20. Hux
20
HUX
“Sneaking around is apparently a theme in this family.”
Milo stops, beer midway to Jace, giving him a look only an older brother can. One that is asking the question that all of us are wondering.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I voice it, but only because I was quickest to the draw. Dude has lost his mind.
Jace shrugs, confident in his wild theory, leaning back in his stool at the Pour Decisions bar. The warehouse-like space that acts as a taproom for Southern Brothers Brewing is already starting to fill up. Small groups of people are making their way up to the rough-cut bar on one side of the room to grab a drink before heading to one of the tables set up inside or to the picnic-style ones outside under the new shelter that Milo and Brandt installed last summer. Tonight’s food truck—Lord of the Fries—arrived about fifteen minutes ago, and I can already smell the deep fried goodness.
“Well, Milo was sneaking around with Brenna. Gus was sneaking around with Margeaux…”
“Don’t forget Willa and Nash,” Ewan adds.
Jace snaps his fingers, pointing at baby brother. “And she kept that a secret for like ten years.”
“Eh…” Ewan shrugs. “You don’t share a building with her. He was in and out of the bank all the time. Plus, it needs better soundproofing.”
Jace wobbles his head, giving Ewan that point. The old bank building that Ewan and Willa call home sits in the middle of town, a reminder of when Hickory Hills was even smaller than it is now. Despite the fact that Pitman Dean National Bank closed the Hickory Hills branch after they bought out Middle Georgia Bank and Trust years ago, everyone in town still refers to this building as “the bank.” Even after Auggie bought it, renovated it creating two apartments—on the second and third floors, now occupied by Ewan and Willa and her boyfriend, Nash, respectively—and attempted to change it to the Llewellyn building, named for the ancestor who died in the Civil War. It’s simply “the bank.”
“And now, we add Hux and Dolly to the list,” Jace continues, ignoring Ewan’s laments about how quiet our sister isn’t in the heat of the moment.
“Brenna and I didn’t sneak around,” Milo says, glaring at Jace, his voice stern. Like he’s doing his grumpy Gus impression. “I was perfectly open about my intentions.”
Now it’s my turn to give him the what the fuck look. Because that’s not how it went down at all.
“Seriously? Because I distinctly remember breaking up a fight before you got your ass kicked.”
Milo turns his glare at me. It’s the truth though—if it weren’t for Gus and me, he would have had his ass handed to him thanks to?—
“Fine, I was mostly upfront about my intentions,” he admits, picking up an empty pint glass and filling it with beer. “Either way, we weren’t sneaking around.”
He makes a damn good point. I wouldn’t qualify what he and Brenna did as sneaking around. The two of them were seen all over town together last summer. Were they careful about their behavior? Sure. A move I understand and respect. Brenna is twelve years younger than Milo and the baby sister of his best friend and business partner. That’s not something one flaunts until you’re sure.
Same as Milo and Brenna, I wouldn’t classify what Dolly and I are doing that way either. Not the same way I would what Willa and Gus did. Both of them went to great lengths to keep their relationships secret. In some moments, to even make people believe the opposite was true. Dolly and I are simply choosing not to make our status public.
“There’s no sneaking here,” I declare. “Not a Hayes family trend.”
“Oh, so we can talk about it?” Anton asks, appearing out of nowhere. Fuck me…where did he come from? “I could stand up on this bar and sing Hux and Dolly sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g and it’d be totally cool?”
Fucker…
“Only if you want to be fertilizer for your peach trees.”
Anton’s shit-eating grin doubles in size, clueing me in that my threat didn’t land as I hoped. Or at all for that matter. I shoot Milo a look, and he nods, silently confirming that he’ll cut Anton off before he gets drunk enough to get to that point. Although given his instigator tendencies, it’s anyone’s guess if that’s after one beer or four.
“What’s the holdup?” Dolly asks, bouncing into the group. She barely looks at me, slipping her arm around my waist, reaching for the beer on the bar and taking a long sip. “I’m thirsty!”
