Once I’d decided to move back to Alabama, I’d been able to transfer my UBE from Illinois and knock out the remaining requirements to move my license. I hadn’t been sure whether I’d do anything with it or not, but I had done the work, so it seemed sensible. And it had come in handy, as locals had occasionally dropped in to ask questions of a legal nature.
“Imagine that.” Her eyes crinkled with knowing humor.
The door chimed again. Tim Morrison, looking to drown his sorrows after his wife kicked him out for forgetting their anniversary. Again. The laptop screen dimmed to sleep mode. I’d finish the Hendersons’ paperwork later, probably around midnight when the bar quieted and Diego sprawled in the cornerbooth doing his own paperwork—incident reports that never quite captured the chaos of his shifts.
For now, though, Tim needed a beer and someone to listen. The balance would hold.
The door burst open with enough force to rattle the Christmas lights, and Lucy practically floated in, tugging Cord behind her. The grin splitting her face could’ve powered the entire town, and when she thrust her left hand toward me, the diamond caught every light in the place.
“Holy—” I abandoned Tim mid-pour, rounding the bar to grab her hand. The ring was perfect—not too flashy, not too simple. Pure Lucy. “When did this happen?”
“Last night.” Cord’s usual swagger had softened into something almost bashful. “Finally worked up the nerve.”
“Finally?” Lucy smacked his chest. “It’s been a year since we got together.”
“Longest year of my life, waiting for the right moment.” He pulled her against his side, pressing a kiss to her temple that made my chest warm. “I would’ve asked you two weeks in.”
Pete raised his glass from down the bar. “About time, Hollywood. Thought we’d have to stage an intervention.”
“So.” I leaned against the bar, crossing my arms with mock seriousness. “Important question. Will the reception have more whiskey or cake? Because I need to know whether to pace myself.”
Lucy laughed, the sound bright as bell chimes. “Why choose? We’re thinking equal parts both. Maybe whiskey-flavored cake.”
“Now you’re talking.” I grabbed a bottle of champagne I’d been saving—not the cheap stuff, either. “Summer wedding?”
“That’s the plan.” Lucy watched me pop the cork. “Which brings me to my next question. I need a maid of honor who can keep me sane, wrangle my mother, and possibly tackle me if I try to run away in panic.”
“Sounds like a job for someone with legal training.” I poured three glasses, sliding two across to them. “Lucky for you, I know a lawyer.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Hell yes.” We clinked glasses, and I marveled at the lightness in my chest. Six months ago, watching my best friend’s happiness while my own life crumbled would’ve stung. Now, seeing her glow while Cord looked at her like she hung the moon just felt right.
Margaret called from her corner booth where the dominoes ladies had assembled. “Save some of that champagne for us! We need to toast the happy couple properly.”
I grabbed more glasses, catching Lucy’s eye. “Fair warning—if Margaret’s crew gets involved in wedding planning, you’re getting a conga line whether you want one or not.”
“Bring it on.” Lucy’s smile somehow got even brighter. “I want everyone there. The whole town.”
The whole town. Our town. The thought settled warm and solid in my chest.
The door swung open again twenty minutes later, bringing a rush of cold air and Diego. Fresh from the station, hair still damp from his post-shift shower, wearing that worn gray henley that did criminal things to his shoulders. The sight of him hit me the same way it had every day for six months—like stepping from shadow into sunlight.
Our eyes met across the crowded room, and everything else faded to background noise. Lucy was still chattering about wedding colors. Margaret’s crew had progressed to good-natured arguing over which version of dominoes they were playing tonight, but all I could focus on was the way Diego moved through the space like he belonged there. Like he belonged with me.
He claimed the stool at the end of the bar—his spot, close enough to the register that we could talk between customers, perfect angle to watch me work. The familiarity of it made something loosen in my chest.
“Rough shift?” I pulled a pint glass from the rack.
“Structure fire out on County Road 12. Old barn, fully involved by the time we got there.” He propped his elbows on the bar, and I caught a whiff of his soap—something clean and sharp that cut through the saloon’s usual mix of beer and old wood. “Saved the house, though.”
I tilted the glass under the tap, angling it just right. He watched my hands with that focused intensity that still made my pulse skip, like pouring a beer was some kind of art form only I could master.
“My hero.” The words came out softer than I’d intended, more truth than tease.
“Just doing my job.” But his eyes said something else entirely when I slid the pint across to him. Our fingers brushed as he caught the glass, and he held on a beat longer than necessary, thumb stroking across my knuckles.
That simple touch sparked through me like static electricity. Six months, and I still wasn’t used to having this—having him—whenever I wanted. No more stolen moments or wondering what if. Just Diego at the end of my bar, looking at me like I was everything good in his world.
