Page 2 of Someone to Have
“Butwhyexactly do I want to experience that glory?” I ask as I allow her to lead me forward.
“Because you go back to work tomorrow. This is your lasthurrah.” I can tell Molly is trying to sound enthusiastic, but her voice is pinched.
“Ahurrah. Since when do I need a hurrah?”
As Avah opens the giant wood door, the typical bar noise and the scent of stale beer and roasted peanuts spills out. At least it’s warm inside. “Let’s discuss it over a drink.”
I don’t like the sound of that, but despite being physically capable of it, I’m not one for standing my ground. I’m more the type to step in quicksand and be swallowed up by the whims and wishes of the people around me. I used to make a New Year’s goal to get a backbone, but it was always such a giant failure that I don’t bother anymore. This year my goal is to read more. Easy-peasy.
“Can we at least go to the back so my brother doesn’t see us?” I do my best to shrink down behind Avah’s svelte form.
Toby’s voice booms from across the bar. “Tink, over here!”
My stomach clenches and I heave a sigh familiar to tormented little sisters everywhere.
“Can we talk about why your brother calls you Tink?” Avah asks.
“Not even a little,” I answer.
“We’ll get a table while you say hi.” Molly gives me a thumbs up.
There’s something weird happening with my friends, and I wish I knew what it was.
I’m also wishing—or at least hoping—my visit with Toby, who is eight years my senior, will be short and sweet.
“What are you doing in abar,Taylor Marie?” he asks as I approach, hands on hips and scowling in a convincing imitation of our father.
“I know you know I’m twenty-six, Toby. Plenty legal. And you’ve seen me in Tony’s before.”
He makes a show of looking past my shoulder. Toby is six-three, while our older sister, Elise, is six foot one, making me the smallest of my siblings. Which isn’t saying much.
“I haven’t seen you with Avah Harris. She’s hotter now than she was in high school.”
“She’s also got a fiancé,” I inform him. “So don’t make an ass of yourself and embarrass us both.”
“Engaged isn’t married,” he says with a wink. “It’s nowhere near married.” He slaps the back of the man standing next to him. “Am I right?”
I practically swallow my tongue as the man—who has at least an inch on my brother—turns, and a pair of all-too-familiar dark chocolate eyes stare down at me.
“Anderson, this is my sister, Tink.”
“Taylor,” I correct automatically, surprised I can form those two simple syllables, or even remember my name, with the object of most of my girlish fantasies standing directly in front of me. There was Eric Anderson and there was Mr. Darcy. The Colin Firth version, of course. Classics are classics for a reason.
“You probably don’t remember her,” my brother continues like the big oaf he is, and I run a finger across my bottom lip to confirm I’m not drooling. “She was a pipsqueak when she used to come to our college games.”
Eric lifts the hand holding a beer bottle and points in my direction. “You sat in the stands reading a book.” It sounds like an accusation.
I feel a little flattered that this tall, dark-haired god of a man remembers twelve-year-old me. Eric was my brother’s roommate and captain of the hockey team at Colorado College. But he left before his senior year to turn pro and eventually moved to Germany for a spot on the Munich roster.
As all-encompassing as my teenage crush felt, I didn’t keep track of him after he left. But I know he doesn’t live in Skylark. He must be passing through. Which explains Toby’s night out—showing off for his buddy.
A couple of the other firefighters from Toby’s crew greet me, and I’m grateful for a break from the intensity of Eric’s gaze.
“I wasn’t into hockey,” I say when I finally return my attention to him.
“Sacrilegious coming from Marty Maxwell’s daughter.”
My dad is a legend in the hockey world, right up there with Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux. He retired when I was a baby, which might explain my lack of interest in the holy grail of sports. Of course, Toby used to tell people I got dropped on my head as a kid.
