Page 14 of Your Place or Mine

“Still counts.”

We walked the last few steps to the door. I paused again, hand on the doorknob.

“You’ve got this,” she said, giving me a little nod of encouragement.

I pulled the door open and stepped into The Rusty Stag.

The scents hit me first—pine, fryer oil, and something faintly citrusy that I guessed was cleaner doing its best to keep up. The lights were low, casting an amber hue over everything. There were booths along the walls, all comfortably worn, and the wood-paneled walls were covered in crooked photo frames and what looked like hand-drawn signs advertising past events. The jukebox in the corner was crooning out an old country ballad, and…

“Oh my God,” Melanie whispered. “Is that atalking fish?”

I followed her gaze. Mounted on the wall above the dartboard was one of those mechanical singing bass things from those terrible infomercials. I grinned despite myself.

“I take it back,” she said. “I love it here.”

I laughed, a little tension finally leaving my shoulders as we made our way to a booth by the window. From here, I could see the whole place. Cozy. Lived in. A little cluttered. But not awful. Definitely in need of some TLC.

I could work with this.

Iwouldwork with this.

The bar wouldn’t be the thing that broke me.

Not even the man behind it.

Whoever it was.

But he didn’t know me yet.

And Reckless River hadn’t seen what I could do.

Not yet.

Chapter Five

Callum

The Rusty Stag had settled into its evening rhythm—low country playing on the jukebox, the fryer buzzing steadily in the back, and the regulars scattered in their usual spots like pieces on a worn-out checkerboard. It was a good Friday night despite my new landlady being too important to swing by and enlighten me about her plans.

The overhead lights were dim and warm, making even the scuffed-up floors and mismatched barstools look almost romantic if you squinted really hard.

That’s what I always liked about hanging out at the place after dark. It looked better and made me forget about all the areas that needed polishing.

But not the type of polishing Miss City Slicker wanted to bring to town.

I was leaning against the back wall behind the bar, arms crossed, when the door creaked open and two unfamiliar silhouettes stepped through.

One was tall and blonde, a head-turner with a swing in her step that said she was used to drawing eyes, and I instantly remembered her.

The suitcase woman.

Melanie was her name.

The other was shorter, with shoulder-length dark hair, big sunglasses perched on her head despite it being evening, and the kind of laugh that practically announced her arrival. They paused just inside the doorway, letting their eyes adjust to the dark, and then started to look around like tourists who’d accidentally wandered into a dive bar on the way to the spa.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely off the mark.

“Oh my God,” the shorter one whispered dramatically. “This isexactlywhat I pictured.”

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