Page 10 of Surrender
There she was—Southern charm personified—laughing with a pair of older tourists who had clearly fallen a little in love with her over lunch. She leaned just slightly on the bar, smiling wide, her accent syrupy-smooth as she promised to save them extra brown bread if they came back tomorrow.
He paused just inside the doorway, watching. The way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. The way one of the old men patted his chest like he needed CPR after she winked at him as she crossed the floor to a table.
Keefe grinned.
Southern Charm Ginny had struck again.
Keefe poured himself a half pint of Harp—just enough to take the edge off the long shift—and perched at the back of the bar where he had a perfect view of the dining room.
He didn’t mean to keep watching her, but there was something about the way Ginny moved through the space, chatting easily with customers, that kept his attention. She was sunshine wrapped in sass.
Just then, Ginny dropped her receipt book and bumped heads with a male customer as they both bent to retrieve it. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t the most graceful woman alive, but who ever said angels had to float across the floor?
The next table brought out an entirely new side of her, though—and nearly made him spit his beer all over the floor.
“You just remember now,” Ginny said, deadly serious as she balanced dirty dishes on her tray, “don’t look the sheep in the eye.”
The tourists—two American women dressed head to toe in waterproof clothing, and a man in socks and sandals—froze.
“Why?” the man asked, wide-eyed.
Ginny didn’t flinch. “Because they’ll drop dead where they stand,” she snapped her fingers, “and it’s illegal. They’ll send you to jail for a whole year. But that’s only if the farmer doesn’t shoot you first.”
Keefe choked on his sip of beer and had to turn around, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
Ginny continued as if delivering an official safety lecture. “So, unless y’all can outrun a bullet,” she looked down at the man’s socks and sandals, “well, honey, that’s about as likely as a squirrel at a greyhound race. I’d steer clear. The police take forever to get out here anyway—narrow roads and all, you know. Honestly, I wouldn’t risk it.”
She gave them a sweet smile and walked away as if she hadn’t just terrified three grown adults.
Keefe was still laughing when she ducked behind the bar, setting her tray down. “That was... awesome.”
Ginny grinned. “I confess, I heard your sister say it once. I wasn’t even sure I’d remembered it right.”
“You remembered it perfectly.” He shook his head. “She’s taught you too well.”
“Well,” Ginny said, dusting her hands and glancing over at him, “I won’t let her influence me too much. Wouldn’t want to go ruining this sweet nature of mine.”
“God forbid.”
They shared a quiet smile, the kind that lingered. The bar felt unusually calm for a change—no clatter of glasses, no loud music, no Sophie yelling from the kitchen. Just the two of them in the golden hush of late afternoon.
“Anyway,” Keefe said, clearing his throat, “since you’ve been handling everything so well while Sophie’s been off honeymooning… I baked you a thank-you pie.”
Ginny’s eyes lit up. “You baked me a pie?”
“Cherry.”
“Keefe O’Brian,” she gasped with mock shock, “are you buttering me up?”
He shrugged. “I could be, but you earned it.”
She walked around the bar to reach the kitchen, probably to sneak a peek at the pie cooling on the counter, but her heel caught on the mat by the register, and in one swift, cartoon-like motion, she tripped.
Keefe dropped his beer on the bar and caught her before she went full splat, arms around her waist as she bumped into his chest. “That was graceful,” he teased.
“Sometimes I swear this place has it out for me,” she said, breathless and red-faced.
“You all right?”
