Chapter 8
Jonny
The bar is packed when I open the door, a wave of warmth and music hitting us. Sarah glances back at me and hesitates, a nervous glint in her eyes.
I put my hand on her lower back and lean in. “Don’t worry, it’s just a small-town country bar.”
She grips my sleeve. “Do not leave me.”
“I’ll be right by your side,” I promise.
She takes a breath and nods, then heads inside. Her hair’s in a sleek ponytail tonight, and my eyes drift down to the curve of her neck as I follow her. For a split second, I imagine leaning in and pressing my lips there.
Maybe later. If I’m lucky.
After the tree-lighting, I told myself that this wasn’t a good time to get involved with Sarah or anyone else.
I’m here in Azalea to help my family. So I spent the week focusing on just that: doing odd jobs for Mom, running errands for Kara, making sure the holiday market stays on track.
And yet, every time I walked through that market, something pulled me toward the bookshop.
Toward her. I couldn’t help stopping by, chatting, teasing, and flirting a little.
Still, it took Bianca to finally push me over the edge and ask Sarah out again.
Big sisters—bossy and annoying as hell. But I guess they’ve got their uses.
I haven’t been to this bar in years, and the place is buzzing: the bartender pouring drinks, waitresses balancing trays, familiar faces everywhere.
The walls are crowded with neon beer signs for Shiner Bock, Lone Star, Bud Light, and more.
Christmas lights are strung around the stage, where the band is playing a country version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. ”
“What can I get you?” I ask Sarah as we make our way over to the bar.
The woman next to her orders a ranch water, and Sarah’s eyes flick toward mine. “What’s that?”
“It’s a Texas classic,” I tell her. “Refreshing, no frills, gets the job done.”
“Can I try it?”
“Sure thing,” I say, smiling. “Great choice.”
I wave over the bartender—Russell Barrowes, my little sister Kara’s age—and order a Corona with lime for me and a ranch water for Sarah.
When he comes back with our drinks, Sarah takes a sip of hers. “Mmm, this is good. Tasty.”
We find a spot to sit as the band ends the song and everyone claps. I’m surprised by the wave of nostalgia I feel. People of all ages fill the room—some my parents’ generation, others I recognize from high school, and younger ones who were probably in elementary school back when I lived here.
Sarah leans in, her eyes darting toward mine. “Hey, so, I didn’t know you were, like, a millionaire. Or, I guess a…twenty-millionaire?”
I shake my head, heat crawling up my neck. “Bianca’s exaggerating.” A little. Still, it’s more than I ever expected to have to my name.
“What kind of start-up did you sell?” she asks, taking a sip of her drink.
“A buddy and I developed glasses that track the amount of sunlight you’re exposed to and send the info to an app,” I say, leaving it at that. Most people don’t care about the nitty-gritty.
But Sarah leans in. “Ooh, interesting. Is it so people can avoid getting sunburns?”
“Partly,” I say, smiling at her curiosity. “It does track UV, but it also helps make sure you’re getting enough light, especially in the morning. Improves mood, sleep—stuff like that. We sold it to a bigger company that’s adding the tech to their wearables.”
“What are you going to do with the money? Retire and live on an island somewhere?”
I was a little worried she might act differently around me once she found out, but she seems the same. It’s kind of a relief. “Nah, I’d be bored in a week. I want to do something useful with it. Make a difference, you know?”
She nods thoughtfully. “Like invest in something?”
“Maybe. I’ve headed a few different start-ups, and I love the early stages—getting things off the ground. The energy, the chaos, the uncertainty — it’s exciting. Once things start settling down, though, I get a little bored.”
“That tracks,” she says, smiling.
I tilt my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs, playful. “Nothing bad. Just…you’ve got start-up energy. You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s into the long-term follow-through. And that’s fine, everyone has different strengths.”
Her words make me pause. She’s not wrong—my interest in a project fades when the daily grind sets in. I’ve been lucky, having more hits than misses overall. But lately I’ve been feeling a little tired of the churn and burn, wondering what it might be like to focus on something less temporary.
Then again…maybe that’s not me. Maybe I’m the kind of guy who’s good at the launch—but not the long haul.
The band switches it up, leading into a cover of “The Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and everyone cheers and runs out to the dance floor.
I turn to Sarah. “Do you know this one?”
She hesitates. “The song, but not the dance.”
“It’s easy to learn. I can show you?”
She downs the rest of her drink, then nods. “Sure.”
