It’s not too far to the bar. Nothing is too far around here. There’s the main street with all the restaurants and bars, and a handful of side streets branching off it. And that’s Balsam Grove. A dusty sign tells us we’ve gotten to Main Street, where a surprising number of cars line the road. Quint swings around in a perfect parallel park into a spot at the end of the street, one hand resting casually on the wheel as he glances over his shoulder.
“It’s at the other end of the street. You okay to walk?” He squints down at the slender 3-inch heels on the black snakeskin boots I picked out. Abby suggested something a little lower, but these boots make me feel like a goddess, and that’s the kind of confidence I need right now.
“I’m good.”
“Just thought I’d check. I know sometimes heels aren’t the most practical for walking.”
The corner of my mouth twists up in a smirk. “Oh, I wouldn’t underestimate a woman in heels, Quinton. Thatwould be a big mistake on your part. You might even say a huge one.”
His eyes widen at the use of his full name, and then he smiles. “It’s Quinton now is it? Just so you know, I never underestimate a woman. Wait’ll you get to know my sister. You’ll understand.”
He scoots around the car before I’ve got the door halfway open, holding out a hand for me. I glance at it, then at his earnest face before placing my cool palm on his and hopping down.
“Your hand’s so cold.” He gives it a squeeze, and even though it feels nice, I pull away, glancing around reflexively. You never know where a pap might be hiding. But then I check myself. It’s okay. I’m safe here. No one is lurking around the corner in freaking Balsam Grove. They’ve never even heard of the place. Although that’s bound to change once we start filming. Anxiety peeks its head up.
A soft evening breeze dances through the trees lining the sidewalk, and I look across the street. It’s cute and quaint, but a little more subdued than I was expecting. Maybe I’ve just spent too many hours on set.Paisley Creekwas filmed on a pristine set designed to look like the perfect small town. I think that’s what I was expecting.
But this one has mismatched signs over the storefronts, and the paint is peeling off some of the buildings. I like it. The small imperfections are what makes it unique. Leonora’s café, with its adorable hand-painted sign, is sandwiched between a doctor’s office and a little diner with a neon sign.
A paper bag tumbles down the sidewalk in front of us, but a group of laughing women steps out of a car and one of them bends down to pick it up and throw it into a nearby green trash can. I do a double take, not quite believing what I saw.
A hand lands on my shoulder, startling me forward again.
“You okay?”
“Did you see that?”
“What?” A puzzled frown furrows his brow.
“That woman just picked up a piece of trash and threw it in the garbage.”
“Uh, and…?”
Oh, maybe that’s normal around here. “Never mind.”
The soft whisper of music starts to get louder, morphing into the familiar beat of a club. Except as we get even closer, I realize it’s not quite as familiar as I thought. The distinct twang and rhythm of country music emanates from the place.
The brick building is on a corner, and the vertical sign hanging out front is lit up to show off the name. If the music hadn’t given it away, this would have told me we’re here. The Grove. The hottest spot in Balsam Grove is a far cry from the trendy nightclubs in LA I’m used to. And I have a feeling that unlike those, this one isn’t going to vanish into the ether when a newer, hotter spot captures the attention of the A-listers.
Quint holds the door open for me and an older woman with long, silver-streaked hair greets us. We step inside the crowded bar, and it takes a minute for my eyes toadjust to the dim lighting. But when they do, the first thing that catches my attention is a tiny stage off to the right.
The twang of country music is coming from the gorgeous woman standing on it. She’s got the kind of big blond waves that seem like a country music must-have. Her bright pink cowboy boots match the hat perched atop her head, and her full figure is encased in a knee-length ruffled blue dress. Adorable.
It’s busy, but not suffocatingly so. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe until I get to the VIP section of a club. Everything’s changed since my college years, when we used to go out twice a week. No VIP section here though, just an interesting mix of people clad in everything from denim to tiny sparkly dresses. I like it. The wear-what-you-want kind of attitude. But I was right about the cowboy hats. They’re a wardrobe staple here.
There are booths lining the walls. A handful of high-tops surround the cleared space in front of the stage, and some regular tables are off to our left. All of them are full of people talking and smiling. A handful of couples and clustered groups of people sway together on the dance floor.
“You wanna dance?” Quint’s breath brushes my ear, sending a shiver down the back of my neck when he leans in close.
“I’m good.”
“You sure about that?”
That’s when I realize I’m swaying to the rhythm, bobbing my head, just losing myself to the tune. My usualawareness of every move I make, every picture that might be taken without my knowledge, has slipped away. Nobody here is looking at me, judging me, and there’s an incredible sense of freedom with that knowledge.
“You know what? Sure, let’s dance.”
I weave my way through the bodies, holding a hand out behind me for Quint to grab. He trails after me to the dance floor, where I turn to face him, looking up at the tall cowboy. His clean-shaven face has a hint of scruff around the chin, and there’s a lazy smile on his face.
