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6
Brianna
“It’s cheaper to drink at my place,” I tell Callie, but she’s not having it.
“Come on. We never go out.”
“That’s because there’s absolutely no nightlife in Whitefish and we’re broke,” I remind her, chuckling.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Callie says. “During the ski season, this place is epic.”
“I’ve been told you’re very popular among the ski instructors.” I’m joking with her, only because Callie told me that she has a thing for ski instructors, and they seem to have a thing for her too.
“Why are men so sexy when they’re wearing goggles and being bossy?”
“You do have a point,” I give her a wink as she practically drags me out of the house to her car. It’s like we’re magically on our way to the Mountain Brewery. Like I mentioned to Callie, I don’t like the extra expense, but every once in a while a girl needs to get out of the house and get off the couch. We rarely go out, but since I still have some of Tate’s generous tip left, I agree. The situation will probably go like this: Callie will start chatting it up with a bunch of guys, and I’ll be left alone with my beer, but that’s fine by me. At least one of us will be having fun.
We pull up to the Mountain Brewery, and I notice how it’s nothing more than a pub with TVs playing sports, darts, pool, and more. But I like it, mainly because it’s the only place like this in our little town.
“Good evening, ladies,” Hal, one of the bartenders says.
“Hey, baby!” Callie replies, looking
over her shoulder as we pass him. It’s been awhile since I’ve visited the brewery and I admire the charm and beauty of it all. Townies are drinking and playing games, and there’s a steel beer fermenter off in the corner where they brew their own beer.
“Look, there’s room at the bar,” Callie says, pointing to two stools off in the corner. We make our way over to the empty seats, and I greet a few people that I recognize from the café. Colored lights hang from the ceiling in the Brewery year-round, along with neon beer signs hung on the wall.
We seat ourselves and are greeted by Hank, a bartender who has tattoos on his arms and has worked here for over a decade. It’s always easy to remember Hank and the other bartender Hal, because they go together like bread and butter, in a pub-employee sort of way.
“Hey, Hank,” I greet.
“Hello, ladies. What’s your pleasure this evening?” he asks. Hank has one of those vintage, twisty mustaches that were popular in the early 1900s.
“Couple of IPAs,” I say, knowing what Callie likes.
“Coming right up,” he replies.
“And nachos,” Callie chimes in.
“Got it.”
“This place is pretty busy tonight,” Callie says, looking around the room.
“I know, I’m surprised. It’s typically dead during the week, but it’s summer, so it’s understandable.”
I examine the room that’s full of mostly men, ambling about, watching sports and chatting. I look down the bar, and I don’t see anything of much interest until I lock eyes with him. Tate.
I become frozen in place just as my beer is placed in front of me. I blink hard, trying to make sure I’m not imagining him. My heart is pounding hard in my chest, and I open my mouth to say something then close it. He smirks at me, lifts his beer in the air, takes a sip, and I look away because I can feel blush hitting my cheeks.
“You alright?” Callie asks, noticing me stiffen.
“Callie, if I tell you something do you promise not to stare?”
“No.”
At least she’s honest.
“Okay, well, over at the other end of the bar— don’t look!” I say.
