-putting like the second bar I’d gone into.

“Might as well check it out,” I mumble.

Crossing the street to the other side, I tug my coat tighter about myself and push open the swinging door. It flaps open to the scene I’d anticipated from watching across the street—a warm, cozy, fire-lit bar with a couple customers and a casual vibe.

Finally.

A decent bar.

The interior resembles a cabin with wood-paneled walls and log-style furnishings. A giant Christmas tree stands tall by the window and there’s an authentic bearskin rug lying flush on the ground in the center of the barroom. I tug off my gloves and approach the bar counter, eyeing the various taps available.

Andthe impressive variety of liquor readily available along the back wall.

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