Chapter Nine
Everett
The job of mayor isn’t glamorous, nor does it pay much, but it does come with one nice perk—a prime parking spot right on Main Street.
It’s right in front of Town Hall, which is just up the street from The Axe & Barrel pub. After the week I’ve had, I’m more than ready for a cold beer and some hot wings, so having a guaranteed place to park my truck will come in handy.
Except that when I pull up, someone else’s car is in my spot.
The Buick’s brake lights are on, so I circle the block, expecting the driver to leave. When the car is still there after my third time around, I find a spot in the public lot two streets over and walk back toward the pub. The Buick’s engine is off now, but the driver is still in the car.
As I get closer, I see a woman in a baseball cap at the wheel.
Curious, I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, waiting to see if she’ll get out of the car, but she just sits there, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and talking to herself.
In fact, she appears so distressed that I wonder if she’s okay.
I walk over to the driver’s side and knock on the window. “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you need help?”
The woman jumps, emitting a little shriek I hear through the glass. When she looks at me, I realize who it is.
“Mila?”
Her eyes close, and all the life seems to go out of her body. She tips her head back and moans something that might be “Why me?”
I open the driver’s side door, but for a moment she stays right where she is—hands on the wheel, face toward the sky, eyes closed—as if she’s hoping I might just go away. But eventually, she swings her feet to the ground and stands up.
“Hi,” I say, shutting the door behind her.
“Hi.” Her gaze meets mine for a fraction of a moment before flitting away, hummingbird-quick.
“It’s been a while.”
“I know.” She peeks at me for the space of two whole breaths. Progress. “That was kind of on purpose.”
I smile. “What are you doing out here?”
“Having a meltdown.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a terrible person.”
“Well, I’d argue with you, but you parked in the mayor’s personal parking spot, and that is pretty terrible.” I point at the sign that reads Reserved for Mayor.
She looks at it and sighs, closing her eyes. She’s making it hard to decide if they’re as blue as I remember. “Figures. I should have known this spot was too good to be true.”
Even in the dark, her skin is luminous. She’s still got freckles smattered across her nose and cheeks, and I’m ridiculously glad to see them. “It is a pretty good spot.”
“You know what?” Her eyes open, and she stands up taller. “I really need a drink, so I’m parking right here while I go get one. If the mayor wants to have me arrested, he can find me at The Axe & Barrel and take me out in handcuffs. I’ll chance it.” She moves past me and marches toward the pub.
“Well, I’m not going to have you arrested,” I call after her, “but that bit about the handcuffs sounds interesting.”
She stops moving. After a beat, she turns around. “You’re the mayor?”
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I doff my cap and replace it. “At your service.”
“Since when?”
“Since I was duly elected by the citizens of Hart’s Landing last November.”
“My mother never mentioned it.” She frowns, looking at her feet. “Then again, my mother’s favorite person to talk about is herself, so maybe it’s not all that surprising.”
“Do you want to see my credentials?”
“No. I believe you.” She starts toward the car. “I’ll move it.”
“No, wait.” I stop her with a brief touch on her arm. “I was actually hoping to run into you. I heard you were home.”
“Home is Brooklyn. You couldn’t pay me to move back to Hart’s Landing.”
I put a hand on my chest. “As mayor, I’m deeply offended. First you steal my parking spot. Then you insult my town.”
Her eyes widen. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean—”
“There’s only one way to fix this. You have to let me buy you that drink.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Why do you want to buy me a drink?”
“Because I’m a nice guy. And because I haven’t seen you in ten years, and I’ve always wondered.”
“Wondered what?”
“Just…wondered.”
She knots her hands together at her waist, fiddling with her keys. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“What’s weird about it?”
“That you’ll be seen having a drink with the girl everyone thinks burned your family’s bakery to the ground?”
“No one thinks that.”
She gives me a dubious look. “I beg to differ.”
“Well, I don’t think that. And if I recall, the last time I saw you, we were right in the middle of a conversation when we got interrupted.”
“A conversation?” She blinks.
“Yes. So come on.” I take her by the shoulders, turn her a hundred eighty degrees, and nudge her gently in the direction of the pub.
“I’ll ignore my friends, and we can grab a beer and hide out on the back patio.
