Page 8 of Make Me Love You

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” he muttered to himself. He threw his truck in reverse and got the hell out of there.

The clock on the dashboard read one o’clock. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten lunch yet. He was half-tempted to turn back and get a burrito. She needed the money, he needed the food. Everyone claimed they were amazing. He had never experienced one firsthand, knowing he wasn’t a welcome customer.

He still wasn’t welcome, he reminded himself. No way in hell would Emma cook him a burrito, unless it was laced with arsenic. Anyway, it was a Monday—his day off—and that meant lunch with his friend Luke. It was their weekly tradition for the past several years, Eli eating while Luke tended bar.

He pulled up to Goat’s Tavern, a couple miles from the bustle of Main Street. It was a ramshackle-looking log cabin, but like everything Luke Buchanan created, it was built to last. Behind the tavern was the 1860s farmhouse, passed down from one Buchanan to another over several generations, where Luke lived and rented rooms to thru-hikers.

There weren’t more than two or three cars in the parking lot, but Eli knew the place would be packed. Hart’s Ridge was only ten miles off the Appalachian Trail. Word of mouth had made Goat’s Tavern a popular stop off, where hikers could get a shower, a hot meal, and a comfortable bed for the night. On a day like today, with the sky dumping buckets of water, it was a sure bet that hikers would be holed up here.

The rain was still coming down with no sign of letting up, and he got slightly soaked in the couple steps from his truck to the front door. He wiped the water from his face and looked around warily.

“Where’s Goat?” he asked. The little devil could be anywhere. Sneaking up on people was his specialty. Still, he hated thunderstorms, so he was probably hiding.

“He’s—” Luke started. The phone rang and he held up his finger to indicate it would be a minute while simultaneously picking up the receiver. “Goat’s Tavern.” There was a pause. “Yeah. Where you at?” Another pause. “Okay, hold on a minute.” He set the phone on the bar. “Hey, Ethan, we’ve got another hiker.”

“On it.” Ethan, his younger brother, picked up the phone. “What’s your mile marker?”

Luke turned back to Eli. “Goat’s in his room. Pooping on everything, probably, but what am I gonna do about it? You know he hates being outside when it’s storming. So what can I get you?”

“Burger, medium, sweet potato fries,” Eli said without hesitation. His order rarely changed.

“Coming right up.” Luke shouted the order to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass from behind the bar. “You want the Blue Moon? We still have it on tap.”

Eli shook his head. When it came to alcohol, he had a firm rule, born from a decade of watching his dad drink his life away after Eli’s mom left: sadness and alcohol didn’t mix. He could drink when he wanted to have a good time, or relax after a long, hard day. But never, ever to mask sadness. And right now, he wasn’t feeling exactly jovial. “Root beer today.”

Luke paused with his hand on the beer pull, studied him for a moment, then reversed course toward the soda fountain. “Rough morning?” he asked over his shoulder.

Eli didn’t answer right away. Luke might look like a rough-and-tumble mountain man, from his shaggy hair to his worn flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but Eli knew better. Luke Buchanan could out gossip any fourteen-year-old girl.

But he was also a good friend. And once upon a time, he had also been a good friend to Emma. If anyone could understand the horrifying predicament Eli now found himself in, it was Luke.

Eli looked right, then he looked left. He checked the mirror above the wall of liquor to see behind him. About a dozen or so people, all strangers. No one he recognized. He leaned forward.

“You know the Whittakers are moving out?” he asked.

Luke slid him the glass of root beer. “Yeah, man. Mayor Whittaker even asked me to step in for him. Asked Ethan to be deputy.”

“He asked you to be mayor?”

Luke laughed. “He asked every Hart’s Ridge resident over the age of twenty-five, near as I can tell. Don’t think he’s having much luck finding someone.”

“Oh, he found someone all right.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s the lucky sucker? It can’t be you. You’re a cop.”

“Emma Andrews.”

“Huh.” He mulled that over. “Interesting choice.”

“No, the interesting part is he made me deputy mayor.”

Luke’s eyebrows shot up and he let out a low whistle. “No shit. Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“But you two have history. Bad history.”

Eli raised his glass. “I’m aware.”

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