That’s my girl…
“Jace,” I answer without thinking. “He’s the holdup.”
“Oh, that was a Sob Story…” Dolly scrunches her nose, the ale’s taste clearly not doing it for her.
Shaking my head, I push the rejected beer out of the way, sliding hers forward so it sits at the edge of the bar in front of her. “That’s your Blue Jeans in Low Beams.”
She lights up, taking another long sip, this one resonating as desired, her blue eyes sparkling as she puts it down. Right along with a smile that says one thing and one thing only. She wants something.
Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she flips it toward me, the screen filled with a very familiar scene. A little white house, this one two levels with an angled roof, dormers, and large wraparound porch, sitting in the middle of a large, lush field.
“Add it to the—” I start, my response on autopilot, but she cuts me off.
“I already put it in the folder. But, the pond—how much trouble would that be?”
Okay, that’s a new question…
I look closer, and sure enough, there’s a large pond off to the side. This isn’t the first of these kinds of houses that she’s saved that includes some weird feature, especially in the landscaping. The computer-generated ones get really weird at times. Last fall she even found one that had a pool made to look like a pond. But this one is an actual pond—evidenced by the spots of orange in the water, representing what I assume to be koi.
“No idea, never dug a pond.”
“But, like, it’s possible?”
For you, Dolly, anything…
I keep that response to myself. This is not the moment to go there. I’ve already told her I’m in this, but standing in the middle of my older brother’s bar, surrounded by a handful of my other brothers, is not the moment to tell her that I will literally dig her a pond with my bare hands if that is what she fucking wants.
“People have ponds, so it’s not impossible,” I improvise. I can’t bear to tell her no. Or even imply it. “But that’s probably a Keller Landscaping question.”
I make a mental note to ask Nash or his twin, Noel, about the basics of ponds and how much trouble I’m about to get myself into. Because I have no doubt that a pond—both its creation and upkeep—is three different kinds of a headache. The smile spreading across Dolly’s face, though, is worth it.
“Noted.” Slipping her phone in her back pocket, she lifts her beer in salute to Milo, then grabs my hand, pulling me away from the bar. “C’mon, I’m hungry, and they have chicken bacon ranch fries. Share some with me? Please?”
“Always.”
“Whis-chaa!” Anton imitates the sound of a whip, and out of the corner of my eye I see him flip his wrist to match the sound. For a split second I consider turning around to give him a single finger salute, but he’s not worth it. My attention is better spent on her.
A loud crack cuts through the air, followed by an “ow!” making both Dolly and me stop, turning back to my brothers. Anton is rubbing his neck, looking at Milo like he just kicked his puppy, Jace and Ewan not bothering to hide their amusement.
“What was that for?”
“Fuck around and find out, kid!” Milo tells him, tossing his towel back over his shoulder.
Wrapping an arm around Dolly, I tug her in close, leaning down to whisper so only she can hear. “Today, Milo’s my favorite.”
Twenty minutes later—a tray full of chicken bacon ranch fries, onion rings, goat cheese fritters, and the promise of returning for deep fried Oreos for dessert—we settle at a table under the picnic shelter. Much to my disappointment, thanks to Gus and Margeaux taking up most of one bench and Nash and Willa the other, Dolly and I end up across from each other. I’d much rather have her snuggled up next to me so I could discreetly rest my hand on her thigh as we ate, but this is probably better. If she were next to me, there’s a damn good chance that I wouldn’t behave, and then we’d be a lot more on display, igniting more than a few whispers. In this position, we look like the same pair of besties we’ve always been, working our way toward clogged arteries.
“How’s the menu revamp coming?” Margeaux asks, taking a sip of her beer. “Did you decide if you want any of Papa Duck’s recipes?”
Dolly starts to respond but is cut off, my sister’s voice sharp enough to stop traffic.
“Wait, what? You’re changing the menu?”
