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CHAPTER 9
Jimmy
Isat in a rocker on my deck and watched the leaves on the hundred-year-old maple tree in my backyard blow in the wind. It was a breezy Southern night, I had no plans other than to relax. Everything should be perfect, but it wasn’t. It was going by at a snail’s pace and I needed it to speed up.
I’d never been one to want to rush anything. The opposite was actually true, I thrived on the slow pace of the South. But tonight, I would’ve done anything to have the power to press fast forward. If I didn’t know any better, in fact, I’d have sworn someone had pressed pause and time was actually standing still.
As happy as I was that I had plans with Bella and knew when I’d be seeing her again, it was also its own unique form of torture. Twenty-four hours. That’s how long I had to wait before I’d see those blue eyes, smell the sweet floral scent of her hair, and touch that soft, silky skin.
It was too long to wait.
Damn, that woman had me tied up in all sorts of knots.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The way she looked, walked, talked, and felt. I was captivated by everything that made her uniquely her.
I’d never believed in love before meeting Bella, but now I was starting to come around. What else could possibly explain my infatuation with her?
It wasn’t just the physical stuff that I was jonesing for, either. It was hearing the sound of her laughter, seeing the way her chin dipped when she got shy. Watching as she brushed the hair behind her ear and noticing the flush that always appeared on her cheeks.
It was addicting. She was addicting.
My phone dinged, indicating a text, and I picked it up so fast it disturbed Sherlock, who had been sawing logs at my feet. He lifted his head, the left half of his face smooshed up from where his cheek had been resting on my shoe.
I tried not to let myself be too disappointed when I saw that it was a text from my brother and not Bella.
Billy:Got a beer here with your name on it.
“What do you think, boy? Do ya think we should go down to the bar?”
Sherlock’s only answer was rolling over on his back and sticking his legs straight up in the air. That was his not-so-subtle way of letting me know that he was in for the night. In his younger days, he would’ve been more than up for a night out. We’d been going down to Southern Comfort together since I got him as a puppy, when I was only twelve years old.
I remembered back then I’d felt so grown up being able to walk into a bar. I was only allowed entrance since my Pop owned it. My brothers and dad never paid me much mind, but Ray would put me to work. He always made sure I kept busy and didn’t get into too much trouble. Sherlock and I used to bus tables, run out for ice for whoever was behind the bar, and even change out kegs. Ray called us his dream team.
It looked like tonight I’d be venturing out alone.
“Alright, then. You stay here and hold down the fort.” I patted him on his belly and grabbed my ball cap from the table.
As I set out to walk the two miles to the bar, I tried to shake off the agitation I felt. I’d never struggled with this sort of unsettled energy before, but since meeting Bella, it seemed to be a permanent state.
I had sunrise and afternoon charters scheduled for the next day, and normally I’d be looking forward to them. Instead, though, I just wanted to get them over with. I tried to take in the stars, which looked like they’d been hung by the angels themselves, and listen to the crickets and magpies that provided the soundtrack of this hot Southern evening, but nothing worked.
The edginess hadn’t subsided when I walked through the door at Southern Comfort. The bar was packed. I hoped that it would serve as a distraction.
“Jimmy!” Clyde, Earl, and Jed, the so-called “three wise men”—so-called because they’d given themselves the nickname—shouted my name Cheers-style as I entered the bar.
I lifted my hand in a wave and a smile before settling on a lone stool at the end of the bar. I’d always been a social guy. If I was at the bar, I was chopping it up. But tonight, I didn’t feel like getting into a random conversation.
“Beer or shot?”
I looked up and saw Billy standing in front of me, a towel flung over his shoulder. “You seriously are turning into Sam Malone.”
“Shot it is.” My brother poured a shot of whiskey and slid it over to me. “That was quick.”
I downed it, hoping it would take the edge off of whatever was going on with me. “What was?”
“For you to start moping and spending time with our good friend Jack Daniels.”
“I’m not moping.” I poured another shot.
