Chapter 9
JACE
Never in my life have I been pissed that I have a free afternoon. It’s generally not something that you get upset over. Nor is having a meeting canceled. Usually not having to sit through a meeting is what makes my day. Not ruins it.
Not today, however. Nope.
Today, I’m pissed about it.
Throwing my truck into park, I huff out a breath, my ire still fuming.
According to my calendar, right now I’m supposed to be sitting in Presley’s office, discussing my social media campaign.
The very same project that I vehemently do not want to do.
Also the very same meeting that she told me I’d better not be late for, or she would make me pay.
But something I like even less than the idea of a social media campaign is being stood up. Which is exactly what Presley did.
Left me completely hanging. Didn’t even have to courtesy to let me know that she needed to cancel or reschedule or whatever. Nope. I had to find out from some random person in the hallway as I was standing outside her dark office wondering where she was that she left early.
Early! After getting all up in my face about being late. Who just leaves the office early?
Me, I guess, if we’re being technical. I did just pull into the Pour Decisions parking lot in the middle of the afternoon when I’m in theory still supposed to be in the office.
Although, since Pour Decisions is part of the Hayes family, one could argue that I’m still working.
That’s what Presley was doing here the other day.
Instead of pushing an agenda on another branch of the company, I’m supporting them.
By having a beer. And fuck, do I need a beer.
I tumble out of my truck and slam the door shut, chastising myself over my thought process of needing a drink.
I am not that guy. Never have been and I’m not about to start now.
But that doesn’t change that I need a distraction, and the taphouse is the best one I can think of. Because here I can escape. Kinda.
At least enough to calm down. To get over how pissed I am that the girl who managed to turn my life upside down senior year is doing it all over again.
I’m thirty-fucking-five years old—I should be able to let this roll off me like water off a duck’s back.
I should be able to rejoice in my afternoon to myself.
“What are you doing here?”
My mama’s voice stops me in my tracks. Of all the people I wasn’t expecting to see here in the middle of the day, it’s Miss Belle.
“Errrr…” I mumble, letting the door to the bar slam shut behind me.
“Thought you were meeting with Presley this afternoon?” Milo asks, looking up from behind the bar on the other side of the large, warehouse-like space. He throws a towel over his shoulder, acting like he’s Sam Malone on Cheers, not bothering to hide his cocky grin.
More steam bellows through my ears at the mention of her name, my face morphing into a scowl, pissing me off more. Because I’m not this guy either. I’m a happy dude. Easygoing.
Yet somehow, Presley Callahan ties me up in knots.
Ones I can’t figure out how to unravel.
“She didn’t bother showing up,” I tell him, weaving my way through the tables toward the bar. “Also didn’t bother telling me she wasn’t coming.”
“She stood you up?” Milo lets a single chuckle slip, that sassy smile going crooked, making him look borderline evil for a second. “Damn, dude.”
“It’s bad enough I have to do this thing, with Presley fucking Callahan of all people,” I rant, letting my pissy-ness flow out of me.
This is a safe space. I can say it. “But she doesn’t even have the damn common courtesy to cancel.
And it’s not like she doesn’t know how to get ahold of me.
Thanks to Willa, she’s got my number. And she had no problem putting this meeting on my calendar.
No problem standing right here telling me I better not be late. ”
I pause, but only long enough to catch a breath. I am not done yet.
“If she thinks she’s somehow getting the upper hand here, she’s going to have to think again. Because this is so fucking unprofessional. This is why I told Gus to un-hire her. She pulled all that crap in high school and now—”
“Are you done?” Miss Belle asks, cutting me off. Her voice is calm and even, matching the smile on her face. One that should scare me.
One that does scare me. That’s the look she gets before she puts someone in their place.
“I got a few more things I could rattle off,” I quip.
If I’m going to be given the where tos and what fors, I might as well earn it.
“Save them.”
I snap my mouth shut, knowing better than to push it too much.
“I was actually just about to head over to Presley’s to drop this off.
” Turning toward the bar, she picks up a brown paper bag with handles, supporting it from the bottom.
It doesn’t take long for me to recognize the Dolly’s logo on the side and know that whatever is in there is delicious. “You can do it for me.”
“Why? What is it?”
