Page 7 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

I snorted and rolled my eyes, tossing the phone aside.

Thirty minutes later, I was walking toward Lucky’s bar, which looked exactly like the name sounded… half dive, half neon sign, with a big wooden porch out front and two guys in flannel arguing over whose truck was blocking the other.

Inside, it was warmer than expected, though. Dimly lit, with a pool table in the back and a jukebox playing a slow, twangy cover of a song I vaguely recognized.

The crowd was mixed: young twenty-somethings, older guys in work boots, a few women laughing in a corner booth over nachos the size of a pizza box.

I made my way to the bar and slid onto a stool.

“Vodka soda,” I told the bartender, a guy in a faded denim vest. “Heavy on the vodka.”

He gave me a once-over, not unkind, only curious. “Rough day?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded like he’d heard that one before. “You from around here?”

“God, no.”

That made him laugh, and by the time the drink was in my hand, I already felt marginally less like a walking cautionary tale.

I sipped slowly, watching the room. I wasn’t here to talk. Just vibe. Observe. Blend in before disappearing entirely.

Which is probably why the universe decided to completely humiliate me.

I turned to look toward the jukebox… and slammed headfirst into a wall of plaid and muscle.

My drink tilted, time slowed, and in one horrifying, inevitable moment, I watched it spill directly down the front of a stranger’s shirt.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, reaching out instinctively. “I am so… so sorry.”

The man stepped back, blinking down at his now-soaked Henley. “Wow. That’s one way to say hi.”

“I didn’t see you. I mean, I wasn’t looking, I’m usually not this…” I stopped myself, flustered and wide-eyed. “Let me buy you a drink.”

He looked at me properly now. Dark hair, sharp jaw, a little scruff, and eyes that looked like they’d seen some shit and had made peace with it.

Handsome, but in a way that didn’t feel curated or filtered. He was real. And currently wet.

His mouth twitched. “You offering out of guilt or strategy?”

I raised a brow, recovering a little. “Can’t it be both?”

He laughed, low and surprised. “Fair enough.”

The bartender was already handing me a towel, muttering something about tourists and cheap vodka. I dabbed awkwardly at his chest, which was now sticking to him in a way I tried very hard not to notice.

“I’m Riley,” I said, handing him the towel.

“Asher,” he said, wringing it out. “You’re not from here.”

“That obvious?”

“You smell like Hollywood and panic.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “Well, at least I’m consistent.”

He leaned against the bar, accepting the drink I ordered for him. “So what brings you to Medford, Riley from Hollywood?”

---