We don’t have to talk about the fire at all.
You can catch me up on the last ten years—college, your job, all the hearts you’ve broken. ”
She shakes her head. “I have not broken any hearts.”
“I find that hard to believe.” When we reach the door, I pull it open for her. “By the way, are those handcuffs still an option?”
She wants to laugh, I can tell. But she gives me a firm “No.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” I follow her into the bar, surprised by how fast my heart is beating.
Laughter, deep voices, and rock music bounce off the brick walls and cement floor of the pub as we make our way toward the copper-topped bar.
A vintage B-movie—Ripley loves them—is being soundlessly projected onto one wall, and an old jukebox stands in one corner.
Every few feet, someone recognizes me and wants to say hello, shake my hand, inquire about the upcoming Founder’s Day Festival, or ask me if there’s anything I can do about their parking tickets.
Usually, I stop and chat with people, but I try not to make eye contact tonight. I’m aware of the stares, though. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re curious to know the identity of the woman with the famously single mayor, or if Mila was right—they know who she is and they’re shocked.
She walks ahead of me, the taut lines of her neck and shoulders radiating tension.
Anxiety pours off her so thickly that I’m like a rowboat trying to cut through the wake of a battleship.
When we reach the bar, I touch her shoulder and lean close enough for her to hear me over the Red Hot Chili Peppers song blaring from the speakers. “What would you like to drink?”
She turns her head, the bill of her cap bumping my chin. Whatever perfume she’s wearing smells like orange blossom. “Vodka and soda with a lime?”
“You got it.” I make eye contact with Ripley Wilder, the owner of The Axe & Barrel and one of my closest friends.
Ripley is tall and broad, his jaw thick with dark brown facial hair and his arms heavily inked.
He played college football until an injury took him off the field, but he still looks like he’d have no problem tackling anyone who gave him a problem.
“Mr. Mayor,” he greets me, leaning on the bar with the heels of both hands. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ll take an old-fashioned and a vodka soda with lime.” I pull out my wallet and hand him my credit card. “You can start a tab for me.”
“Sounds good.” His eyes linger on Mila for a second before recognition dawns on his face. “Mila! I heard you were back.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “How does everyone know I’m back? It’s been one day.”
He shrugs. “I saw it on The Landing Pad.”
“You two know each other?” I ask.
“Sure.” Ripley nods. “We graduated high school together. You were good friends with Yasmine Khoury, right?”
“Yes.”
Ripley grins as he muddles a sugar cube in the bottom of a glass. “She’s already been over here twice tonight telling me to turn down the music. Apparently, she’s having a poetry reading next door.”
“Did you turn it down?” I ask.
“No!” He laughs. “Who has a fucking poetry reading on a Friday night? She knows how loud it gets over here on weekends. She might be running a library over there, but I’m running a bar over here, and bars are noisy. It means people are having fun.”
I shake my head. Ripley is always torturing poor Yasmine. I don’t know how she puts up with it. “Doc and Hunter around here somewhere?”
“Yeah. Back by the lanes, I think.” He sticks a lime and a straw in Mila’s drink and hands it to her. “Here you go. You guys gonna put your names in to throw?”
“Not tonight,” I say. “I think we’re just gonna sit out back for a while.”
Ripley nods. “Beer garden is open. Good seeing you, Mila.”
“You too.”
“Go straight out the back door,” I tell her. “Past the neon sign that says Kick Some Axe. I’m right behind you.”
We snake through the crowd, dodging servers carrying trays of drinks and appetizers, and head down the center of the throwing lanes.
When she looks back at me, as if to make sure I’m still there, I put a hand on her shoulder blade to reassure her.
It might be wishful thinking, but the tension in her muscles seems to melt a little under my hand.
I hear my name a few times and call a hello, but I don’t stop moving.
As we pass the lane where my friends are hanging out, I catch Hunter’s attention. His eyes widen at the sight of me following a woman so closely, my hand on her back. He elbows Doc like a middle schooler and nods in my direction, and Doc’s hand pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth.
True to my word, I ignore them and keep walking until we’re outside on the patio. Gravel crunches under my boots as I head for a table fashioned from an old apple barrel. String lights and greenery twine around the rafters over our heads, and the music is much fainter. “This okay?”