Dolly nods, a bright smile taking over. Pride and excitement radiate off her, almost making her glitter—like those vampires in those movies she made me sit through—under the Edison bulbs strung along the beams of the shelter.
“I am. It’s time. I’m actually going to soft launch the first version of the new menu this weekend.”
“You’re not going to clean the griddle though, right?” Gus asks, giving us a serious look.
“I clean the griddle regularly.”
“Do you though?”
My head snaps to my right, shooting him a look. For fuck’s sake. It’s been a long-running joke in our family that the griddle at Dolly’s has never been cleaned and that’s why everything off it is so good. Because like any good Southern cast iron skillet, it’s been seasoned perfectly over the decades from everything that’s been cooked on it.
That said, I know she cleans it. I’ve witnessed it. It’s a health and safety requirement in order for her to maintain her A rating from the state that she very proudly posts in the front window for everyone to see. She also goes to great lengths to keep it properly seasoned—because my girl knows what she’s doing when it comes to Southern home cooking.
“I clean the griddle, Gus!” Dolly snaps, shutting him down.
He holds his hands up in surrender, Margeaux elbowing his side, silently chastising him. Not for the first time, I’m grateful she found her way to Hickory Hills and into our family, and that someone on this planet is willing to put up with his ass.
“Now that we’ve established the griddle is clean,” Willa snarks, sneering at Gus in a way only a little sister can get away with, “please tell me that the frittata is staying put.”
“Kinda. I’m replacing it with what I’m calling the Willa.”
“Please don’t,” Nash mutters.
I about choke on my beer, his comment so perfectly timed that it couldn’t have been scripted better. He’s also the only person in the world who could make it. For all the power that Willa holds in this family—getting away with her sass by being not only the baby but the only girl—Nash Keller is the only person on this planet able to call her on her shit. The one human being who can give it to her right back. Why it took them so long to realize they belong together I will never understand.
“You’re naming it after me?”
“It’s your version of the dish. So, the zucchini and mushrooms will be replaced with asparagus and bacon, and of course, the Swiss cheese stays. A lot of people actually modify it that way since they’ve seen you do it, so it makes more sense to simply offer it that way,” she answers. “And don’t worry, Nash, there’s an item on there for you too.”
“Ha!” he exclaims, winking at Willa as if he were rubbing it in her face. She rolls her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but I know she loved it. He does too, grabbing ahold of her and stealing a kiss.
“So, is that the new theme? Naming all the items after townspeople?”
“No, it’s not about a theme per se, but an overall simplification, if that’s a word,” she says, pursing her lips. She looks at me, a little unsure if she’s explaining this right, but I have nothing to add. This is her world; I just live in it. “Dolly’s has been this weird, all-encompassing thing to a lot of people over the years—a greasy spoon, a meat and three, a breakfast joint…”
Her face lights up again, stars filling her eyes, that glittery aura taking up even more space around her. The food in front of us is forgotten as she starts to ramble, talking about the testing of the menu items over the last couple of weeks, and how sheknew immediately what to nix from the offerings. Her excitement is not only palpable, but contagious.
Or maybe that’s my own pride in her. In seeing her bounce back from everything and find herself again. Because this, the bouncy, sassy, gorgeous woman sitting across from me right now, is my Dolly. The real Dolly.
The Dolly I love.
“What I do know is,” she continues, “when Grandma Dolly opened it, she wanted to create a place where people could come, hang out, and have a good meal. And that’s what she did. I want to continue that—want to honor what she created. But Hickory Hills has changed, so Dolly’s needs to change with it. Make sure that what I’m offering is what the town really needs.”
“It’s going to be perfect,” I tell her, pushing the plate of fries closer to her. Just like you…
Dolly giggles, as if she heard my unspoken addition, taking a ranch-soaked fry and biting into it. Pink crawls up her cheeks, upping her cuteness level to eleven and fuck, it’s a damn good thing there is a table between us. Because right now, I want to kiss her so fucking bad.
