Page 7 of Play Maker

“I’m not,” I mutter.

“You are.”

I shoot her a look and slide her a soda. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Nope. Just here to admire the slow, agonizing unraveling of a woman who insists she’s not into the brick wall in cleats over there.” She sips her soda like it’s tea, eyes twinkling. “And to tell you that the girl in the purple dress definitely just licked her lip at him like he was a chocolate fountain.”

I grit my teeth and focus on the glass in my hand. “He’s a grown man—he can flirt with whoever he wants.”

Maggie leans in, voice low and smug. “Sure. But I don’t want you dying a virgin with a dog, a shelf of mommy porn collecting dust, a wine subscription, and an unlived fantasy about someone who lives ten minutes away.”

I choke. “Jesus Christ.”

She shrugs. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I decide to play two truths and a lie but not tell her. “I don’t have time for a dog.” Sort of true. “I have a brewery, so I don’t need a wine subscription.” Also truth. “And I amnota virgin.” Big. Fat. Lie.

“Emotionally? You might as well be,” she whispers.

I whip the bar towel at her head. She ducks and keeps right on grinning, smug as hell.

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m your worst,” she sings, sliding off the stool. “Just saying … if you want me to fake a fire drill to clear the girls off him, I’ve got a smoke bomb in my purse.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Izzy—eighteen, full of sass, and high on her third Mountain Dew—slides onto the empty stool beside Mags, who plants her ass back in it.

Izzy leans her head over the bar like she’s about to deliver a prophecy. “You know the story of the Silo Virgin, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t even?—”

“Oh, Ihaveto. It’s local lore. My aunt used to run theBlue Valleypaper, and she wrote a whole piece on it for Halloween back in, like, ’06. I’ve got the PDF.”

Maggie snorts. “Please tell me this is the one about the sexless ghost.”

“Thevery one!” Izzy beams. “Okay, so, once upon a time, before Brooks Brewery was cool, there was this girl named Melba?—”

“Why is it always Melba?” I mutter, knowing I’ve heard this before.

“Because she sounds like someone who died waiting for a man who didn’t deserve her,” Izzy shoots back. “Anyway, Melba was hot. Like, weirdly hot for a milkmaid or a hay baler—or whatever they did back then. Long, dark hair, green eyes, stunning figure, tragic dating standards.” She arches a brow. “You get it?”

“She wanted love,” Maggie says, mock-dreamy.

“She wanted a guy with ajob,” Izzy corrects. “But all she got were farm boys and drunken hunters. So, she waited. And waited. Turned down every suitor in town until—gasp—she turned thirty.”

“She withered?” I deadpan.

“Worse.” Izzy’s eyes widen. “She disappeared. Into the silo. And legend says, on quiet winter nights, you can still hear her ghost whispering about her ‘strict standards’ and asking anyone in earshot if they know anyone over six feet with emotional availability and a solid retirement plan.”

Maggie grins. “She still haunts the property?”

“Oh, totally,” Izzy says. “Especially when single women live in the silos. You should be careful, Lo. Melba’s curse is real.”

“She lived in Ry’s old place, the one you two are moving into.” I arch a brow. “Your silo, not mine.”

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