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I couldn’t help laughing. “We all make mistakes.”
“True, and she looked good with short hair. I mean, once the bald parts grew back out. I’ll have to show you the pictures sometime.”
She flat ironed a few sections of her own hair and applied pink eye shadow, dark eyeliner, and mascara, then turned to me and said, “Let me do your eye makeup.”
“I already have mascara on.”
She gave me a look. “That’s not enough.”
“It’s enough! It’s almost seven, let’s get going.”
“Well, you’re not wearing that.”
I looked down at the jeans and light gray sweater I’d been wearing all day. “What’s wrong with this?”
She hesitated before saying, “There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s just not something you wear out. I’ve got just the thing for you.”
The thing turned out to be a black top that not only showed my cleavage but also exposed half an inch of my midriff. I laughed at my reflection in the mirror.
“Clearly I’m too tall for this, Harper.”
“No, it’s cute on you.”
I groaned. “It’s just not”
“You’ll never see any of these people again, though. Just wear it. After we do a shot of Fireball, you’ll be feeling braver, I promise.”
I cringed as I followed her into her kitchen, where she poured two shots of Fireball into glasses that said, Kayla’s last ride before she’s a bride.
“From a friend’s bachelorette party?” I asked.
“You betcha.”
I hummed in acknowledgment. “I had something similar at mine.”
“Wait, what?” She gaped at me, her eyes bright with happiness. “You’re engaged?”
“Was.” I reached for one of the glasses. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll wear this shirt and do this shot if we can not talk about that.”
She nodded. “Done. I recently broke up with a guy myself, so I get it.” Raising her own glass in the air, she smiled and said, “To family.”
“To family.”
We clinked our glasses together and downed the red-hot shots. Harper slammed her glass down onto the table and grinned.
“To The Hideout,” she said. “After we rub Sven’s beard.”
I gave her a confused look.
“You’ll see,” she said. “But first, back to the bedroom so we can find you some cute shoes.”
“Are my nose hairs frozen?” I asked Harper as we walked into The Hideout half an hour later.
She shook her head and gave me a wry smile. “No, you’re good. And now you’ll have a lucky night.”
We’d stopped at the statue of town founder Sven Karlsson outside City Hall on the way here, Harper taking a selfie of us rubbing his bronze beard. Apparently it was a thing here. She said her mother had pictures of her next to the statue as she grew up, as did most parents in Sven’s Beard, and that photos with the statue were a mandatory part of life events here—graduations, engagements, and holidays.
The bar we’d just walked into was about a quarter of a mile from the statue, and Harper waved at someone as I surveyed my surroundings.
There was a giant, lifelike Bigfoot next to the front door, standing at least eight feet tall. The floor was concrete and the walls were made of weathered wood planks, but the wood was hardly visible because every surface was covered with Bigfoot photos and signs.
The signs said everything from Bigfoot for President to Bigfoot Saw Me But Nobody Believes Him. There were several framed newspaper articles about purported Sasquatch sightings.
County music was playing on an old-school jukebox and a few people were dancing, though there was no dedicated dance floor.
“Let’s go grab that table,” Harper said, taking my hand and leading me through the crowd.
People turned to look at us as we passed, some of them not even being subtle about it.
“Are they looking at me because of this shirt?” I asked Harper as we slid into our seats at a high-top table. “It’s because of the shirt, isn’t it?”
“Most of the women in here would die to look like you in that shirt,” she said. “And no, it’s because they don’t recognize you and because you’re pretty. The single men are trying to figure out if they have a chance with you and the women are just jealous.”
“I seriously doubt that.” I slid out of my coat and hung it on the back of my chair. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Ask and ye shall receive,” a male voice said from behind me.
It was Austin Lawson, who slid two martinis onto the table. Instead of his red Lawson’s T-shirt, he wore a gray Henley that fit just right over his biceps.
“Thanks, Austin,” Harper said, picking up her drink. “This is my cousin Avon.”
A smile played on his lips as he said, “Oh, we met. She’s my favorite newspaper owner.”
His gaze dipped down to my exposed midriff, his intentions obvious.
“It’s good to see you again,” I said, sipping my drink.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
