Page 5 of One Wild Chance

I smirk. “I’ll make sure to warn Earl.” Then I lift two fingers to wave goodbye and turn for the exit.

The bell on the door rings, and a young woman makes it two steps inside and stops, cheeks blazing. “You’re…Jaxon Chance, aren’t you?”

“Sure am.” I lean against the doorframe. “You from around here?”

“I…yeah.” Her throat bobs. “My mom works at the school.”

My mouth quirks into the same grin I used on strangers back when that was part of the job. “Tell her Jaxon Chance says hello.”

She laughs under her breath as if she can barely believe her luck and ducks back toward the cold drinks without another word.

Wanda’s watching the whole thing, her eyes dancing. “I see some things don’t change.”

“What are you getting at, Wanda?”

“That you’ve still got it when it comes to charming women.”

I chuckle as I push through the screen door, thinking about how I ran through that routine without a second thought. But when it comes to Summer Daniels, that old habit fits about as well as a belt buckle two sizes too small.

The door smacks shut behind me, right on cue.

I look back and see Wanda already going for her phone. I give her four minutes before everyone in town knows I’m back.

Chapter 3

Jaxon

Some places are frozen in time, white-knuckling the past while the rest of the world has moved on. Nothing changes in Golden Springs, Kentucky, and that’s the way people like it. The shops on Main Street have been there for fifty years, and there’s just a single restaurant willing to stay open past eight—the honky-tonk bar. The only new thing downtown is Java Jane’s, the coffee shop that opened last year. It caused such a kerfuffle, you’d have thought someone was building a casino instead of a cafe that offered oat milk lattes.

Folks at Minnie’s Diner devoted weeks to discussing why anyone would willingly drink oat milk. The debate finally ended when Willie Jennings pulled on his John Deere cap and said, “I don’t drink milk from anything that doesn’t have udders.” Everyone agreed, and they all moved on. That’s the way things are done around Golden Springs.

The population here is small enough that Wanda Roy at the gas station knows your car before you reach the counter. There’s a feed store that’s been owned by the same family since 1858, a general store that sells everything from cast-iron skillets to home perms, and a law office with one lawyer for the entire town. That’d be Mr. James Hartley.

When I finally reach the office, I find my brothers lined up on the leather sofa—three professional athletes who look wildly out of place in a small-town lawyer’s waiting room.

Wyatt’s on the left, the biggest of us now, with a build you’d expect on an NFL quarterback. He’s still got sun-kissed brown hair and a smile that’s always on, except when he’s wearing a helmet. Wyatt attracts friends like a barn attracts cats. He doesn’t even have to try.

Grady is sandwiched in the middle, wearing the same round glasses he’s had since college. He graduated summa cum laude and pitches in the majors, while his twin barely made it out of high school.

Rhett’s leaning back on the couch, legs stretched out, scrolling his phone like he’s not one of the most famous players in the league. He brushes a dark curl off his forehead without glancing my way.

Wyatt greets me with a crooked smile. “Welcome to Golden Springs, big brother.” I might be the oldest, but ever since Wyatt grew an inch taller, he can’t help but rib me about it.

“You bring anyone with you?” Rhett asks, looking past me toward the door, like he’s expecting someone.

I shrug. “Who would I bring?”

“One of the fans blowing up your phone,” he teases. “Heard the sympathy texts have been rolling in.”

“Not anymore.” I look around. “Where’s James?”

“No idea.” Grady looks at his watch. “He’s got five minutes until our meeting. I’d bet money he’s still at the diner.”

The door opens, but it’s not James. A man strides into the waiting room with a leather portfolio. He sports a mustache now, but I immediately recognize him from Golden Springs High School.

“Blaine Callahan?” I hold out a hand. “Jaxon Chance. Went to high school together.”

He blinks before shaking it, like he’s having a ninth-grade flashback of the time I demolished him in dodgeball. Our P.E. class was basically a graduation requirement that imitated Survivor.