I take her hand, and we head out to the dance floor. The crowd sways and shuffles, boots tapping against the sawdust-covered floor, and I guide her through the line dance. She picks up the moves quickly, and soon she’s kicking up her heels, spinning out in a grapevine.
By the time the song ends, she’s flushed and laughing.
“Okay, that was fun,” she says.
Next up is “Feliz Navidad,” and I raise my eyebrows at her.
“I…think I could use another drink,” she says.
“Ranch water again?”
She nods. When I return, Sarah drinks this one even faster than the first. “This really is good,” she says. “Like a light sparkling margarita.”
“Well, it’s not exactly light on the booze,” I tease, glancing up as my brother Isaac and his wife weave through the crowd toward us. “Hey! Y’all ditched the kids for a night out?”
“Your mama basically begged us to let her keep them for a while,” Annabel says, smiling. “Hey girl, how are you?”
Sarah beams. “I’m doing well. How are you?”
“Good! I’ve been hearing from a bunch of my friends that they’re loving having a bookstore in town,” my sister-in-law says.
“And Bianca says your recommendations are great,” Isaac adds.
Sarah flushes, clearly pleased. “That’s…so nice. I’ve never run a bookstore before, so I’m just winging it.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job,” I say, nudging her with my shoulder.
Isaac and Annabel fade into the crowd as the band starts up a country swing version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
I incline my head toward the dance floor. “Ready to dance again?”
The next couple of hours melt away in a blur of music, drinks, and laughter.
I lead Sarah through some basic swing moves.
She stumbles over my feet a few times, and we both end up doubled over laughing.
At some point, she’s swept away by Harv Lundy, who’s pushing ninety but still dances like a pro, twirling her so fast she squeals.
Next, she’s asked to dance by little TJ Mitchell (who’s not so little anymore, probably twenty-two), then she’s pulled into a circle of women by Annabel, dancing and singing along to a twangy cover of “Santa Baby.”
I lean against a high-top, drink forgotten in my hand, and watch. Her ponytail is loose, her cheeks are flushed. And damn it, my chest is doing something weird—a warm, fizzy sensation that has nothing to do with alcohol.
Isaac comes up next to me, beer in hand. “Sarah seems great,” he says.
I nod, unable to take my eyes off her. “She’s…fun. And funny. And we have fun together—”
I pause, realizing I sound like an idiot.
Isaac grins knowingly. “Okay, well, don’t fuck it up.”
I glance at him. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you expect me to fuck it up?” I can hear the defensiveness creeping into my voice.
My brother shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…she seems great. And you seem to like her.”
My shoulders relax as my eyes drift over the crowd again, finding Sarah, her face glowing as she dances. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The lead singer grabs the mic and says they’re gonna slow it down. The first lazy notes of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” float out, and before I can even think twice, I set my drink aside and head toward her.
“May I?” I say, holding out a hand.
She comes easily into my arms, folding against me. All at once, I’m aware of everything: her breath against my neck, the curve of her body pressed to mine. Damn it, I’m kicking myself for not asking her out sooner, for letting a whole week slip by when we could’ve been doing this.
“I’m sure glad Conor sent you here to run the bookshop,” I murmur into her ear.
“Yeah?” she says, looking up at me.
I nod. “I thought he was sending a retired librarian, and it would’ve been kinda awkward to take her out tonight.”
She giggles, swaying a little; she’s tipsy, and it’s cute. “I’m sure you would’ve charmed her anyway, Jonny McKay.”
“Am I charming you?” I grin.
She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her brown eyes. “You’re doing alright.”
“Just alright? That’s too bad. I’m aiming for an A+ grade.”
“Well,” she says, studying me. “You’re surprisingly gentlemanly—”
“Surprisingly?” I raise an eyebrow.
“And even though you’re an incorrigible flirt, you haven’t flirted with anyone else in front of me yet—”
“I’d never—”
“—so I’d give you a…B so far.”
“Brutal. You’re a real tough grader, Ms…” I pause. “Wait, what’s your last name?”
She hesitates. “Um. Schwartz.”
“Ms. Schwartz,” I say. “What can I do to bump that grade up? Any extra credit?”
“Let me think…” Slow and deliberate, her gaze drifts to my mouth.
My pulse kicks up. I lean in closer, so my lips brush her ear. “How many points could I get for a kiss?”
“Depends,” she whispers.
“On?”
“On how good it is.”
I smirk. “Oh, it’s gonna be good—”
“Cocky.”
“—but we’re in public, so I can’t go all out.”
She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “How about you give me a little taste, then?”