“No, but Laurel’s opening tonight, five instead of two. Staff needs to work, and Howie’s gonna need the money for these hospital bills.”
“Right, of course. Think she’ll need help?”
Malcolm blinked hard. “Why? You stuff an extra bartender in your carry-on?”
“No, I am a bartender.”
“Really?” Of all the thousands of careers Iggy could have chosen—and for all the things they’d talked about as teens—that wouldn’t have been at the top of Malcolm’s list. Especially given Iggy’s past and his parents’ problems with addiction. But very few teens grew up to realize their dream of being in a band with the Jonas Brothers. “A bartender, huh?”
“Mixologist, technically, but I’ve got my bartending license in four states, including Colorado. I just…”
“What?”
Iggy shrugged. “I don’t like sitting around waiting. If I can be helpful at the bar later tonight, instead of sitting in here doom-scrolling, then I’d rather be helpful.”
That had not changed. For all that Malcolm liked to plan and could over-think pretty much anything, Iggy hated to sit still. It was a trait they’d always shared. Iggy loved being in motion, too, doing something physical, challenging his brain, but sometimes that led Iggy toward impulsivity and recklessness.
Had those traits mellowed any in adult Iggy?
That fierce, sensual kiss from five minutes ago suggested no.
“Do you have Laurel’s number?” Malcolm asked.
“Yeah, I do. I’ll text her later. Thanks.”
“Sure. Are you, um, going to need a ride to the hospital?”
“No, I’ll borrow Uncle Howie’s car. Assuming it runs.”
Oh, duh. “It ran as of last week when it was belching smoke out the tailpipe along Old Main. The catalytic converter’s giving him fits.”
Iggy grimaced. “It’ll do for now.”
“Or at least until the snobs moving in across the creek start making noise complaints about the thing back-firing.”
“The what?”
“C’mere.” Malcolm raised the vinyl shade on the trailer’s southeast side, which had a great view of this leg of Snow Creek. For years, the backside of the saloon faced a valley of wilderness. Rocks and trees and sloping grass. Now it was being developed by rich city folks who wanted a pretty McMansion out in the country to impress their friends. Only a few ostentatious houses had been built so far, and Howie hated how they’d destroyed his morning view.
Iggy peered over his shoulder, so close Malcolm wanted to reach out and snag his belt loop. Anything to maintain contact, even bare minimum, for as long as possible. “I wonder if any of them were warned about the fireworks Uncle Howie likes to set off behind the saloon every July Fourth?”
“Doubt it. I’m sure the sheriff will have his hands full when that happens.”
“No doubt.” Iggy straightened and put more space between them. “Thank you, again, for the ride, Mont—Malcolm.”
The name slip made his heart twist every single time—and not in a painful way. In that oh-so-sweet aching way of a tender muscle you can’t stop flexing while it heals. “You can call me Monte. I don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re welcome. I was happy to give you a ride.” He wouldn’t have minded another kind of ride this morning, but that bronco had bucked him right off, and he wasn’t getting back in the chute anytime soon. Before he could second-guess himself, Malcolm blurted, “Can I take you to lunch?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
They laughed simultaneously at the familiar rebuttal of their eleventh-grade English teacher, who’d been a stickler for proper grammar, even in casual conversation. Iggy’s laughter was deeper now, more mature, but no less intoxicating. “May I take you to lunch?” Malcolm asked.
“It might be the hospital cafeteria.”
“I don’t care where. I would really like us to keep talking.”