Shifting my weight, I try to figure out how I maneuver to get us closer. To rearrange the seating chart here without causing a massive scene. It’s not like we’re seventeen and I can shout “Chinese fire drill!”—a term that I’m pretty sure is offensive on all kinds of levels—and expect the group to get up and switch places so that I can steal a kiss in the chaos. No, that won’t work at all.
I’m a half heartbeat away from doing something drastic, like reaching over this table and hauling her across it as if I were some kind of caveman. But Dolly beats me to it. Sort of.
The move catches me off guard, my hackles going up for a split second from the brush of her foot across my ankle, my brain taking a second to catch up. When it does, my dick joins in, stiffening from the brief contact. I glance up at her, our eyes meeting, locking on one another as she does it again, another bolt of desire running through me. All she does is smile though. A very coy, knowing smile. She’s playing with fire and she knows it.
That’s my girl…
Gus clears his throat, pulling us from our trance. My head whips toward him, ready to backhand him into the middle of next week, but his cautious eyes remind me that he was only doing what I asked. Helping me keep the promise to Dolly that we would keep this between us.
“Anyway, yes, Margeaux,” Dolly says, as if she didn’t miss a beat. “To answer your question, if it’s okay, I do want Papa Duck’s gumbo recipe. I know your brother is really tightfisted about sharing all that, so I totally understand if it’s not, and I’ll absolutely acknowledge that it’s Papa Duck’s.”
“One, David doesn’t solely control the interests of the restaurant, even if he thinks he does. I’m the intellectual property lawyer, so I’m the one who handles that part of things. Two, I also know all the recipes, so…” A devious smile creeps up Margeaux’s cheeks, her red hair reflecting the light in a way that makes her look like someone I wouldn’t want to cross. Dolly gives her a matching look, the two of them now speaking in some silent girl code, making plans that I have a feeling it might be better if I don’t know about. “Not to mention that his thing has always been that we have to keep it in the family, and lending a recipe to Dolly’s would be just that.”
“Dolly’s isn’t a Hayes asset yet,” Gus mutters.
The world stops. Did he really just fucking say that?
“What do you mean yet ?” Willa questions.
Oh fuck. Have we told Willa? I know one of my brothers mentioned it after that day in the peach grove, but I don’t know if we ever actually got to that point. She and I haven’t had a conversation, but Willa also isn’t stupid. Anything but, actually.
I glance back at Dolly, who seems unfazed. At least one of us is.
“Hayes can’t own everything, Gus,” Dolly claps back.
“There you are!” Willa exclaims, cutting off whatever argument Gus might come up with in response.
“Here I am!” Bronwyn replies, holding her arms out wide, forcing a smile to her face. Hayes’s director of marketing looks dead on her feet, and her fiancé, Nash’s twin, Noel, is about two steps behind her, his normal broody expression locked in place.
“What happened? I expected you hours ago.”
“Irina called,” Bronwyn tells my sister.
Oh shit, say no more…
“And we were already in Tifton, so we popped over, and well…” Bronwyn tries to brush it off, but it’s clear the afternoon was a long one.
“Who’s Irina?” Margeaux asks.
“Our seamstress,” Willa says. “She’s over in Tifton, but she did every one of my pageant dresses, including the hand-beaded one that I won Miss Georgia in. She also did Kenzie’s wedding dress.”
“And mine,” Dolly adds in.
My gut clenches. This is the first mention of the dress—hell, her wedding—since we’ve been back in Hickory Hills. I wait to see if it triggers something, but once again, Dolly is completely unbothered.
She’s a rock…
“She isn’t happy with the way the train is lying, so I was there for a little longer than expected, and well, you know how she is,” Bronwyn says.
“Yeah, she’s…intense.” Willa’s face betrays her choice of word, but Bronwyn simply nods, going with it.
Gus, on the other hand…
“That’s one word for it. Frightening is another.”
