Autumn Night Whiskey (Tequila Rose 2)

His expression is hilarious, like a kid caught with his whole arm in a cookie jar, sitting on the floor with crumbs scattered about his face. “I just think she’s a cool chick.”

I don’t buy that response for a second, but whatever he wants to tell me is just fine. I have my own shit to worry about. Shrugging like he did and wearing a hint of a smile, I let it go. The second I do, though … I’m brought back to that gut-wrenching pull. All I can think every single time there’s a second that passes without my mind being occupied is that I might be a father. That cute little girl with curly hair … she might be mine.

I could be a father. Right now. To a child I’ve never even met.

My stomach drops again and so do all of the positive feelings that should come to me as I take in the bar. The flooring’s in place, the lights are being hung and the smell of fresh paint lingers in the air. All that can be heard are the intermittent sounds of power tools mingling with the country music the crew has playing in the background. The old radio with a swipe of paint across it is covered in a fine layer of sawdust.

I expect Griffin to go through the rundown of our checklists like he’s done every morning. Every day we do a hundred things, and yet the to-do list has been longer and longer the closer we get to the opening.

That’s not what he asks, though. “Did Mags answer you?”

My brow lifts at his decision to use Robert’s nickname to refer to Magnolia. I know damn well he calls her that. “You calling her Mags now?”

“Better than Rose,” he jokes back and that sickening apprehension in the pit of my stomach churns again.

“Real funny.” The memory of that prick sitting across from me, threatening to take her away like he had that power, still pisses me off. Rolling back my shoulders, I try to get out any of the tension; it doesn’t work, though.

“So he was her first love. And he might think he has some claim to her, but she told him no,” Griffin reminds me.

“Right,” I answer him and inhale a deep breath. It’s cut short by the door swinging open behind us.

“Hey now.” A voice I haven’t heard before that has a slight twang to it comes from behind us. I greet the man, who looks to be about our age and wearing a black shirt, board shorts and a worn pair of flip-flops, with a nod. His smile is contagious, though, as he reaches out for a handshake, meeting my gaze and then Griffin’s.

“Finally get to meet the newcomers in town,” he comments and then answers my unspoken question. “I’m Asher.”

“Oh, perfect.” Griffin claps once. “You’ve got everything you need to hang it?”

Asher nods, and before he can answer someone calls out his name behind us and he waves. Glancing over my shoulder, a few guys call out a greeting to the town handyman.

“Went to school together,” Asher explains, leaning forward.

“Seems like everyone went to school together around here,” I joke.

“Well, there is only one high school.” His answer is deadpan.

“Right, right.”

“I just wanted to come in and let you guys know me and my buddy are going to come ’round tonight and get that sign up. Shouldn’t be too late, maybe around five at the latest.”

Resisting the urge to check my phone, I’m almost certain it’s not even ten yet.

“That works for us,” I tell him. “Whenever is good for you.”

“You guys be around then?” he asks and Griffin takes over the conversation. As I’m slipping my hands into my pockets, letting the fact sink in that this is really happening, that this dream we thought up together years ago is finally coming to fruition, another crew member walks in. I know him decently now since he and his brother Ben are talkers. Tom gives Asher a manly slap on his shoulder as he walks by, interrupting the conversation.

Asher returns the friendly smile and asks how Tom’s sister is doing.

It’s an easy, natural exchange for only a moment, but it’s so much more than that. The realization dawns on me that this could be my life. A small town where everyone knows everyone. Where life is seemingly easy and simple, yet tangled in the social aspects.

It’s different from the suburbs I came from and where I grew up. It’s hard to describe the feeling that brews inside of me. Shuffling my feet, I can only half listen to the rest of the conversation, my mind occupied with thoughts of a little girl everyone here knows better than I do.

And the woman who raised her on her own. I didn’t think that I cared what anyone had to say, but a protective part of me has its hackles raised and wants to know everything that’s ever been whispered in this town about both of them.