Page 33 of Already Callin’ You Mine

I snap my mouth shut, knowing better than to push it too much.

“I was actually just about to head over to Presley’s to drop this off.” Turning toward the bar, she picks up a brown paper bag with handles, supporting it from the bottom. It doesn’t take long for me to recognize the Dolly’s logo on the side and know that whatever is in there is delicious. “You can do it for me.”

“Why? What is it?”

Holding out the bag, she nods, signaling for me to take it. I continue to stare at it, as if it might contain the plague and require a hazmat suit before handling.

“Something for Presley. I’ll text you the address of her cottage and you can make this delivery for me. Save me some time.”

“Why?” I question again, still not following. Also, no fucking way am I going to her house.

“Jace Butler Hayes.” Miss Belle’s tone switches in an instant, the soft lull of her Southern accent gone, replaced with a sharpness that sends a chill down my spine. “Do not question your mama. I know you were raised better than that.”

Indeed I was…

I take the bag, supporting it from the bottom the same as she did. Warmth radiates through the paper, curiosity poking at me, telling me to peek inside the bag. Too bad it’s stapled shut.

“Yes, ma’am.” I nod.

“I’ll text you the address right now.”

“Here,” Milo adds, reaching under the bar. He pulls out a forty-ounce glass bottle filled with something that is slightly too light in color to be something he brewed, but still resembles beer. “Take that with you too.”

“What is it?”

“A pre-mixed Sobbin’ Shandy. We made a bunch for a bridal shower this past weekend and had some left over. Presley really liked the one she had the other day.”

Things I didn’t realize Milo and Brandt were doing these days—catering bridal showers and pre-mixing their one cocktail. Southern Brothers Brewing has always been strictly beer, their four signature brews being the only items featured at Pour Decisions. A couple of years ago, Brandt started mixing Sob Story with lemonade for one of Willa’s friends, and the drink took off and became a regular feature on the menu. It’s still the only non-beer available.

Unless you know the secret menu—also known as the moonshine that Brandt still dabbles in on the side. Or if you’re Bronwyn, who doesn’t drink, and somehow convinced Milo to keep a stash of Diet Coke on hand for her.

“Right.” I look between Mama and Milo, waiting for some additional instructions. Or maybe some kind of explanation of why I’m taking all this stuff. But I get nothing.

“Go before it’s cold,” Miss Belle shoos.

“Or warm, in the case of the Shandy,” Milo adds.

I hold up both items, showing off that I have them securely in hand as I start to back up. I feel like an idiot—still pissed that I was left hanging, and now even more annoyed that I’m being used as an errand boy.

There’s no use arguing about it. So I turn to head to my truck, my phone buzzing with a text that I’m sure is the address I need to head to.

Guess I’m making a special delivery.

“What are you doing here?”

I swear the door isn’t even all the way open yet when Presley’s surprised, yet oddly not accusatory question hits me square in the face. Her brown hair is piled on top of her head in a wildly messy knot, wisps falling out in random places, perfectly framing her eyes. Blue eyes so light they are borderline gray—a detail I remember being mesmerized by in high school.

A detail I’m just as mesmerized by now.

So much so I almost miss the ratty, well-loved UNC tee she’s wearing, the collar so threadbare and stretched it almost slides off her shoulder, and the baggy sweatpants accompanying it. A pair that I can almost promise she never lets anyone see.

If I were to look up hot mess in the dictionary, I think I might see her photo right now. Yet, I can’t take my eyes off her. In a good way. The key word in hot mess is without a doubt hot—my insides twisting and turning like lava snaking down the side of a volcano.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to speak.

“I was sent with…” With what?

Faltering, I hold up the Dolly’s bag, forcing an awkward, cheerful grin. I still don’t have any idea what’s in the bag, but looking at Presley like this, it must be needed.