“Ahh, responsible.” I lift my glass and frown when I realize it’s empty. “Should I get another pitcher? I should.”
Before any of them can answer me, I’m out of the booth and weaving my way over to the bar. I’m not a big drinker, never have been, but tonight feels different. It’s festive and celebratory, and safe.
“Barkeep,” I call out to the lone bartender at the far end. To emphasize that I mean business, I slap my hand on the counter twice like I’ve seen done in old movies and lift my empty pitcher.
The bartender gives me a nod and holds up a finger, silently acknowledging me.
While I wait, I slowly spin the pitcher in lazy circles by its handle. Some country song plays on the speakers and I feel bad for the singer losing his truck, his dog, and his woman in the same weekend.
“Poor fella. At least he has his beer and whiskey, unlike some of us,” I mutter to myself as the bartender takes his sweet time. He’s chatting up waitresses and customers like he’s the host of a late-night show.
“How you doin’ today, Bubba? Catch any catfish lately?” I giggle at my terrible Southern accent. “Joanie Mae, did I hear you brought your baby in here last week? Startin’ ’em young.”
“Her name is Patty, and that other guy is named Mintor, but most folks call him Minty. Can’t say I’ve ever heard him referred to as Bubba.” The voice is familiar and a wall of shoulder blocks my view of the rest of the bar as a man slides between me and the random man in a trucker hat.
Sweet peas in a pod, it’s the god of vegetables.
I lift my eyes and tilt my head back to confirm his identity. He’s close, a little too close for polite company. And if he doesn’t smell like sweet earth and fresh grass, like a recently mowed field of alfalfa—well, bless my heart.
I’m clearly taking this fake Southern thing too far.
He dips his head and meets my eyes. “Daphne, wasn’t it? We met at the farmers’ market not too long ago, didn’t we?”
I still haven’t spoken, afraid I’ll drawl out a y’all or fiddle-sticks. Instead, I nod in confirmation.
His eyes narrow. “Cat got your tongue?”
Inhaling and reminding my brain we’re from Idaho, I exhale through my nose, long and slow. “Nope.”
Only one syllable. Nailed it.
“Sorry. I thought you looked familiar.” He shifts, allowing air to swirl in the widened gap between us.
“No, I meant the part about a cat stealing my tongue.” I pause, thinking about that visual. “Why is that even a saying? That’s horrible.”
His laugh is rich and deep. My stomach warms, and I swear my pulse quickens. He should laugh all the time, although, that might be weird and make it impossible to have a conversation with him, or go to a concert, or watch a documentary about the plight of polar bears in a melting Arctic.
Okay, he shouldn’t laugh all the time. Only several times a day.
“You’re right. It’s something my granny would say. I’ll have to ask her about it.”
The bartender finally makes an appearance, but I want to ignore him until he goes away again. Staring at us, he waits for one of us to order.
My lips are parted and forming the word “refill” when he says, “Hey, Odin. Haven’t seen you in ages. What can I get you tonight? Coke? Or you want a beer? Something stronger?”
Seriously? I’ve been standing here, waiting for how long? Does a woman have to flash her cleavage to get a drink? Not that that’s an option in this crew neck T-shirt. I don’t want to stretch the collar.
“Um … ” I clear my throat as I lift the empty pitcher.
“Sorry. You were here first,” Odin apologizes. “Joe, looks like we need a refill.”
Joe the bartender’s brown eyes meet mine. “What are you drinking?”
“Beer.” Duh. He isn’t very good at his job.
The two men chuckle.
“What kind?” Joe asks.
“Whatever’s on tap.” Smooth.
He points to the row of pulls. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
I feel Odin’s stare on my profile. “I have no idea.”
“You with Griffin?” Joe points behind me.
“I am!” Relief makes my voice sound overly enthusiastic.
“Gotcha.” He takes the pitcher and begins filling it.
“You and Griffin Lee?” A small line appears between Odin’s brows.
“Are coworkers,” I explain.
“Oh, right. You’re a ranger.” Is that relief in his voice?
“Yes, sir. Here to serve and protect.” I tip my imaginary hat.
He returns the gesture with a smile. “Good to know.”
“How’s Gracie doing?” Joe sets the large jug o’ beer down without sloshing any. “Staying out of trouble?”
Who is Gracie? Girlfriend? Goddess of the harvest?
“As far as I know.” Odin shrugs. “Has she been hustlin’ again?”
Whoa. My eyes widen as I eavesdrop. I don’t care what Griffin says—if this place is a hustlers’ hangout, it one hundred percent falls into honky-tonk territory in my book.
“Not around here.” Joe flips a bar towel over his shoulder and levels Odin with a serious gaze. “Haven’t had any underage pool sharks since spring.”
Ahh, that kind of hustling.
My attention swings to Odin. He’s dating a teenage hustler? With a single comment he’s gone from wholesome farm boy to creeper. I totally misjudged him. Maybe he is a pig.
While I’m having an internal crisis, Joe continues like this is all normal conversation. “What is it with you Hills being teenage delinquents?”
Wait. Hills?
His younger sister is a child pool shark?
“Not all of us, and most outgrow that phase.” Odin raps his knuckles on the smooth wood of the bar. “Speaking of drinks, I’ll take a water if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Coming up,” Joe tells him with a sheepish smile. “No hard feelings. I was just yanking your chain. Haven’t seen you around here in a long time.”
I feel like I’m not supposed to be hearing all of this, but since they’re having this conversation right in front of me, it’s kind of hard not to. I suppose I could go back to my table, but for some reason I linger.
Odin’s eyes cut to me but his head still faces Joe. “Don’t spend too much time hanging around bars anymore. Not really my scene.”
For some reason, I want to explain that I’m not a regular either, but I think that’s obvious from my obvious lack of beer knowledge.
“Anything else I can get you?” Joe asks.
Odin slips his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “Was hankering for some fried chicken, called in an order. Can you check to see if it’s ready?”
“Sure thing.” After Joe hands Odin a glass of water, he steps away to serve other customers, leaving the two of us to stand here in awkward silence.
I definitely have the feeling I’ve overheard something I shouldn’t have about his family, unless Gracie and hustlin’ are code for something else.
Unable to stop myself, I ask, “Who’s Gracie?”