Chapter 12 #2
I grab a spot at the bar and order a beer, watching the crowd. Half the town seems to be here, along with a decent number of tourists who probably think they’ve lucked into the quintessential Winsome experience. Which I guess they have.
A cute woman from Boston asks to buy me a drink, which isn’t altogether unusual—plenty of folks come to town looking for a hookup, and that’s been my favorite way to blow off steam for years—but I turn her down.
Several locals offer me friendly back-slaps, beer, and chats about our Pop Warner team’s chances in the league, and that is unusual. Was my half-assed attempt at friendliness really all it took?
Then Griffin walks in, and I forget about all of it.
I notice him immediately and not just because he’s gorgeous, though the green V-neck sweater and ass-molding jeans he’s wearing don’t exactly hurt the cause. It’s because he’s got a fucking fan club.
“Griffin!” someone calls from a corner table. “Over here! Join our team!”
“Griffin!” Mrs. Chen from the post office yells. “I want to chat about Celine’s college application essays. Do you think you could—”
Griffin laughs—a genuine, surprised laugh I’m starting to recognize—and makes his way through the crowd, stopping to chat with people as he goes.
Perky Halloran shakes his hand. Even Walt Lehmann, who’s been suspicious of outsiders since Bush was president, claps Griffin on the shoulder like they’re old friends.
Griffin doesn’t seem to know how to take it. He’s not unhappy, but… uncertain. His gaze roves over the crowd like he’s looking for something.
And then locks on me.
The second our eyes meet, I feel a snap of connection. An invisible tether stretching between us across the bar. It’s like the whole tightly packed crowd falls away, and it’s just him and me. My pulse kicks so hard I can feel it in my throat. I can’t look away. I can’t even blink—
“You know,” a voice above my shoulder says, “you keep staring at him like that, folks are going to start talking.”
Startled, I break my gaze from Griffin’s—a good thing—and glare at Holden instead. “Don’t you have some little old ladies to pull over for speeding?” I demand.
He grins. “So what’s the strategy tonight, bro? Charm offensive? Strategic alliance?” He lowers his voice suggestively. “Aggressive flirtation?”
“No.”
“You sure?” His brown eyes gleam with humor. “Because the way you were looking at each other at the farmer’s market could heat entire cities. And Ames said that after the scavenger hunt—”
I can just imagine what Ames said. “Ames talks too much.”
“—Griffin hung out with him and was really sweet. He said he thought if you two could just discuss the easement issue, Griffin would be reasonable about it.”
I grunt. He doesn’t know the easement is on the list of things Griffin and I definitely aren’t talking about while we’re busy eating waffles, solving riddles, finding hidden rope bridges to fairy-tale pickle-barrel turrets, and… you know… fucking.
It’s not that I’ve forgotten about the easement. Not when my logging schedule and my pending deliveries mock me every time I sit down at my desk.
“Beckett! There you are!” Eliza pushes through the crowd and greets us both with a cheek kiss.
She’s traded her scrubs for jeans and a sweater but is wearing her determined look that means I’m about to be voluntold to do something. And sure enough, she starts in with, “I’ve been making the rounds, analyzing the crowd before the competition, and I think we need to—oh! Hi, Griffin!”
Griffin appears beside me, and suddenly, the bar’s fifty degrees warmer. Too warm. Some might say… hot.
“Hey,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s my imagination or if his smile when he looks up at me is different from the one he’s been giving everyone else. He focuses on my sister. “I don’t think we’ve met—”
“Not officially,” Eliza agrees, shaking his hand. “I’m—”
“Dr. Eliza Axford, who never got the message she was the second-born Axford and has been bossing us all around since preschool,” Holden teases.
Eliza shoots him a look that says she’s planning to boss him harder from now on.
“I was just telling Beck, the Brine and Dandy starts in ten minutes. Everyone’s breaking into tables of four, and you’ll compete against the other people at your table.
Nearly every table wants one of you to join them, so I think—”
“I can see them wanting Griffin,” I interrupt. “They think they can outdrink him. I highly doubt they want me.”
Eliza raises one dark eyebrow. “Despite being built like a brick shit house and able to hold your liquor, you’re known for being easily riled in Griffin’s presence.”
She doesn’t know the half of it.
“Which means they want a show,” Holden says.
“Correct,” Eliza says happily. “And it can only mean good exposure for both of you.”
