by Liza Kendall
Lila giggled. “Try.”
“I looked like a badly upholstered sofa. There’s this massive ruffle. My thighs, they looked . . .” She spread her hands a yard apart. “I looked like a space alien with open sores. Like I stole a curtain from a brothel and wrapped it around myself. Like I—”
“I think I get it. But . . . how did Jake and Mick see?”
Charlie’s face burned red, not just from humiliation. Some part of it was the realization that Jake had seen more than a bridesmaid typically revealed. And that he liked what he saw in spite of the hideous dress.
And yet he’d said their kiss was a mistake.
“They came through the sitting room entrance while I was changing,” she mumbled.
“Oh, man, I miss everything,” Lila said.
From the opposite side of the barn, Felicity clapped her hands and yelled, “Lila, I forgot to tell you. I’ve changed the bridesmaid-groomsman pairings. Just from a height standpoint, it makes sense to pair Charlie with Jake. He needs to be the best man.”
Charlie’s last breath left in a whoosh.
“It makes sense, right?” Bridezilla said. And then she looked down at her phone and started texting someone as if it were nothing, as if she’d asked for a different appetizer or some spare Band-Aids.
But she’d asked for everything. And no amount of wishing or pretending could make the words go away.
Under his tan, Jake had gone a shade lighter.
Pleaser or not, Charlie shook her head. “Let’s not do that. Jake and I don’t—”
“It’ll be fine,” Jake seemed to force out. “We’re friendly now, right, Charlie?”
There was a horrible awkward silence. Charlie wanted to cry. They’d talked about getting married in this barn. They’d once held hands just a few paces across the floor from where they were standing, pretending to walk down the aisle at their own wedding.
“But—” Charlie began.
Jake looked blank.
“Oh boy,” Mick said suddenly. “I can sense a big emergency waiting for us. Big, big emergency. Later.” He put one hand on Jake’s back and shoved him in the direction of the door. “Sorry to run, but as they say in the business, duty calls.” Mick looked over his shoulder with a grin and said in Felicity’s general direction, “You’re gonna have a real memorable wedding, Miss Barnum.”
And just like that, Jake was gone. Charlie stared at the door, which was still vibrating from being slammed.
“Wonderful,” Felicity said. “Because Chrissy and Steven are engaged, so we can’t split them up. And then there’s my stepsister, Martha, and her husband, Todd—same issue. And finally, there’s Richard, who’s all of five-six, so I have to put him with Alicia, since you’d tower over him. So I’m promoting Jake to best man, and you and Jake will walk down the aisle together. Okay?”
Charlie gritted her teeth. Not okay. Not remotely a good idea.
Bridezilla’s bedazzled cell phone rang again. Sweet, sweet relief. Charlie nudged Lila. “I don’t know about you, but this seems like a perfect time for that drink.”
Lila looked at Charlie. “Drink? I need a whole bottle.”
Chapter 12
Jake was nursing his second Corona with the firehouse guys in the back corner of Schweitz’s Tavern. Schweitz’s was a Silverlake landmark, one of the oldest German businesses in the Texas Hill Country outside Fredericksburg, and the Oktoberfest season was in full swing.
The interior was lined with reconstituted barn wood. The tables were either old whiskey barrels topped with hammered copper or picnic tables flanked by benches. The walls were hung with the requisite neon beer signs, but also wagon wheels, mirrors lined with horseshoes, and black-and-white historical photos of the town. Every Monday night at Schweitz’s was polka night, and on those special evenings, the sound system played nothing but German folk music. Tonight’s was a mix of rockabilly, country, and rock. The legendary Stevie Ray Vaughan figured prominently.
Otto Schmidt, old Steffen Schweitz’s nephew, manned the bar and spoke German to his uncle with a Texas accent, to often hilarious effect. Schweitz winced at every syllable that came out of Otto’s mouth.
“Hey, Otto!” called out Old George, his mustache quivering with mischief, his blue eyes dancing. “Tell Schweitz that Texas beer is better than German beer.”
“Das Bier in Texas ist besser als in Deutschland, Onkel Steffen!”
Schweitz rammed his head through the swinging doors at this insult, and bellowed, “Ufff! Zum Teufel damit sagst du! Ein Sakrileg!” The hell you say! A sacrilege!
They all fell about laughing.
Old George smirked. “Hooo, doggie . . . he’s pissed now.”
“Be careful he doesn’t spit in your beer,” Grady warned.
“I’ll just jam a big ole pretzel into his snout so he cain’t.”
Schweitz growled at their merriment and retreated to his cooktop.
Jake wasn’t expecting it when his sister walked in with Charlie Nash and made a beeline for the bar. To his knowledge, neither of them had ever been big drinkers, so he was surprised when Otto poured out shots of what looked like tequila. Lila tossed hers back, choking a little, and asked for another, which she stared at for a long moment before she downed it, too.
Charlie sat next to her with an untouched shot glass, her hand patting Lila’s arm. God, he remembered how good she was at turning dark times into sunshine. That was something special about Charlie. She understood people. She noticed what they cared about and shone it right back when they needed it most.
