“Reviews are actually really good.” Birdie’s across from me, scrolling through her phone. “I say we do it. Why not?”
Mom smiles. “Why not indeed?”
“But your back,” I say with a frown.
“Nothing a little Advil can’t fix,” she replies, waving me away. “I’m not a regular mom. I’m a young mom.”
It’s an old joke in our family, one that I never really found all that funny. But it makes the girls laugh, and all of a sudden I’m offering to buy them all new cowboy boots at Lebo’s, our local country western store (yes, those are a thing in the south), and then I’m helping Mom clean up the kitchen before herding everyone out the door.
Chapter Eight
Nora
I walk into the bar wearing a baseball hat and sneakers. At any other watering hole in Charlotte, I’d fit right in on a rainy Saturday afternoon. But at Coyote Joe’s, I stick out like a sore thumb.
The bouncer gives me a slow, confused once-over before asking if I’m here for line dancing lessons. That must explain the getups I’m seeing: everyone’s in cowboy boots and jeans, and a few zealous patrons wear big silver belt buckles and cowboy hats. One guy’s even got a bolo on. It kinda makes me wish I was here for the lesson. Looks like a fun crowd.
“I’m actually just here to meet a friend for a drink,” I reply. “Bar open?”
The bouncer points me toward the counter tucked underneath a second story balcony. “Yes ma’am.”
Neon lights flash from the walls as I make my way past a mechanical bull to the bar. A Maren Morris song pours through the speakers. Despite the stale-beer-and-sweat smell that permeates the room, I smile. She’s one of my favorite country artists, and the new album she just released has been on repeat in my car this week.
Probably what made me think of Coyote Joe’s when Aiden called me this morning with a request to “pick my brain over a pint.” It’s the perfect place, mostly because I don’t need anyone from work seeing Aiden and me together on a Saturday afternoon. That’s how rumors get started, and the last thing I need is for people to think something’s still going on between us . . . although I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat when his name lit up my phone screen at ten o’clock today.
I order a draft Olde Meck Copper and turn to face the dance floor, leaning my elbows on the bar. There’s actually a decent crowd here, probably thirty or so folks, all of them lining up at the instruction of an older gentleman in a black cowboy hat and matching boots. He turns off the music. Adjusting the microphone headset at his ear, he greets everyone with a “Howdy, y’all!”
That’s when a commotion breaks out at the bar’s entrance. I look up to see a man holding open the front door as he gestures to whoever he’s waiting for outside.
He’s shouting. “Can y’all hurry up please? We’re late, goddamn it, and I hate being late. You should too.”
“Seriously, what crawled up your ass and died today?”
“You did. Now get inside before we all get soaked. Birdie! Birdie, enough with the lipstick, you look great . . . no we’re not going to see any of my friends here. That’s exactly why I agreed to come . . . Jesus Christ, you’re shivering. Here, put on that sweatshirt I just bought Shelby. I don’t care if it doesn’t match your outfit . . .”
I grin as I sip my beer. Sounds like a frazzled dad trying to keep his kids in line. Kinda cute.
The family stumbles through the entrance a minute later, thumping toward the dance floor in their cowboy boots. Looks like three teenage girls, plus Mom and Dad. Only Dad then flips back the hood of his rain jacket, his handsome face a mask of barely controlled fury as he tells one of the girls to keep that sweatshirt on or else, and I swear to God it’s Theo freaking Morgan.
One of my elbows slips off the bar.
Can’t be. Why would Theo Morgan come to Coyote Joe’s, least of all on a Saturday afternoon with a gaggle of women in tow? Last I checked he was definitely single, and definitely childless. This guy—the one helping that gaggle of women remove their rain-streaked jackets—is clearly a parent.
Or maybe not. As the girls remove their jackets, I notice they’re older than I thought. Late teens, early twenties maybe. One of them is much older, mid-fifties I’d guess. The guy they’re with is too young to be her husband or the other girls’ father.
I narrow my eyes in an attempt to get a better look at him. He shrugs out of his rain jacket, revealing a broad back and sculpted arms that look—wow—really good in a broken-in white Henley. Heaviness gathers inside my skin.