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He lifts his shoulder. “Yeah, that was the challenge.”
“But ... yours is just a sunset. With mountains. That’s it.”
“Maybe she liked the colors better.”
“They’re the same colors as mine! We were taking a picture of the same freaking sunset. I had a hawk. A hawk!”
“Well, I won. Want to get dinner?”
“No,” I say, turning toward the window, away from him. I’m so annoyed right now. “I don’t eat dinner with cheaters.”
“How did I cheat?”
“You ... you ...” I stop because I don’t know how he cheated—I just know he did. “You ... bribed Morgan.”
“I may be a lot of things, Price, but I do not bribe people,” he says.
“Then you’re in cahoots with her.”
“Cahoots? Are you seventy?”
“Just take me to dinner,” I say. “You’re buying.”
“I think it’s usually the loser who buys dinner,” he says.
“Not in this case.”
“You got it,” he says before putting his car in drive and pulling onto the two-lane road.
Graham
“WELL, IF IT ISN’T GRAHAM Shackwell,” a woman with curly red hair says as Lucy and I approach the bar. She gives me a wink while she pulls glasses from a rack, wiping them down with a white towel.
“Good to see you, Charlotte,” I say, giving her a quick wave.
It’s not all that good to see her.
The challenge tonight was to do some karaoke, because not only are Morgan and Ryan avid pickleball players, but they also like to sing for strangers together. I think they should just declare themselves fifty-five-year-olds and move into one of the many retirement communities here in Aspen Lake.
I don’t mind karaoke; I can even keep a tune, though not all that well. What I do mind is where we are: The Eagle’s Den, a downtown bar a couple of doors down from the spa. It’s a popular hangout for locals and the many tourists we get here, especially right now during ski season.
It’s also one of my old haunts.
It’s dimly lit and pretty crowded and kind of dingy. Now that I’m seeing it through different eyes, I’m surprised I used to hang out here as much as I did. But old me was a regular. You could catch me here most weekend nights—and some weekdays, depending on my schedule—talking up pretty women, including the one standing behind the bar giving me a knowing smile.
I don’t want to be here. I could be home crocheting my scarf, or I’d even rather listen to patients who’ve diagnosed themselves using Google, which is the worst. I don’t like the feel of this place, and I don’t like the woman standing next to me right now knowing that I ever spent time here. Not because it’s a bad place, or the people here are terrible, but this was a past life, one I’m no longer okay with, and I’d rather she not see it.
Lucy doesn’t fit in here. Wearing a black knee-length dress with a jean jacket and boots, her pretty hair loose and hanging just over her shoulders ... I can’t put my finger on why, but I just don’t like seeing her here. Maybe it’s because I know the kind of man that frequents this place. Because I used to be that guy.
“Who you got with you tonight?” Charlotte asks, with a nod toward Lucy.
“This is Lucy,” I say, holding out a hand toward Lucy, annoyed that Charlotte made it sound like I’m here every night with a different woman.
“Hi.” Lucy waves. “You have beautiful hair.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte says, giving her a wink.
“What are you drinking tonight?” she asks us both before turning her gaze on me. “You want your regular, Graham?”