The big brother in him wanted to go find out what had Lila staring into a shot glass; the distance that still stood between them after the Nash bust-up forced him to sit back and let Charlie work whatever magic she could. At least for now. But he’d keep his eye on things over there, and in all truth it wasn’t just to watch over his sister. The back booth at Schweitz’s was the perfect vantage point for people-watching. Most of it was screened from general view by several tall plants.
Mick nudged him. “You see that?” He gestured toward Lila and Charlie with his own beer, a Rogue Dead Guy. “I never would have pegged either of them for the type to do random shots on a Tuesday night.”
Jake shrugged.
“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. Charlie’s got a real nice ra—”
“Shut it, Mick,” said Jake.
“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” said Grady from across the table.
“He’s probably already got a rise, staring at that girl,” Tommy said.
Jake glared at the other off-duty firefighters from the team. Grady was back to focusing those deep thoughts of his on his whiskey, and Tommy was laughing as he played some kids’ video game called Goat Simulator. Tommy didn’t have a drink, which meant he was on call for the community hotline.
They were all good buddies because of living and working together at the firehouse, but they couldn’t be more different. Grady was a rangy six feet four, brainy as hell, with fists like iron, and Tommy, only five feet ten but built like a fireplug, couldn’t sit still without a distraction of some kind.
He and Mick had swapped places with Rafael and Hunter, who were now on duty, probably eating more than their fair share of Mick’s latest masterpiece as fast as they could while waiting for any call or alarm.
“Goat Simulator? Why would anyone want to simulate a goat?” asked Jake, perplexed.
“’Cause you can head-butt people who annoy you,” Tommy said. “It’s awesome.”
“If you’re six years old,” said Grady, swirling his ice cubes.
“Lighten up, old man.” Tommy flashed his grin. “It’s more interesting than the stock market. You’re obsessed. Hey, this is too funny: You can take the goat up the stairs at the school and head-butt the principal right off the top of the building.”
“
Seriously? It takes that little to entertain you?” Mick scoffed.
“Uh-huh. Cheaper to play with goats than currency, dude,” Tommy said. “So what’s for dinner, Mick?”
“I look like the Barefoot Contessa to you?”
“No, but we like your grub. Problem is, the meatballs are already gone.”
“Tonight is out of a box unless someone wants to grill. I’ll make lasagna tomorrow.”
“You’re Irish, Mick, not Italian. Try a shepherd’s pie sometime?”
“I got your shepherd’s pie right here . . .”
Grady shook his head at Jake as the banter went on like this until Tommy changed the subject midstream. “Hey, should we be worried about the town council meeting later this week?”
“Nah,” Mick said. “Not with Kingston Nash still over at Mercy Hospital. We should get a break this year.”
“I don’t know,” Jake mused. “He may install an outboard motor on his cot and drive it right down Main Street to city hall.”
“Yeah, well. The good news there is that Tommy can always just head-butt him with an imaginary goat,” Mick jibed.
“Simulated!” Tommy said. “A simulated goat, gentlemen.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed as Lila, over at the bar, did a third shot. “One sec,” he said, getting up.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked over to the bar, where Lila was now inhaling the spicy pecans that Schweitz’s put out. “Hi,” he said.
He was greeted by a slightly glassy stare, and then the Heisman: Lila extended her hand like a stop sign, pushing it almost into his face. “No guys in our clubhouse right now.”
Jake raised his eyebrows, absurdly offended by this statement.
Charlie bit her lip, and color swept into her cheeks.
“Clubhouse?” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, this is a bar, very much open to the public. Which is roughly half made up of . . . let’s see . . . guys.”
“Okay, no stinky brothers in our clubhouse right now,” Lila said. “We are having a chat.”
“Well, pardon me. But I can’t help noticing that there’s a lot of tequila involved in this chat.”
Lila grimaced. “That would be—and I mean this with all due affection but absolutely no respect—none of your business.”
“Well, then. I guess I’ve been told.” Jake’s gaze went to the door of Schweitz’s as it opened, only to reveal his ex-girlfriend Bridget. Her eyes brightened alarmingly when she caught sight of him.
“No offense, stinky bro.”
“None taken,” Jake responded on autopilot, even though he found himself way too interested in whatever mysterious topic Lila had to discuss so privately with Charlie. He calculated the distance back to the Fire and Rescue crew’s hidden booth, wondering if he could sprint back there before having to interact with his ex.
No such luck. Bridget raised a hand in greeting, and his own hand jerked up as if pulled by a string. Worse, he’d been ejected from the girl chat, so he had to move away from them. He was alone and exposed.
So were Bridget’s legs. They were long and a little too tanned, and she wore a denim skirt that was a little too short. With pink cowboy boots that were also quite short.
Pink.
Bridget saw him looking at her legs—which was unavoidable, in his defense—and smiled knowingly as she walked over. “Jake,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.
