32. Noelle
Chapter thirty-two
Noelle
I wasn’t a people person by nature, unless they were my people, but I was drowning in a loop of overthinking in the silence of the cottage. My brain kept replaying the parade when Cal publicly voiced his acceptance of me and our moment in the garage last night. I needed to focus on something else.
Something besides his smile and the way he carefully wrapped my hands and taught me to throw a proper punch.
Something besides the way he held me tenderly, the strength of his arms holding me together while I broke down.
Anything besides the overwhelming urge to let him hug me again. Maybe for forever.
So I’d driven to Donovan’s Downto’n in hopes the loud music and greasy-nacho aroma would distract me.
Downto’n was always a warm place. A community effort. I perched on the worn brown leather barstool and leaned against the live edge counter, watching the dance floor. The thrum of the bass speaker echoed through me while a half dozen couples line danced.
One particular couple caught my eye.
It was Cal’s teammate, Max, and judging by the lavender space buns, their PR girl, Bells.
If the look on Max’s face was any indication, he was smitten.
Bells, though . . . That was harder to tell.
But I wasn’t in the mood to chat, so I kept my head down and decided not to meddle in their romantic affairs.
The sharp hiss of glass sliding across the counter cut into my thoughts, and a drink paused in front of me.
My head jerked up, and Marcel stood on the opposite side of the counter, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Coke with a squirt of lime,” he said simply.
“You remember?”
He huffed, crossing his tattooed arms over his faded grey tee and leather biker vest. “Any bartender worth his salt never forgets his favourite customers.” He nodded at me. “I heard a curly blonde Julia Roberts was sitting at my counter. Figured that could only be you.”
I laughed weakly. “Talk of the town lately. I’m pretty sure there are three threads on The Vine dedicated to the topic.”
“Four,” he deadpanned, lips twitching under his bushy beard, and I groaned. He tugged a rag from his apron pocket and started polishing a glass. “It’s hard coming home.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
No one knew quite where Marcel had come from. In a small town, that was virtually unheard of. How the man managed to remain an enigma despite the fact he’d been in residence longer than I’d been alive was a mystery. One I’d like to learn.
“New York been good to you?” he asked gruffly.
How to answer that? I sipped the drink. Perfection. And it must have been the sugar because I found myself telling him about my job, my friends, the accident, and Nate.
Marcel rarely talked, but he was a good soul. He hummed or grunted at appropriate junctions but let me get it all out.
“Word of advice?” he said when I finished.
I shrugged, staring at my empty glass.
His grey eyes were serious as they locked on me.
“Don’t let the regrets eat away your hope.
We’ve all made mistakes.” He motioned vaguely around the room.
“All of us. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.
You messed up, but you owned it. You came to right the past. But don’t give the devil a toehold to tie you up in guilt.
Don’t live in the past. Live in spite of it. ”
“Like you do?” I asked softly.
Sadness and regret lingered at the corners of his eyes. “Gal, I’ve been paying for my sins longer than you’ve been breathing. I know a thing or two about atonement. But I also know about grace. Guilt is a prison; grace is a key. Make amends but move forward.”
“Thanks, Marcel.”
He tipped his head with a grunt, his allotment of conversation used up. The man never minced words. Or wasted them. If you got more than a nod from him, you were something special. (And yes, there was a dedicated thread on The Vine for Marcel’s levels of chattiness on any given day.)
It warmed my heart knowing he’d chosen to use them talking to me.
He refilled my glass and moved down the counter to take another order.
I sipped my soda. Whatever magic Marcel performed on it was beyond me, but I swear it was the best tasting stuff I’d ever had.
“Look who’s back. New York was good to you, pretty lady.” The smarmy tone made my skin crawl.
A blond man in a too-tight black T-shirt, like he was trying to emphasize his physique, smirked at me from across the counter as he crossed his arms, flexing his biceps. Really it just screamed “I don’t know how to shop for myself without my mom helping me.”
“Um . . . and you are?” Did I know who he was? Yes. Was I giving him that satisfaction? Not if I could help it.
The man slapped a hand to his chest. “You wound me. Denver Donovan. My family owns this place.”
I sighed and twisted my almost empty glass. “Denver. Right.” I had the urge to punch him all over again. It was petty, but the slight crookedness of his nose—courtesy of my right hook—filled me with a sense of pride. He’d been a slug in high school and apparently hadn’t outgrown the affliction.
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“No thanks.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Denver goaded, waggling his eyebrows. “Don’t be like that.”
I ignored him—and his overgrown hedge of a mustache—draining the last of my soda and setting the glass down.
“Have you seen what they say online about you, baby? In a town this size, you don’t have a lot of options.” His fuzzy-lipped smile sent chills down my spine. “I’m as good as you’ll get.” He leaned across the counter, encroaching on my space.
Ew, ew, ew. I slid off my stool, and Denver’s hand shot out towards me, grabbing my forearm. I yanked away, preparing to reacquaint him with my right hook, but a blur of movement shoved him against the wall.
“You’re fired,” Marcel said with a deadly frost coating his tone.
Whoa. Those were some seriously fancy moves straight out of a spy movie. Was Marcel a veteran? Maybe Special Forces? Navy SEAL?
“You can’t do that!” Denver shoved at the man, but Marcel didn’t even flinch. If anything, he only pressed harder. “My father—”
“Sold me this place last week.” Marcel stared him down. “Downto’n is mine. Get out. And don’t come back. You aren’t welcome here.”
Denver gaped like a guppy. Marcel motioned to his security guard to escort Denver from the premises. But the little guppy was a fighter. Shouting obscenities and slurs, he swung at the guard.
Marcel sighed. “Better call it in.”
Dallas, flanked by another officer, arrived three minutes later and took one look at Denver pinned to the ground with the guard’s knee in his back. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know?”
Marcel grunted but said nothing.
I rubbed my forearm absently where Denver had grabbed me. What a night. A girl tried to avoid being the center of attention and landed up in the middle of a brawl. Just peachy.
Dallas caught sight of me and frowned. “You okay?”
I dropped my hand. “Of course. Marcel handled him.”
Murder filled Dallas’s eyes as he glared at Denver. “Get him out of here,” he barked at the second officer.
“C’mon, man,” Denver hissed, now handcuffed. “She was asking for it.”
Dallas grabbed Denver’s shirt, nearly hauling him off his feet. “Stop talking. And you won’t go anywhere near that woman, understand me? Or I’ll personally see to it that you don’t step back in this town.”
My hands shook as they escorted Denver, still running his mouth, out the door. But as they left, the DJ played the chorus of The Beatles “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.” And I mentally saluted him—an absolutely savage walkout song.