Page 17 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

I could call Suzie and Emma, see if either of them wanted to get a drink at Goat’s Tavern. But they both had busy lives of their own, and Suzie had a newborn. Anyway, I wasn’t in the mood for a girls’ night. I was in the mood for…I didn’t know, exactly. I felt restless. Unsettled.

Just because someone built a box doesn’t mean you have to get in it.

I heard the words in my head as clearly as if Max were speaking them in my ear.

Suddenly I knew.

I wanted that. All the things I had missed out on over the past decade. I wanted to dance and flirt and kiss a man, and I absolutely did not want to cry about it.

I wanted out of the box.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I had changed into jeans that cupped my butt in a flattering way and a slinky black top that slipped off one shoulder. I had purchased it five years ago on deep discount, at Suzie’s insistence that everyone needed at least one going-out top that screamed I am hot and available. It turned out Suzie was wrong—or maybe too optimistic—because the top had hung in the back of my closet, tags still on, until tonight.

And maybe the top made me a bit overdressed for Goat’s Tavern, where most people would be wearing a flannel or a T-shirt. That was fine. It just meant my message would stand out like neon lights.

That message being that I was hot and available.

Not for a relationship, not yet. And given my humiliating experience with Max, probably not sex either. I had only been with two men, ever. My first time, with George, we had been dating for a solid year. That had ended with an accidental pregnancy. The second man, I had known a solid hour, and sex had ended in tears.

Something between those two extremes would be a nice change of pace. A kiss. Maybe a date. Dancing. It had been a long time since I had tried to look nice for someone and slow danced in his arms.

Baby steps.

Goat’s Tavern was packed when I arrived. Eschewing my instincts to take refuge in a booth, I claimed a seat at the bar. No point in wasting this top sitting where it wouldn’t be seen.

“Hey, Kate.” Luke wiped the counter in front of me with a damp dishcloth and set down a glass of ice water. “A booth should be ready in about five minutes. Suzie and Emma joining you?”

I shook my head. “Just me. Jessica is at a sleepover,” I added, lest anyone question my mothering skills.

Luke grinned. “Glad you’re here. There’s a drink I want to try, and you’re the perfect guinea pig.”

I perked up. Luke loved making fancy cocktails and experimenting with flavors, but unfortunately for him, Goat’s clientele was more of a shots and beer crowd. I, however, adored anything with a garnish. I sipped my water and watched him work, which was always a pleasure as Luke looked like he could be a model for L.L. Bean.

Vodka, a squeeze of lime, apple cider, freshly grated ginger, and a small scoop of apple butter—my eyebrows went up at that one—all went into the shaker, followed by ice. After a good shake that made his nicely developed biceps bulge, which I enjoyed watching immensely, he strained it into a copper mug, topped it with ginger beer, and garnished it with a thin slice of apple and a cinnamon stick.

“I call it an apple pie mule,” Luke said as I took my first taste. “What do you think?”I was delighted. “It’s like autumn in my mouth. It makes me want to go on a hayride or frolic in a pumpkin patch.”

Luke rested his forearms on the counter and leaned in. “Smells good, too. Or maybe that’s just you.”

“Hazards of working in a candy store all day,” I said, laughing. Luke would flirt with anyone with a pulse. He had used that exact line on Mrs. Gaither two weeks ago, and Mrs. Gaither wasn’t a day younger than eighty-five.

“Can I get an IPA?” a voice called from down the bar.

Luke pushed away from the counter. “Duty calls. Enjoy the drink, Kate.”“Thank you.”

I sipped my drink, letting the cold, crisp cocktail take the edge off my nerves, and peered around the room, taking stock. Nearly every face was familiar, but here and there were small clusters of out-of-towners. Tourists, probably.

As mayor, Emma had been working doggedly to get tourist money into Hart’s Ridge. Her most recent endeavor was getting the town mentioned in a magazine as a great fall road trip. From the looks of things, her efforts were working.

I shifted my weight on the barstool and settled myself more comfortably, then took another slow perusal of the room. At least some of the tourists looked like they came in romantic pairs, so that wouldn’t do at all. Dating was so much harder out of high school. How was I supposed to know who was single? And how was I supposed to approach them? Or was I supposed to stay where I was and wait for someone to come to me?

Out of the side of my eye, I saw Luke throw his head back in a deep laugh. He was flirting with an unfamiliar blonde at the end of the bar. I eyed him speculatively over the rim of my copper mug.

Maybe I was going about this all wrong. Why was I looking for a stranger when Mr. Hot Lumberjack, renowned flirt of Hart’s Ridge, was literally right there? If anyone would be available for a no-strings-attached make-out session, it would be Luke.

I had known Luke for what felt like forever. He had graduated a couple years after me, along with Emma and Suzie, and the three of them plus Eli were a tight-knit group—or they had been, until Eli had arrested Emma’s dad for cooking meth. It was only recently, when Eli and Emma got back together, that everyone became friends again.

I tried to imagine kissing Luke, but my imagination failed me. Spectacularly. Like, my brain simply refused to put a picture to the concept. That did not bode well, but I chalked it up to the fact that, with the notable exception of Max, I hadn’t kissed a man in a decade.

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