By the time I climbed into the rig and slammed the door, my head was clear again. It had to be.
That’s what I did best—lock it down, box it up, shove it somewhere nobody can see.
Because Gillian Holliday might have walked back into town today, but she sure as hell wasn’t walking back into my life.
CHAPTER 3
GILLIAN
By the time the dinner crowd hit full swing at my grandfather’s bar the day after the Fourth, it felt like I’d never left Huckleberry Creek behind.
The place hummed with a familiar symphony of noise—layers of conversation weaving between the sharp clink of beer glasses and whiskey tumblers, punctuated by bursts of laughter that rose above the low, steady twang of the jukebox spinning something from before I was born. Johnny Cash, maybe, or Hank Williams. Doc never updated his music selection, claiming anything recorded after 1989 wasn’t worth the vinyl it was pressed on.
The air was thick with scents that pulled me straight back to my teenage years: the sharp bite of wood polish on the old oak bar top, the yeasty sweetness of spilled beer soaking into floorboards that had absorbed decades of similar mishaps, and the smoky char of burgers sizzling on the flat top in the kitchen. Underneath it all lingered the faint mustiness of old leather from the worn bar stools and the vintage saddles that served as bizarre but oddly charming decorations along the walls.
I’d tied my hair back in a messy ponytail and picked up a scarred wooden tray like I hadn’t spent the last few years buriedin classes, corporate merger documents, and billable hours. My feet remembered the intricate dance between crowded tables all on their own, weaving through the maze of chairs and avoiding the loose floorboard by the back corner that had been threatening to trip unsuspecting patrons for as long as I could remember.
For all its beautiful chaos, this place was home in a way my sterile downtown apartment had never managed to be.
I dropped off a round of beers at a table, got three hugs and a “Glad to have you back,” and ducked behind the bar to grab the next order.
Doc was there, exactly where he always was, a wiry, lively presence in his faded Huckleberry Saloon T-shirt. He caught me reaching for the tap and arched a brow. “You remember how to pour a beer, or do I need to put training wheels on the tap?”
“I could do this in my sleep.” I grabbed a glass. “I have done this in my sleep.”
He snorted. “That was when you were sixteen and thought this was the big time. You’re a fancy big-city lawyer now. Can’t have you embarrassing me.”
I smirked at him over my shoulder as the tap hissed. “I’ll try not to ruin your sterling reputation, Doc.”
He grinned at that. Everyone called him Doc, even me. Maybe especially me. It suited him better than Grandpa ever had.
I slid the beer down the bar toward him, and he passed me a fresh tray without missing a beat.
“You know, you don’t have to wait tables while you’re here.”
“And miss the privilege of working for free?” I hefted the tray. “What kind of granddaughter would I be?”
He just shook his head, but there was pride in it, the kind that made my chest loosen a little, no matter how many years I’d been gone.
Working beside him had always been easy. He was the only person in my family who never tried to tell me what my life was supposed to be.
I didn’t make it three tables before the ambush started.
“Gillian Holliday, as I live and breathe!” Mrs. Bartlett, queen of the corner booth, flagged me down like she’d spotted a celebrity. She’d been holding that table hostage since I was in pigtails. I leaned over to hug her, because resistance was futile.
“Let me look at you.” She squeezed my arm like she expected to find city miles written into my skin. “All grown up. Law school, right?”
“All finished with that. Working now.” I flashed a smile as I backed away with my tray. Though my lowly position at the firm was more like indentured servitude, as I fought to differentiate myself from my peers in pursuit of the elusive junior partner track.
“And your parents?”
Of course I’d get asked about them. They’d moved shortly after I’d graduated high school, and folks would be curious. “Good. Busy.”
That was all she was getting. My parents weren’t a topic I cared to discuss with anyone.
I pivoted and nearly crashed straight into Casey Barker, who’d once dared me to skinny-dip in the lake the summer before sophomore year. Now she wore a county utilities polo and balanced a sleepy toddler on her hip.
“Holy crap.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t believe it when Mom said you were back. How long are you in town?”
