Page 7 of Fairground

“Not much else for people to do around here when it gets cooler but drink,” I reply, shaking the martini shaker. “Good for business, though.”

She nods, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “The place has really taken off since we opened.”

“It has.” I pour the drink smoothly, slide it onto her plate, and give her a quick nod. “Here you go, darling.”

“Thanks, Cash.”

“You bet.”

As she heads back to the floor, I grab a rag and start wiping down a seat that’s just been vacated. The bar is packed tonight, shoulder-to-shoulder with locals trying to escape the chilloutside. Before I can even finish clearing out the empty glasses, someone slides into the spot. I reach for a menu and toss it onto the counter, lifting my eyes slowly—and freezing for half a second because the person who just sat down is startling.

Light, chestnut-brown hair that falls just past her shoulders. Tiny little straight nose. Big, full red lips that are set in what looks like is a permanent, critical scowl. But it’s her eyes that knock the wind out of me. Huge, round, and the kind of green that doesn’t seem real—opulent, almost, flecked with gold like late-summer grass kissed by the sun. There’s a warmth there, but also something sharp hidden behind the way she's looking around the place.

She doesn’t look familiar, which throws me off. I know everyone in this town—it’s why the locals affectionally call meMr. Whitewood. And yes, it’s a name that I’ve taken to quite fondly. I’m Whitewood Creek’s unofficial mascot. Town cheerleader, biggest fan of our residents, the guy who loves living here and will never leave.

But her? She’s new. Wicked pretty. And she's caught my eye.

Interesting.

“What can I get for you?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I lean against the bar, turning up the Cash charm.

She tilts her head slightly, considering me with a mix of curiosity and exasperation.

“Well,” she starts, her voice soft and full of exhaustion, “if you’d asked me that question earlier today, I would’ve smiled sweetly and said,you tell me what’s good, cowboy.But now, I’m worried that’s going to end up with me chucking the drink at your head because it’s nasty.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. Hard.

Something tells me this night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

Chapter 4: Cash

“Whoa now, you’re a ray of sunshine on a cloudy, autumn night.”?

She lets out a dramatic sigh, and I take a moment to really look at her. Bold red lipstick painted perfectly on her mouth, a tiny, black hoop piercing in one nostril, and a dark, fitted shirt that screams she’s trying to blend in tonight, but it does nothing to disguise the heavy swell of full breasts from my eyes.

I can’t see her lower half from where I’m standing, but I’d put good money on ripped black jeans or something equally “don’t look at me”that actually draws my attention to curvy hips and thighs. She’s pulling off some kind of ’90s emo revival—like a gothic Barbie with an edge.

She doesn’t even glance around the room. That tells me everything I need to know—she’s not hoping to bump into someone she knows. She’s hiding in plain sight. Wearing armor made of eyeliner and attitude, hoping no one sees through it. But I do. Hell, I can’t stop looking. It’s not just the way she’s dressed. It’s the way she’s sitting—like she’s waiting for a fight or someone to give her a reason to bolt.

“I’ll just take a vodka,” she says, her tone flat. “Whatever your mid-level brand is.”

I can’t help it myself. I slap my palms against the bar to steady myself and throw my head back to laugh even louder than the first time. The noise must startle her because the scowl she was wearing is immediately wiped from her face, replaced with a look of shock instead. “All our liquors are from Whitewood Creek Distillery, darling. We don’t do mid-level here.”

She rolls her eyes like I just told her we’re out of free breadsticks. Another thing we don’t serve here on account of most of our food revolving around eggs. “Okay… sure. I have no idea what that means.”

And honestly, it should mean something to her. She just walked in this bar full of strangers without realizing that we make our own liquor and demanded me to serve her mid-level after saying she might throw her drink at my head. I’m not one to be easily hurt, but that’s deserving of some sort of offense. At least a misdemeanor.

“Might need to call up Molly to have her come in here and arrest you for that.”

Her brows raise. “Who’s Molly.”

I chuckle. “You’ll find out soon enough. So,” I drawl, leaning on the bar again, my eyes never leaving hers, “just the vodka? Nothing else in it?”

“Don’t judge me.”

Alright, then.

I move to make herjust vodka,pouring a shot and then adding a little extra splash, because she seems like she needs it tonight. Pushing the glass across the counter, I watch as she eyes itsuspiciously, sniffs it like it might bite her, and then downs the whole thing in one impressive gulp.

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