Chapter One
Tyler
“So this is . . . quaint.” Marilyn tossed her sleek brown hair over one shoulder, bar lights glinting off the massive rock on her ring finger. She looked around, eyes wide and intrigued. “How have we never been here before?”
Maggie gazed at the dance floor, where a line dance to a Garth Brooks song from the nineties grew increasingly enthusiastic and raucous. “Because you’re off living the rich life, and we’re here checking out every dive bar in the boondocks.”
I smiled, fiddling with the straw in my mojito. I’d been here before with Colt, but it had been months. It’d taken me a while to go places we’d been together because I hated looking at the person I’d been with him.
Okay, the person I still was. She was still me, all the self-help books said.
Her trauma and coping mechanisms lived inside me.
My job was to learn new skills, healthier ones.
So I’d gone back to everything I’d learned in counseling in my teens, read books and blogs, and listened to podcasts.
She wasn’t going away, and hiding wasn’t healthy either.
“So what’s good?” Marilyn squinted at the menu, her corner of the booth dimmer because she was farther from the dance floor.
I didn’t even have to look. “The Big Cheesy.”
Maggie darted a look at me, curiosity lighting up her face. “You’ve been here.”
Letting my hair shield my face, I nodded on a sip of my drink. “With Colt.”
With the menu frozen in her hands, Marilyn’s expression shifted, her intrigue draining away, replaced by concern and compassion. “We don’t have to–”
“It’s okay.”
“Yes, we do.” Maggie’s voice rang with firmness, every inch of her the accountability partner I’d tasked her to be.
I dipped my chin at Marilyn. “We do.”
“Okay.” She returned her attention to the menu, flipping it over with a brisk flick of her wrist. “The Big Cheesy . . . Joey would die.”
Joey was Marilyn’s husband, a fancy pants chef from Texas who owned restaurants all over and was on the Food Network.
He’d written bestselling cookbooks and came from money, and Marilyn had a fancy pants CFO job with his cousin, a wealthy jerk who ran a private security company.
Marilyn’s life had blown my mind when she was cheer captain and living on a hunting plantation in Thomas County.
Her life now boggled my mind.
Somehow, we were still friends, even though she’d gone to UGA and I’d stayed behind in Thomasville with Mags.
Maggie had her own cleaning business and made a killing, so much she was expanding into Chandler County.
I’d started out as a sales clerk at Goodwill and worked myself up from there to answering phones at the Ford dealership in Thomasville.
A couple of years ago, I’d been transferred to the receptionist job at the dealership in Coney.
That was how I met Colt – his daddy was the sales manager. He’d brought his shiny gray truck in for an oil change, and I’d taken one look at the tall drink of water he was and said yes, please.
The sex was great, at first. He was great, at first. Polite, smart, funny, hot.
But he was . . . difficult. Moody. Prone to withdrawing and isolating himself. I got that. I mean, that was me. But I was looking for the guy who understood that, who understood why I was that way.
I wasn’t looking to meet someone there and understand why he was that way.
Yes, selfish. I know. But life was hard, I had so much shit in my background, and I didn’t have the energy then to support someone else, no matter how talented he was in the bedroom.
I needed someone who was easy out of the bedroom.
And I recognized my limits. Colt had something hurting deep down inside himself, and I hurt for him. The thing was, I couldn’t be what he needed when I hadn’t healed all the deep down hurting inside myself. Instead, I’d boxed him in, nagged and pushed and even screamed.
The screaming had been the breaking point.
I’d screamed at him.
Then I’d left him because nobody deserved that.
The relief on his face when I broke things off? Made me feel deep-down awful, full of guilt and shame. It had been a long time since I’d felt like that.
The man I was supposed to love, who was supposed to love me – although neither of us ever said the words – was relieved when I said we were finished. That said a lot. Namely that we didn’t belong together and maybe I wasn’t as selfish as I told myself I was.
I mean, I didn’t hang around and make him even more miserable trying to mold him into the easy man of my dreams.
Then I’d spent about a year trying to make myself the easy woman of my dreams. I hadn’t succeeded – somehow I doubted I’d ever be simple and uncomplicated – but I’d read a lot about how to deal when you had a past like mine and I understood what I couldn’t live with.
Chaos.
Uneasy silence.
Lack of communication.
Not being heard.
Colt was structured beyond belief – with his mama, he didn’t have a choice – and he tried to listen to me.