Holding out the bag, she nods, signaling for me to take it. I continue to stare at it, as if it might contain the plague and require a hazmat suit before handling.
“Something for Presley. I’ll text you the address of her cottage and you can make this delivery for me. Save me some time.”
“Why?” I question again, still not following. Also, no fucking way am I going to her house.
“Jace Butler Hayes.” Miss Belle’s tone switches in an instant, the soft lull of her Southern accent gone, replaced with a sharpness that sends a chill down my spine. “Do not question your mama. I know you were raised better than that.”
Indeed I was…
I take the bag, supporting it from the bottom the same as she did. Warmth radiates through the paper, curiosity poking at me, telling me to peek inside the bag. Too bad it’s stapled shut.
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod.
“I’ll text you the address right now.”
“Here,” Milo adds, reaching under the bar. He pulls out a forty-ounce glass bottle filled with something that is slightly too light in color to be something he brewed, but still resembles beer. “Take that with you too.”
“What is it?”
“A pre-mixed Sobbin’ Shandy. We made a bunch for a bridal shower this past weekend and had some left over. Presley really liked the one she had the other day.”
Things I didn’t realize Milo and Brandt were doing these days—catering bridal showers and pre-mixing their one cocktail.
Southern Brothers Brewing has always been strictly beer, their four signature brews being the only items featured at Pour Decisions.
A couple of years ago, Brandt started mixing Sob Story with lemonade for one of Willa’s friends, and the drink took off and became a regular feature on the menu. It’s still the only non-beer available.
Unless you know the secret menu—also known as the moonshine that Brandt still dabbles in on the side. Or if you’re Bronwyn, who doesn’t drink, and somehow convinced Milo to keep a stash of Diet Coke on hand for her.
“Right.” I look between Mama and Milo, waiting for some additional instructions. Or maybe some kind of explanation of why I’m taking all this stuff. But I get nothing.
“Go before it’s cold,” Miss Belle shoos.
“Or warm, in the case of the Shandy,” Milo adds.
I hold up both items, showing off that I have them securely in hand as I start to back up. I feel like an idiot—still pissed that I was left hanging, and now even more annoyed that I’m being used as an errand boy.
There’s no use arguing about it. So I turn to head to my truck, my phone buzzing with a text that I’m sure is the address I need to head to.
Guess I’m making a special delivery.
“What are you doing here?”
I swear the door isn’t even all the way open yet when Presley’s surprised, yet oddly not accusatory question hits me square in the face.
Her brown hair is piled on top of her head in a wildly messy knot, wisps falling out in random places, perfectly framing her eyes.
Blue eyes so light they are borderline gray—a detail I remember being mesmerized by in high school.
A detail I’m just as mesmerized by now.
So much so I almost miss the ratty, well-loved UNC tee she’s wearing, the collar so threadbare and stretched it almost slides off her shoulder, and the baggy sweatpants accompanying it. A pair that I can almost promise she never lets anyone see.
If I were to look up hot mess in the dictionary, I think I might see her photo right now. Yet, I can’t take my eyes off her. In a good way. The key word in hot mess is without a doubt hot—my insides twisting and turning like lava snaking down the side of a volcano.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to speak.
“I was sent with…” With what?
Faltering, I hold up the Dolly’s bag, forcing an awkward, cheerful grin. I still don’t have any idea what’s in the bag, but looking at Presley like this, it must be needed.
She looks at me quizzically, tilting her head to one side, my incoherent half answer not fully registering.
“You weren’t in the office, even though you scheduled our meeting this afternoon,” I start to ramble. “If you’d wanted to cancel, all you had to do was say so. I don’t want to do this stupid thing anyway—”
“Didn’t you get my text?” she spits out, not letting me finish.
Now it’s my turn to look at her funny.
“I sent you a text!”
She spins on her heel, taking off inside the house and leaving her front door wide open.
I wait for a second, trying to figure out what to do, then follow her inside.
Sure, I’m inviting myself in—sorta—but she did leave the door open.
So, that’s sort of like telling me I’m welcome.
Or at least it’s not telling me to get off her lawn.
“I sent a…oh, shit…” she mutters, looking at her phone. “I didn’t hit send.” She looks up at me, her body deflating as another strand of hair falls in her face. “Okay, so I typed a message, letting you know I needed to reschedule.”