Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ben
The Wandering Pint smells faintly of hops and wood polish when I come in from the back. Morning light streams through the tall front windows, turning the polished oak bar into a ribbon of gold.
The place is quiet now, just the low hum of the cooler and the faint creak of floorboards under my boots, but by noon, it’ll be full—glasses clinking, laughter echoing off the exposed brick walls, the air carrying the smell of fried fish and garlic fries.
The tables are mismatched in a way that feels intentional—because it was—some dark wood, some lighter, all solid and well-loved. A long row of booths lines the far wall, their cushions deep green leather, worn in all the right places.
Plants hang from the rafters, trailing green against the high, whitewashed ceiling, and the big ceiling fans keep the air moving just enough to make the place feel light despite the darker wood.
Warm, comfortable, but open. You can see every table from the bar, and the windows pull the street inside with every glance.
We don’t open until lunch, but there’s already a couple of guys leaning against the front railing, nursing coffee cups, talking like they’ve been here since sunrise. They’ll be first in line when the doors unlock. I like that. I like that people think of The Wandering Pint as part of their day.
I’m checking the taps when my phone buzzes. Kelly Haversham flashes on the screen.
I sigh, thinking of my real estate agent and how… peppy she is. I wipe my hands on a bar towel before answering. “Hello?”
“Ben!” she says, voice bright, almost bubbling. “It’s Kelly! I think I’ve found someone for the bakery space next door.”
I lean my hip against the bar, not even trying to match her energy. “Yeah?”
“She just left here. She’s young, has a business degree, and she’s got big plans for the place. You’re going to love her.”
I make a noncommittal sound. Relief prickles under my ribs—two years of that storefront sitting empty is two years too long.
But along with the relief, I feel a bit of apprehension. Sure, I want the place filled, but it’s right next door to my place, and I need someone who won’t give me a headache or drive away my own customers.
“That right?” I say, keeping my tone even.
“Yes, really. She’s serious. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Alright. Appreciate the heads-up.”
When I hang up, I glance toward the front windows.
There’s a woman standing in front of the bakery space, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Is that her? Has to be.
Even from here, I can see she’s tall and willowy, a brunette with masses of curly hair.
My type. There’s something about the way she’s looking at the place, her head tilted slightly, like she’s already seeing it the way it could be.
A low pull settles in my gut before I can stop it.
I squint, trying to catch more, but the angle of the light hides her face. Probably for the best. I shake my head, stepping back from the window.
Not a good idea to think thoughts like that about someone who might be signing a lease next door. No way.
Harold and Marlene ran that place like it was their living room. Everyone welcome, everyone fed. I’d like to see it come alive again. I just hope whoever this new tenant is knows what she’s walking into.
A couple of hours later, the place is hopping, just like I knew it would be.
Every table inside is full, and the patio out front is packed too—locals with their usual orders, tourists trying something off the chalkboard specials.
The air buzzes with conversation and the clink of glasses, the low thump of music in the background.
I’m behind the bar, pulling pints and mixing drinks without a second to breathe. Orders come in faster than I can finish them, and the line at the counter never seems to shrink.
My kitchen’s in overdrive, tickets clipped to the rail in an endless line. The smell of burgers and beer-battered fish filters through every time the swinging door opens, and I catch glimpses of my servers practically running, trays balanced high.
For half a second, I wish I could step back, lean against the wall, and just take a breath. But the thought barely sticks before it’s pushed out by something else—gratitude.
Because as exhausting as it is, this? This is everything I wanted when I opened The Wandering Pint.
When I first unlocked the doors a few years back, I didn’t know if we’d even make it through the first six months.
I hoped. I planned. I worked every hour the place was open.
But I never pictured this—tables turning over all day, people waiting outside before we even open, regulars who’ve turned into friends.
It’s a shock, in the best way. And even now, elbow-deep in drink orders, I’m not about to take it for granted.
“Hey, Hoffman! You saving any of that beer for the paying customers, or you just drinking it all yourself?”
The familiar voice cuts through the noise, and I glance up from the tap handles. Speaking of friends. Jason Richards stands on the other side of the bar, grinning like he’s been waiting all morning to throw that line at me.
We’ve been best friends since I moved here with my dad when I was sixteen.
Went to Harvard together—yeah, I know, two Paducah boys in Boston, hell of a story—and somehow both ended up right back where we started.
I built The Wandering Pint from scratch; Jason opened a gym a few blocks over. Different worlds, same stubborn drive.
“Pretty sure I’ve poured more pints for you than you’ve ever paid for,” I shoot back, sliding a finished beer toward one of the regulars before wiping down the bar.
Jason leans an elbow on the counter like he’s settling in for a while. “Perks of friendship. Besides, I bring you clients.”
I snort. “You mean those guys who come in after workouts and cancel out every calorie they burned?”
“Exactly.” He flashes a quick grin. “Keeps us both in business.”
I grab a clean pint glass and hold it under the tap. “What are you having?”
