Chapter 12 #2
“How long have you and Stevie been together?” I ask him, trying to understand the dynamic. I’m too fucking possessive. I don’t know that I would be so calm and cavalier watching my partner flirt her ass off all night.
He tips his drink at her just as she rolls along the length of the bar, bending at the waist to deliver the pints that Wyn keeps pouring.
“She’s been in my life for almost as long as I can remember.
I think the word ‘together’ can mean different things to different people,” he says with a side-eye.
“We’re married. We’re raising Nash together, and when I’m in Rumor, their place is mine too.
We’re our own kind of family.” He winks, and then salutes me with his bottle before tipping it back.
“But she loves her people big and can be a little wild about it. She secured an AirTag in every pair of Wyn’s and Jo’s shoes after Wyn finally came back. ”
I don’t know this guy, and I rarely find it in anyone’s best interest to know details about my life or what I’m thinking, but I like Theo.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s the only other adult male who seems to be thriving around the Crowne women, or maybe just the simple fact that I haven’t talked to anyone about my life in a long-ass time.
“How long since they’ve all been behind that bar together?” I ask as I watch them laugh as they move around each other.
“You know she hasn’t stepped foot behind that bar since before she went to college,” Theo adds.
“Why is that, you think?” I ask him.
“Wyn and her mother, Lu, fought a lot. But Lu said some stuff that she shouldn’t have, and that was it for Wyn.
She created boundaries, moved onto campus, went ahead and got her PhD in chemistry.
Stevie would brag about her sister’s research being published, but I don’t think Wyn ever knew how proud they all were of her.
” He rests his head against the pillar, watching the Crowne sisters orbit each other.
“I’m sure you see it,” he says. “Doesn’t take long to feel the effects of the Crowne women. They’re pretty spectacular separately, but all together . . . ” He shakes his head. “They’re a fucking force.”
I’ve always been good at finding things.
I had friends who were too. I knew what I was looking for when I showed up in Montana.
I’d always gotten what I needed by any means necessary, but the second I stepped foot out that back door and away from her, I fucking hated myself for it.
And now, the part I never considered was that Hideaway was her home while her family believed she was dead.
I want to know why. The truth doesn’t matter; I just want her to trust me enough to tell me.
Theo tips his head to the side. “This town lives up to its name—and man, it’s been brutal to those women.
Wyn always hated that part. Then she comes walking back like her disappearing act wasn’t going to stir up all kinds of gossip.
Stevie just got into a fight with some asshole at the old Piggly Wiggly the other day when she overheard someone saying Wyn was in rehab and had a secret baby while she was there. ”
“Did Wyn tell anyone where she’d been?” I ask, trying not to seem too eager to know what she’s shared and what she’s held close.
“Nope.” He glances at the stuffed cat I still have in my hand, and then back up to the bar as Jo yells into her mic.
“All of tonight’s pussycat wranglers, I’m going to need you in front of the bar right the fuck now for your reward!”
Shit.
Three people hold up the same stuffed cats and shove through the crowd, settling against the bar.
When the song changes, Jo stands taller on the balls of her feet above the crowd and searches around the sea of people.
The second her eyes land on mine, I toss the stuffed animal I’d been holding to the floor.
“You’d better go up there before she makes a spectacle out of you,” Theo says as Stevie skates over to the side of the bar we’re closest to.
The rowdy bar cheers for the few people who face the crowd, tilting their heads back and looking up at the vaulted ceiling, waiting for what’s coming.
Three of the cocktail waitresses who have been circulating the space hover above the two men and one woman who also caught the fucking stuffed cats.
Stevie and two of the cocktail staff hover above them with a salted wrist, tequila shot in the other hand, and a slice of lime dangling between their front teeth.
Jo calls out, “Don’t forget, if you want the happy ending, you’ve gotta tip for it.”
Fucking hell.
I scan behind the bar, trying to find Wyn, but she’s nowhere in sight. Tipping my head back, I look up to the balcony and see Birdie leaning on her elbows, hands draped over the railing, surveying the debauchery below.
The three people who caught the cats lick the salt off their server’s wrists, then golden-tinted tequila gets poured from the shot glass into their waiting, open mouths, and then each person chases it with the offered lime wedges.
The first duo makes it flirtatious. The two women play it up for the crowd with a little tongue to show for it, while the next couple keeps each other's lips for a few extra moments.
Stevie and her person exchange the lime as tongues slip for people standing close enough to see.
When he stands from leaning back on the bar, he turns around to face her and throws down a twenty with a slap on the bar.
I glance back at Theo, and he just sips his beer, watching on like this isn’t anything new.
Stevie grabs the tequila bottle, sits down on the bar, legs and skates dangling off.
An air horn sounds off, and she takes a pull from the bottle.
He waits with his mouth open as she spits it at him, barely any of it hitting his mouth.
But she’s not done. She reaches her open hand back, and with a windup, slaps him clean across the face.
He fucking throws his hands above his head like he just won the lottery as his buddies whistle and shout that it’s their turn next.
“Sorry, gentlemen, you didn’t catch the pussycat,” Jo croons over the mic, popping out her bottom lip to mock a pout. “And I saw who did. Ladies, we’re missing one lucky kitty catcher . . .” She scans the crowd for show, and then lands her sights on me again.
Stevie crooks her pointer finger at me and yells, “Let’s go, handsome. You caught the kitty, so it’s time for your reward.”
I shake my head—not happening. Maybe when I was in my early twenties, I’d consider it, but this isn’t in my wheelhouse anymore—bullshit at bars. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Wyn looking at me with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and an empty glass in the other.
I can’t help but smirk at knowing that I have her attention now. If she’s the one pouring, then I’ll play. I drain what’s left of my beer, ignore the people around me, and weave my way up to the bar.
I don’t look up at Jo, who’s standing right in front of me, yelling over the crowd as the band segues music from one anthem to the next—Benatar’s “Heartbreaker” to Rhianna’s “Rude Boy.” I ignore her high heels that begin stomping with the music, and instead, keep my focus on the brunette who’s looking at me like she’s ready to settle a bet.
Oh, I bet I’m going to enjoy this.
Jo hovers a shot of tequila in front of me, but I slowly shake my head.
“He’s not a tequila fan,” Jo shares over the mic. “If you make the tip halfway decent, I’ll let you pick your poison and your girl.”
She knows exactly what she’s doing when she looks over her shoulder at where I’m looking.
“Wyn Crowne, tonight’s guest bartender, ladies and gentlemen,” Jo croons out over the mic. And as if she’s some kind of main attraction, the crowd starts hooting and hollering. “Time to show off those fantastic bartending skills you own and pour your fantasy something worth remembering.”