Page 67 of Still The One

His brows furrow as he shakes his head, looking confused. ‘It was the day the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met came into my life. Yeah – that still stands as a good day.’

I continue driving, passing when need be, taking whatever exits I know will get us to this club clear across the city.

‘Is it still a good day for you?’ he asks after a few long minutes of silence.

I look his way, then back at the road. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s still a good day for me too.’

He sits back a little further into his seat, relaxing with my words. I don’t hate him. Not even a little bit, it turns out. I didn’t expect to be contemplating some of these things, that’s for sure.

As the evening sky darkens into a deep shade of blue, I can’t help but notice Foster’s intense gaze fixed on me from the passenger seat. His eyes are like two pools of liquid silver, reflecting the city lights as we drive toward the club. When I pull in, the hum of the engine and the distant sounds of music blend into a symphony that seems to match the rhythm of my racing heart, and I catch Foster’s eyes on me.

‘Why are you staring?’ I ask.

‘Sorry, not sorry,’ he laughs. ‘You’re just the prettiest thing in Portland right now, yet the outfit intrigues me.’

Pulling into a spot, I park my car, reach into the back seat, and grab my new straw boho cowboy hat to complete my ‘look’. I pull down the visor to make sure I don’t seem utterly ridiculous before grabbing the second one, which I bought just this morning – along with mine. I pull off Foster’s ball cap and set the Western hat on his head.

‘Achy Breaky Heart?’ He reads the sign at the top of the building. The street light we’re parked near illuminates the expression on his face, highlighting the panic in his eyes. ‘This is a country bar, isn’t it?’

‘The cowboy boots and outfit make more sense now, don’t they?’ I say, exiting the car and running to his side to help him.

He’s getting much better now that we’re many weeks into his healing. Not only is he walking six to ten blocks multiple times regularly, he’s also getting up and down all on his own with just the slightest look of discomfort. He might be right, maybe professional athletes do heal quicker?

‘Western bars aren’t really my thing,’ he insists, following me toward the club’s entrance.

‘Oh, it gets better…’ I tease. ‘It’s a line-dancing country bar. Get ready for some good ol’ southern fun, y’all!’ I plaster on a smile, making Foster laugh at my ridiculous southern accent. Heclaims he’s outgrown his as he travels too much for it to stick, but I still hear it sometimes when it’s just the two of us.

I lead him toward the entrance, feeling the vibrations from the speakers fill my body the closer we get.

‘After you,’ I say, pulling open the door for him.

He stops, shaking his head and reaching for the door handle. ‘I can handle doors, Jellybean. It’s ladies first, in my world.’

‘Still a gentleman,’ I say with a smile. ‘Why thank you, sir.’ I enter the club ahead of him at his insistence.

Genevieve and I have been here before because a guy she sometimes ‘sees romantically’ – Brady – works as a bartender.

Stepping inside, I am immediately transported to the Wild West. The air is filled with a chaotic mix of country and club music, pulsing loudly through the room. The walls are lined with rough, weathered barn wood, giving off a rustic charm. Interspersed among the wood are numerous mounted animal heads, their glassy eyes staring out eerily at the patrons. Vintage photos of legendary cowboys like Jesse James and Billy the Kid cover every inch of wall space, adding to the Western theme. Along one side of the room sits a bar made of heavy wooden beams and illuminated by neon blue lights reflected in mirrored shelves – the bottles on display glisten enticingly.

As I make my way to the bar, the Western theme continues with saddle-shaped bar-stools, a fun touch that adds to the atmosphere. The dance floor beckons, its polished surface already crowded with enthusiastic dancers moving to the beat. On the stage stands a DJ instead of a live band, but it doesn’t matter as long as the music keeps playing. Across from the bar, a mechanical bull ring catches my eye and I know I have to give it a try after a few drinks. My outfit is fitting for the occasion: a short jean skirt with ruffled eyelet patterns that barely reach mid-thigh, paired with a plaid blouse tied around my waist toshow just enough skin without being too revealing. With a smile on my face, I know this will be a night to remember.

I scan the place, searching for Gen. My eyes light up as I spot her sitting at the bar, her long legs crossed elegantly in a side-saddle style. Brady stands in front of her, already giving her his bedroom eyes. He wears the same thing I always see him in, the bar’s standard bartender uniform of a flannel shirt with suspenders, Levi’s, a gun in a holster on his hip, and a handlebar mustache to complete the look.

‘Over there!’ I point and grab Foster’s hand, making our way through the crowd to reach her.

She looks me over and nods approvingly. ‘You look perfect!’ she exclaims, her gaze moving to Foster on my right – who, honestly, doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of us dressed up to match the theme. ‘And this must be the famous Foster?’ she asks. ‘You look way better than you did when we originally met.’

‘We’ve met?’ he asks, shaking her outstretched hand.

‘She works the trauma room with me,’ I tell him, speaking loudly over the music.

‘Ah,’ Foster says with a nod. ‘So, you’ve seen me at my finest then,’ he jokes.

‘You clean up nicely,’ Gen teases him before turning back to me. ‘What are we drinking?’

I stare up at the menu; every drink has a Western flare but even though I’m weighing my options, I know I’ll probably choose the same thing I always do.

Brady, whom I’ve met many times before, looks at Foster and me curiously. ‘I thought Eve didn’t date?’ he asks, his gaze on me.

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