I know he did. But those silences. The way he flinched sometimes then shut down if I touched him wrong.
I needed him to talk to me about that. And whatever sparked those reactions?
Well, he had everything locked down somewhere deep, and he was not talking about it.
So.
I really needed a man who was easy out of the bedroom.
“What are we doing tonight other than eating artery-clogging chili-cheese dogs?” Marilyn glanced about the bar, blue eyes bright with possibilities.
“Line dancing.” I sipped again, eyeing the dance floor.
Mama Nancy had a thing for all kinds of music and dance, and she’d taught me a ton of 90s country line dances.
That led to me scrolling late at night, studying dances and learning moves.
I shared videos, filmed people who were good at it – with their permission – and even added a few videos of me and Mags out dancing.
I received more views than I’d ever imagined, which was kind of cool and scary all at the same time.
“Of course.” Maggie took a big swig of her margarita, smiling around her straw.
Marilyn’s long-suffering sigh morphed into a quiet laugh. She might not know the steps, but she’d get out there and shake it with us, stomp all over in those fancy hand-stitched Texas boots of hers.
Our food came, and I tucked in. The only thing better than a Big Cheesy – all-beef hotdog, homemade chili, lots and lots of cheese sauce, onions and mustard on a toasted open-faced bun – was a pool-hall chili dog from Thomasville.
Mama Nancy and I still grabbed one sometimes I went home for the weekend, sitting outside in the sun and watching people trail in and out of the shops, cigarette smoke from the pool hall drifting over us.
While we ate, Marilyn and Maggie talked about her business plan and what she might need to do next year, tax-wise.
Back in the summer, Mags had the brilliant idea to film some of her cleaning hacks and post them.
Her popularity had exploded, and she had enough followers now that her channel had monetized.
As they chatted, I buried myself in cheesy, chili goodness and bounced my attention between the dancefloor and the pool tables. The two guys playing the table closest to us were damn hot and vaguely familiar. Well, the taller one was familiar, anyway.
He was gorgeous, too, with tousled dark hair, some nice stubble going on, and a mighty fine ass and strong thighs clad in faded denim. I tapped my nails against my glass. The table next to them opened up. Maybe we should play a little pool tonight.
By the time we finished, a couple had claimed the open table, flirting over each shot. She was playing it up, too, fiddling with the cue stick, biting her bottom lip, wiggling her ass when she bent over to shoot. And the guy with her was fascinated.
Shrugging off the lost opportunity – life was full of those – I led the way to the dancefloor, loving the thud of my boots, the swish of my jeans, the thump of the music in my chest.
Dancing made me feel free.
The floor wasn’t overly crowded, a handful of college boys goofing it up on one corner, trying to impress an equal number of college girls.
And an Alan Jackson song was just starting, perfect for scooting and heel-toeing and dosey-doing.
We threw ourselves into it, through that song and then Brooks and Dunn, Tim McGraw and Shania Twain.
I couldn’t resist a whoop when the familiar guitar twang rang out, signaling the start of Shania’s anthem. Marilyn gave up trying to follow, but pulled out her phone, capturing mine and Mags’s joy, stomping, clapping, twirling, and singing out loud.
Breathless as the song ended, Maggie and I collapsed into each other’s arms, giggling and hugging. What could be wrong in the world when there was music and dancing?
With a come-along chin tilt at Marilyn, I tugged Maggie toward the edge of the dance floor.
“I need a drink.” With my free hand, I tossed my hair over one shoulder. My heart still thudded in my chest from exertion and excitement, leaving me breathless.
“Let me buy you one.” The deep voice slid over my whole body, leaving tingles in its wake. Mr. Tall, Dark and Familiar stepped in front of me.
His eyes were blue, a mesmerizing contrast to that dark hair and thick lashes.
I paused. That voice. The rich drawl tickled my memory.
Where did I know him from?
Marilyn, eyes twinkling with intrigue, glanced between us, and Maggie squeezed my hand, lips curved in a big ol’ grin.
Tilting my head, I swept a glance over him, head to toe and back again. “What if I buy you one?”
An easy smile crept over his face. “Don’t care who pays as long as I get to talk to you awhile.”
Oh, he was smooth, although the flirtation rang genuine and authentic, not just a line.
Maggie mouthed go at me and gave me a tiny push in his direction.