We strutted through the brightly lit gravel parking lot. Wilson had gone all out with the decor this year; red and green lights had been strung up everywhere, basically illuminating all of Main Street. At least twenty Christmas trees lit with a rainbow of lights were perched along the porch. The wooden railing that wrapped around the entire building sparkled with silver and gold tinsel. Dainty snowflakes dangled from the ceiling of the porch, and all four rocking chairs were occupied by a life-size elf, each equipped with a can of beer. And to top it off, an inflatablecowboy Santa stood at least six feet tall, holding a sign that read,Whiskey Bent and Sleigh Bound.
This place reeked of ’90s nostalgia and I couldn’t love it more.
“How does Wilson expect me to tell Santa what I want this year if I can’t sit on his lap?” Maggie asked with a giggle.
“You’re absurd.”
“At least I’m not boring,” she said.
The live band inside had to be good because through the windows that lined the front of the bar you could see everyone congregating by the stage, swaying back and forth.
Maggie reached for the door, but my boots stayed planted, forcing her to look back.
“You’ve got this. This isn’t just a night for The Wheel; it’s a night for you too. And I know you’re going to say you don’t want it to be about you because it doesn’t feel right—even though it is—but if you need to, just remind yourself that you’re here to support Wilson.”
“Whew,” I said, blowing out a deep breath. “You’re right, this is for Wilson.”
I didn’t know why I was so nervous, but I was sure it had something to do with the guilt that clung to me like static. Or maybe it was how I’d been too stubborn to admit that the thought of Stetson being inside, of seeing him again, excited me. Hell, it was probably a little of both, but either way, my stomach was churning, and that glass of celebratory champagne was working overtime.
“You ready?” she asked.
“And if I say no?” I questioned.
“Then I’ll pull inside anyway and you’ll look miserable in front of everyone…”
My face scrunched together before relaxing. “Let’s go. Before I change my mind.”
“That’s my girl,” she said.
I forced a smile, grabbed Maggie’s hand, and walked into the bar like I owned the damn place.
Chapter Eleven
“Well, I’ll be damned. Here she is, folks.” Wilson’s voice echoed through the mic, his hand directing everyone’s attention to me. “The woman that wrote a love letter to our little bar. Scarlett Carson, everyone.”
Panic immediately paralyzed me as hundreds of eyes pierced us.
Luckily, I didn’t have much time to think because Wilson’s announcement was quickly followed by a loud round of cheers. Instead, I just smiled and said “thank you” a million times.
“Scarlett, Magnolia, go get yourselves a drink. This one’s on me.” He winked, bringing everyone’s attention back to the front of the stage where he stood. “Bartender, make sure you make this one strong. We’ve got a lot of celebrating to do tonight.”
“Oh my god. That was mortifying. Can I leave now?” I joked. Kind of.
“No, it wasn’t. It was sweet. That man has waited fifty years for someone to acknowledge this place, and not only did you acknowledge it, but you also raved about it on the front page of a newspaper. Let the man celebrate you,” she insisted.
“Ugh. Fine,” I said, defeated. “At least you were right about one thing: this is way better than last time.” I grinned. The thought that maybe this would finally outshine any lingering whispers about my called-off wedding made me feel one step closer to ridding myself of that piece of my past.
“Whiskey grenadine?” She peered over her shoulder, perching herself on the bar.
“Yes, please.”
Magnolia focused on our order while I focused on the room around us, pretending to casually skim the crowd, looking for one thing—or person—in particular. As more of the room failed my inspection, my stomach dripped with disappointment. And then, in a split second, the disappointment was flooded out.
At the end of the bar, there was an image that I’d burned into my memory over the last couple of weeks. An image that despite my best efforts, I was desperate to see tonight.
With one leg perched on the barstool and the other relaxed on the floor, Stetson Walker was a sight to be seen. His body was aimed at the entire row of barstools, allowing me to see him in his entirety. He had one elbow resting on top of the bar while his hand mindlessly rubbed his chin. The other hand gripped the stonewashed pair of jeans that covered his thick thighs.
I couldn’t help but imagine the view under those jeans, or really the view under all of it…