“She can’t be that bad,” Margeaux comments.
“She can,” Dolly and I say at the same time. I laugh, taking a sip of my beer to let Dolly be the one to elaborate. “But, she’s the best there is. Like Willa said, she did all her Miss Georgia gowns, so you deal with it. You’ll see when it’s your turn.”
And there it is, the sadness. It’s small—almost imperceptible. Only to be heard if you know every nuance of the sweet cadence of her voice. But it’s there. The regret that I know she’s still secretly holding on to, even if she didn’t want to marry Jeff. She did want to get married. To be the bride. To get the happily ever after.
Dolly looked stunning in her dress too. From the first time she put it on at Irina’s for me, I knew that it was a sight I’d never forget. Instantly, I understood why the groom wasn’t allowed to see the bride before the wedding. Because that moment, seeing her in that gown, was maybe the most magical of my life. And she wasn’t even my bride.
Wait…
“You went with?” I ask Noel. “Irina didn’t lose her shit? She all but hit me while screaming when I showed up with Dolly about how there were no grooms allowed. It took twenty minutes to convince her I was the man of honor.”
“I sat in the truck,” Noel answers. “I’ve heard the stories.”
“I need a Diet Coke,” Bronwyn comments, turning to head inside.
“I got it,” Noel tells her. “Everyone else good?”
We all nod, and he places a kiss to the top of his fiancée’s head before heading inside. Nash pops up from the bench, giving Bronwyn his seat and joining his brother on the drink run.
“I need to figure out what to do with my dress,” Dolly comments. “I wonder if I could sell it.”
“I’m sure you could,” Margeaux says. “People buy secondhand dresses all the time.”
“Yes, but secondhand dresses where the bride was left?” Dolly makes a face, like she’s trying to make a joke, even though I know she’s not. “And do I need to disclose such a thing? It kinda feels like that bad parachute joke—used once, never opened.”
“Doll…” I reach out, grabbing her hand.
“It is!” she defends. It’s not, but I also know there’s not going to be any convincing her otherwise at this table. “At the same time though, I spent a lot of money on that dress. I feel like I need to do something with it. Other than leaving it in my closet to mock me.”
Margeaux says something that I don’t hear, my mind zeroing in on ideas of ways to help. Other than lighting it on fire though, I’ve got nothing. Because I don’t have an idea what women do with their wedding dresses even after a successful wedding. It’s not like they wear them again. Do they?
My phone buzzes in my pocket but I ignore it, trying to turn my focus back to Dolly. The one who actually needs my attention. That is, until a French fry hits me in the face.
Willa.
I don’t have time to ask her what the fuck she did that for before she’s squinting at me, nodding toward my lap. I arch an eyebrow, trying to figure out what she’s doing, or if she’s having a stroke, as her movements become angrier. Finally, she picks up her phone and gives me another angry nod.
Ohhhhhhh…
Willa
Trash the dress
Ummm, is that supposed to make sense? I stare at her text, reading and rereading, understanding each individual word but not catching her meaning. In the background, I hear Willa huff and another text appears.
Willa
A trash the dress session
A what?
Trash the dress! It’s this trend where women wear their wedding dress when they are done with it for a photo shoot in situations where it will get dirty or ruined. Since they aren’t worried about keeping it nice anymore
That’s a thing?
Sure is
Is she going to want to put the dress on again though? Even to ruin it?
If you offer to take it off her, I bet she will
I look up and the shit-eating smirk on Willa’s face says it all. She knows. Whether one of us told her or not, little sister is not in the dark here.
“Hey…” I take Dolly’s hand again, squeezing it, making sure her attention is all on me. “Do you trust me?”
“We’re in a little deep at this point if I didn’t…”
“Doll, do you trust me?” I repeat, leaning in, trying to make my point.
“With my life.”
“Good. Then don’t make plans for Saturday afternoon.”
I just need to find a photographer…