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“Foreplay,” I point out, taking a long pull from my beer.
“Dating her would be like trying to baptize a cat.”
I can’t help but laugh. “She is a feisty one,” I derive, unable to hide my smile. The truth is, Hallie Rhodes is a pistol, and she loves to push Logan’s buttons for fun. Hallie was another classmate of ours and is considered a friend in our small circle. Her older brother, Gabe, is one of the town physicians, as is her best friend, Blair. Gabe and Blair are dating now and living together in the house Gabe has been remodeling.
“Feisty isn’t the right word. She’s hostile at best.”
“But only toward you, which is why I consider it foreplay. Her students and the parents love her.” Hallie is the preschool teacher in town, always with a friendly, pleasant smile on her face. Well, unless Logan is around. Then, she turns snarky and shows her fangs like a feral cat.
“Last time I saw her, she ‘accidentally’ whacked me on the back of the head with a two-by-four.”
A bark of laughter erupts from my gut.
“Stop laughing. That shit hurt,” he mutters, rubbing the spot on the back of his head as if the mere thought of it brought back the pain. “Let’s not talk about Hallie.”
“Wait, why was she buying a two-by-four?” I find myself asking. Hallie isn’t exactly a wood smith, and if she needs something done at her condo, she’d ask for help.
“For pleasure? To use as a torture device in her house of pain?”
Now he has me rolling, my stomach hurting from laughter.
“You’re not my friend anymore,” he murmurs, finishing off his beer and setting the empty on the deck.
“You love me.” Clearing my throat, I decide to switch back to the one subject he hates talking about. “Any luck yet on buying Shay out?”
He just turns and stares at me.
His ex-wife refuses to sell, and no one can figure out why. It’s not like she has anything positive to give to the business. Her biggest contribution was to set up social media accounts and maintain them during business hours. Oh, and let’s not forget the implementation of color-coded polo shirts specific for the day of the week. That one actually makes me laugh. Anyone who knows Logan understands he doesn’t give a shit about style and refuses to follow any of her color-coded bullshit. He wears a company T-shirt every day in whatever color he chooses, telling their employees to do the same.
Shay Johnson loves to stick it to Logan and happily spends her days doing just that.
“She wants to talk about the holiday party,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.
My eyebrows draw skyward. “In August?”
“Apparently, you have to book the good places in advance,” he replies with a disgusted snort. “What good places? We always have the company party at Shiner’s Sports Bar.”
“Everyone loves Shiner’s,” I concede, knowing it’s one of the hot spots in town. It’s a big sports bar with tons of televisions on the wall, good food and spirits, and games. We’re talking some arcade games, a few holes of mini golf, Skee-Ball, billiards, and more.
“Who doesn’t love Skee-Ball?” Logan asks, shaking his head in disgust. “Shay thinks we need to rent out the steak house. Not that I’m against supporting Kameron, but my employees are more of the sports bar type of guys.” Kameron was a few years older than us in school and returned to his hometown after culinary school to open a touch of fine dining in our small community. It’s an amazing place with a variety of gourmet dinner options, but it’s not the place you go when you’re looking for cheap or quick.
I’m more of a Shiner’s guy myself, and I know Logan is too.
“I like darts,” I state unnecessarily.
He silently stews for a few minutes, and I just let him be. Sometimes, it’s best just to be quiet while he works through his thoughts. Finally, after a few quiet moments, he asks, “Think Green Bay will go all the way this year?”
I snort and gaze up at the stars. He knows I hate the Packers, despite being from Wisconsin. The Colts are where it’s at, where my loyalties lie. Yeah, I love the game of football, so I’ll watch any team play, but if I have the choice of rooting for the Packers or their opponent, it’s not the green and yellow I choose.
We spend the next thirty minutes talking football and baseball before it’s time for my friend to slip back over to his own house. He lives on the block behind me, three doors down, so it’s convenient for us to walk back and forth when the mood strikes.
“You working tomorrow?” he asks, tossing his empty beer bottle in the outside recycling receptacle.
“No, I’m off. Thought about wetting a line after team lifting and walk-through.”
He nods. “Let me know if you want some company. The hardware store closes at noon, so I’m free after that.”
“Will do,” I reply, collecting my own empty bottle and throwing mine in the recycling too.