“Whatever’s new,” Jason says, glancing around like he’s taking stock of the crowd. “Place is slammed.”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling the handle and watching the amber stream fill the glass. “Good problem to have.” I set it in front of him, foam settling just right.
He takes a sip, nodding his approval. “Not bad. Almost makes me forget you still owe me from poker night.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing a towel to mop up a spill near the register. “Pretty sure we agreed that debt was paid when I spotted you a month’s worth of burgers.”
“That’s not how that works,” he says, smirking.
“Then stop losing.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” Jason takes another drink, then tips his chin toward the window.
Jason takes another drink, then swivels on his stool to watch one of the servers weave through the crowd with a tray stacked high with plates. “Man, you’ve got this place running like a machine.”
“Feels more like a runaway train most days,” I say, wiping down the bar again before sliding a fresh basket of pretzels to a couple who just sat down.
“Yeah, but it’s a train people actually want to be on.” He gestures toward the patio outside, where the tables are full and the servers are moving just as fast as inside. “It’s like this every time I come in. You’re killing it, Ben.”
I shrug, though I can’t help the little spark of pride that flares up. “Took a lot of long nights to get here.”
Jason grins. “And mornings. I remember you working on the menu before sunrise, like you were trying to write the next great American novel in beer foam.”
After living together for four years in college, Jason and I continued to room together when we first came back to town. I still miss those days sometimes. Waking up in an empty house isn’t quite as great as it seems some days.
More and more lately.
I snort. “Still am, some days.”
A group at the end of the bar waves for refills, and I nod toward Jason’s glass. “Another?”
He pushes it toward me with a lazy grin. “You’re a good man, Hoffman.”
I smirk. “Tell me that again after I hand you the bill.”
I fill glasses and push them down the bar to the group waiting, then turn back to Jason.
“Speaking of, shouldn’t you be at work right now?”
Jason tips his glass back, finishing the last sip before setting it down. “Took off for the afternoon. Had lunch with my sister.”
“Right, right,” I say, wiping down a stretch of the bar. “She just graduated, didn’t she? She’s back already?”
He nods, a proud grin spreading across his face. “Yup. Fresh degree from Vanderbilt. Couldn’t be prouder.”
“And you took her somewhere else for lunch?” I ask with a lifted brow, pretending to be offended.
“She had a meeting earlier, and you weren’t open when she called,” Jason defends.
“Interviews already?”
He furrows his brow. “I think so. She was all dressed up. Wouldn’t tell me what, but she seemed really excited about something. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.”
I raise my brows, leaning against the back counter for a second. Paige Richards. The name sparks a picture in my head—Jason’s little sister, cheeks always flaming red, half her face hidden behind curly brown hair.
She’d peek around corners at me back when I was over at their place, eyes wide, mouth shut, like she was working up the courage to say something but never quite getting there.
It had been amusing, in that harmless, teenage-crush kind of way. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen at the time, all shy glances and quick disappearances whenever I caught her looking.
“She move back home?” I ask.
The house where Jason grew up was more like something you’d see on a postcard.
Big and white, with a wraparound porch and a view of the river that could make you stop mid-sentence. White picket fence and a stretch of lawn that seemed to go on forever.
A far cry from where I grew up.
Back in Ballard, before we moved to Paducah, the population was less than a thousand. Everyone knew everyone, and nothing ever changed.
We lived in a trailer there, so small you could talk to each other from either end without raising your voice.
And here in Paducah, the place I shared with my dad was only a little better. A condo with walls so thin you could hear every word, every sigh, every argument from next door.
Better than the silence on our side anyway.
Then, the day I went off to Harvard, my dad packed up and left like the last bit of responsibility he’d been clinging to had finally slipped through his fingers. Just like everyone else in my life.
Just like my mom had when I was ten.
Jason nods. “Yeah. She’s back in the house for now. Says she wants to get settled before she figures out something of her own.”
I grab another pint glass, more out of habit than need, and set it under the tap. “Makes sense,” I say, though my mind drifts again to the image of her—the shy kid with the big brown eyes who used to vanish whenever I so much as looked her way.
To be honest, if that house were an option for me, I don’t know that I’d ever leave it.
I think of my own house.
No, it’s not quite the Richards’ place—doesn’t have the sweeping porch or the view of the river—but I’ve done pretty well for myself. A craftsman-style home on the edge of downtown, close enough that I can walk to The Wandering Pint in under ten minutes.
The siding’s a deep slate blue with crisp white trim, the kind of color that looks good in every season.
Inside, the hardwood floors are warm and worn, the kitchen big enough to actually cook in, and the living room has a massive brick fireplace I restored last year. Out back, there’s a deck and just enough yard for a grill, a couple of chairs, and the fire pit I drag out on cool nights.
It’s not huge, but it’s mine. Every board, every fixture, every bit of sweat equity I put into it is mine. And after the way I grew up, that means more to me than anything else.
I look around the pub, at all the customers sitting around, having a pint, a burger, enjoying themselves. But this place… this is my pride and joy right here.
I hand off another round of drinks down the bar. I definitely have something to be proud of.