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“Fine, but just this once,” I warn.
The bite in my tone flies over Charlie’s head. She beams. “You won’t regret it.”
“Too late,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I can’t let on to Charlie that I secretly fantasize about her best friend, Nick Jackson, an unhealthy amount. He’s become this fantasy figure—sort of like a movie star. I knew I’d never get with him, so it made it okay for me to picture him in my head when I was using my vibe. But soon I’m going to see him in the flesh and it makes me a hundred kinds of embarrassed. And a hundred kinds of turned on. I’m a mess, basically.
He’s been spending his off-season doing stuff with college friends—boating, hiking, fishing. I think Charlie said that he even entered a bowling tournament in Minneapolis for shits and giggles. He won, of course, because there’s nothing that golden boy can’t do. I’ve been both dreading and anticipating his return to Dallas.
Dreading it because when he’s around, I’ll have to be extra careful not to let my feelings leak through. Not that he’s going to be interested. Yes, there was a flame that flickered weakly between us, but that was probably the result of Nick being lonely and me sending out not-so-subtle messages that I’d be down for anything with him.
I remind myself that he’s a professional football player and my life’s already been incinerated by one before. While Nick Jackson is all my girlhood dreams made flesh, I have to stay away. I can’t allow my old feelings to ruin my present. My little girl’s future depends on me.
I tighten my ponytail and then my apron strings and go out to flip the door sign from closed to open. Five minutes later, a husky man with a big tan cowboy hat and dusty boots strolls in. A slight smile paints my lips. Don hasn’t changed a bit.
“About damn time you re-opened.” He slides up onto a bar stool. “Give me a cold one. Where have you been?” he demands.
“Ah, Don, I didn’t think you’d remember me.” I slide a cold one in front of him.
“’Course I remember you. You’re pretty, aren’t you? No one forgets a pretty girl.” He says this all with a veneer of disgust as if being pretty is somehow sinful. I haven’t ever been to his home, but I imagine he sits on his front porch and unironically yells for kids to get off his lawn.
“Gee. Thanks.” I wipe my hands off on a towel.
He grunts. “You why this place was closed up for two months?”
“Nope. You are. We wanted to make it pretty for you.”
“At least you didn’t paint it pink.”
“Oh, the horror!” Charlie yells from the other end of the bar. “Not pink!”
“Careful or Charlie’ll paint your stool that color,” I tease.
The corner of his mouth quirks up a tiny bit in what I think is a smile. He covers up this rare show of humor by taking a deep gulp of the beer.
“Tastes about the same,” he concludes, laying a five on the refinished cherry counter.
I take the compliment and the money.
Don swings around and surveys the place. “Looks like the old Stacks.”
“It should. We just spruced everything up.” First thing we did when Charlie and I got to town was to remodel Stacks from top to bottom. The floors were refinished. The paneled walls were stripped and restained. The cherry bar was given about a thousand coats of new lacquer and the old brass hardware was dipped, polished and re-attached. The biggest splurge was the new booths that lined the walls and the new tables on the floor, but even those aren’t technically new. Charlotte had found a restaurant down in San Antonio that was going out of business. We drove a huge truck down there, loaded them into the trailer, and hauled them back. It was hard, dirty, hot work, but it saved us so much money.
It’s still Stacks. We serve beer, hard liquor, a couple of wines, and a small menu of bar food. It’s not a dance club. It’s not a place that’s going to host live bands. We’re a neighborhood bar. It just so happens that our closest neighbor is the pro football team the Mustangs.
As long as we have them, Stacks will always be relevant. And, as if I summoned them, the doors fly open and a flood of tall, muscled, sweaty men pour in, flopping onto chairs and bar stools and booths.
I tense up as I register each one. Thankfully—or regretfully, depending on which body part is in charge—he does not make an appearance.
For the next thirty minutes, I don’t have time to worry about the stock, the interior decorating, or my inexperience in managing a bar. I pour drinks, deliver food, clear tables, and supply charging cables for what seems like half the squad who are furiously scrolling through social media either looking for their own names or for a hookup later tonight.