Griffin’s eyes widen. “Me, compete with this guy?” His face is pink, and he can’t quite meet my eyes. “He can probably pound shots with impunity. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Glad you agree! Now, go sit with Ames and Ry Marek.” Eliza takes Griffin by the shoulder, turns him, and points to a high-top table in the corner, proving that her bossing extends to more than just her own brothers.
She lowers her voice. “I think they’re supposed to be on a date, and Ames needs a rescue. ”
She’s not wrong. From this distance, it looks like Ry’s pumping out energy like a nuclear reactor, which I’m learning is kind of his thing. Meanwhile, Ames looks like he’s being held at gunpoint. His smile is anemic, his eyes are dull, and I’ve seen lunchmeat with more personality.
“Ooof,” Griffin says softly, not arguing anymore. “What about Holden? Whose table will you be at?”
Holden’s teasing grin softens into something more genuine. “Oh, I’m just here for the party. And to make sure folks like this guy…” He claps me on the shoulder. “…who probably didn’t plan ahead, get home safely.”
I grimace because… he’s not wrong. I hadn’t actually considered how I’d get home. Which just goes to show how rarely I do shit like this.
A cheerful voice comes over the sound system. “Time for the main event, everyone! The Brine and Dandy Competition!”
The crowd cheers, and people finalize their teams, as friends, couples, families. It’s a kind of easy camaraderie I’ve been watching with a raised eyebrow from the sidelines for years. It feels fucking strange to be in the throes of it now.
“Do your thing,” Griffin says, nudging me in the side.
It takes me a second to realize “my thing” is acting as a battering ram to get us through the crowd like I did during the scavenger hunt.
I chuckle. But instead of letting Griffin follow behind, I sling a friendly arm around his shoulders and drag him along beside me.
I’m not sure why I do this, exactly, but let’s pretend there’s some premeditated, logical reason that doesn’t involve his citrus scent, or the way he feels under my arm, or how much I like it when, after a moment of hesitation, he clasps me back in a similar way.
Like we’re just two pals, a couple of amigos, hamming it up for the crowd.
“Griffin, sit with us,” Ramona Pratt insists as we pass her table. “I want to hear more about your fresh ideas!”
“Beckett! Beck! Getcherass over here,” Patrick Turner yells before telling the woman beside him, “Bet Beck’s never tossed a pickle in his life!”
Griffin shakes his head and gives both of them a polite smile, thumbing over his shoulder at me. “Sorry, guys. I’m sitting with him. Beckett’s mine for tonight.”
It’s a throwaway comment. I mean, fuck. Obviously, it is. Griffin and I aren’t together.
But I hear True’s voice in my head telling me to stop pretending I don’t want things just because they feel risky, so I don’t pull away from Griffin or correct whatever bullshit calculus I see happening on Patrick’s face as he watches the two of us pass.
I just… enjoy the feeling of Griffin’s hand on me.
The sweetly painful sensation of being claimed by someone.
“Beck! Griffin!” Ames says when we get close. He looks almost relieved. “You guys our competition?”
Ry doesn’t seem upset that Griffin and I have crashed his date. He’s as eager-beaver as ever, jumping off his stool to give Griffin a hug—which Griffin endures with a stiff smile—and shake my hand.
“Cool!” Ry says. “Cool, cool. I thought… I mean… I figured we’d be competing with Robbie and Lissa, since Robbie and Ames are, you know…” He twines two fingers together, then shrugs and darts a look around the bar. “But I guess the lovebirds ditched us?”
“They went out back about… fourteen minutes ago,” Ames confirms with a forced smile. “Give or take. Pretty sure they’re not coming back.”
Griffin rolls his lips together and gives Ames a sympathetic look. I feel like I’m missing something.
“Well, we’re here, for whatever that’s worth.” Griffin slides onto the stool beside Ry and gestures me to the one beside Ames. “I don’t actually know how this event works, and I wasn’t really paying attention when Ada explained it yesterday, but it’s some kind of drinking game, yes?”
Ry explains the rules while servers distribute shot glasses and bottles.
The concept is simple enough—a bell rings every fifteen minutes to start a new round, and there are five rounds in total.
Each competitor takes a shot of a pickle-infused vodka they call “The Brine” to start the round, and then we each complete a challenge.
If we can’t complete it, we take another shot.
At the end of the five rounds, the person at our table who’s taken the fewest shots wins.
“The alcohol is… pickle flavored?” Griffin whispers as he inspects a bottle. His face is a little green.
Ames raises his hand, and Raisa, the bar owner, comes over. “What do we do if someone at our table’s physically incapable of taking a brine shot?”