Pink fingernails, too. They matched the boots exactly. He didn’t know why, but he found this calculated and disturbing. “Bridge.” He nodded. “Been a long time. How are you?”
His back was to Charlie, but he was hyperaware that she might see Bridget touching him, and he was weirded out by that. He barely resisted the urge to peel his ex’s pink-tipped fingers off his skin.
“Great!” Bridget exclaimed. “So nice to run into you! Let’s catch up. Buy me a beer?”
“Uh . . . sure. You still drink Pearl?” It was a historic San Antonio beer, even if it was now hard to find—and an endangered species.
The wattage in her smile grew. “Good memory,” she said huskily.
Honestly, the only reason he remembered that was because it was such a girlie name. How to get out of this?
“You get the beers. I’ll snag us a booth,” Bridget said. With a practiced flip of her perfect long auburn hair, she sashayed toward one near the front door.
Great. It’ll be all over Silverlake by tomorrow that we’re seeing each other again.
Jake sighed inwardly and went to the far side of the bar, away from Charlie and Lila and whatever private, keep-out conversation they were having. Charlie’s flush had deepened, and he couldn’t help but notice that she was torturing her lime with a swizzle stick. Stabbing it, digging little pieces of pulp out.
“Still got Pearl here, buddy?” he asked Otto.
Otto rolled his eyes. “Yep, we still got some, though its future is up in the air.”
“Then I’ll take one of those and a Shiner Bock. Thanks.”
Jake’s eyes met Charlie’s as he picked up the beers, and she froze, then looked away and dropped the swizzle stick onto her napkin. She leaned in deliberately toward Lila, furrowing her eyebrows at whatever his little sister was saying.
For a moment, he fought irritation that Lila wasn’t entrusting him with her confidences. He was her brother, after all. And the old anger rose in him that she’d refused to shut Charlie out, the way all the Nashes had him.
Oh, get over it. All she’s guilty of is being a good friend.
There was a part of him that enjoyed seeing them with their heads together, like old times. He didn’t get to claim Lila just because he was her brother. And it wasn’t like he’d worked hard to stay close to any of his siblings.
Bridget flipped her hair again as he sat down, and he just managed to miss touching her hand as he slid the Pearl across the table toward her.
“Thanks, Jake.”
Her lipstick was the exact same shade as her nail polish and the boots. Did women sit around matching up stuff like that?
“You forgot a glass,” she said.
What was he, a waiter? “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Jake got up and headed back over to Otto. “Got a glass?”
“Apologies, my man. I shoulda remembered that Bridge doesn’t do cans or bottles.”
“Evidently, I should have remembered, too,” Jake said dryly.
Otto produced a glass and polished it with his bar towel. “You, uh, goin’ there again?”
“No.”
“But she’s perfect.” Otto winked.
“Yeah, that’s the problem. Whenever I see her, my collar feels a little tighter. Even when I’m wearing a tee.” Was it his imagination, or had Charlie’s ear perked up like Not-Spot’s? Was she trying to overhear their conversation?
The idea was intriguing.
Glass in hand, Jake headed back to Bridget, wondering how he was going to extricate himself after one beer. He was absolutely not buying her dinner, or she and the whole town would have them engaged to be married by morning.
Engaged. Like Charlie had been, to some health nut who wanted her to be a size four.
“Thanks, Jake—you’re a doll.” Bridget poured her can of Pearl into the tall, clear glass.
He barely refrained from wrinkling his nose. Never, ever call a man a doll. “No problem.”
She smiled. “You know the old rule: Nice girls don’t drink out of cans or bottles.”
Who says I want a nice girl? “How’d you get to be so nice, Bridge?” He kept the edge out of his voice.
“My grandmother and her Southern etiquette, I guess.”
“But this is Texas. The Wild West.”
She laughed. It wasn’t that funny. But he chuckled, too, to be polite.
“Cheers, Jake.”
He clinked his bottle with her g
lass. “So what’s new with you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I just passed the bar exam.” She shot him a dazzling white smile.
“Congratulations. That’s impressive—I didn’t even realize you were in law school.”
Her smile dimmed. “You didn’t wonder where I was for the last three years? You hadn’t heard I was up at Texas Tech?”
He shook his head in apology. “Well, you know . . . I’ve been really busy.”
“Me too,” she said with a brittle laugh. “Law school is no picnic.”
“No, I’m sure it’s not. So will you hang out your own shingle?”
“I’ll be joining Daddy’s firm.” She said it quietly, with eyes modestly downcast.
“Oh, right.” Of course. In addition to having perfect legs, hair, nails, lips, and etiquette, Bridget had a perfect job lined up and a perfect family. It was all a little nauseating, especially because she knew it. She was a real catch.
Too bad he didn’t want to catch her.
There was a weird undercurrent between them as they exchanged another set of fixed smiles and small talk. It took him a while to pinpoint it: resentment.
Bridget, knowing she was perfect and utterly available, was angry at him for not pursuing her. Hell, he was almost angry at himself for not pursuing her: the smart, beautiful, accomplished daughter of a personal injury attorney who owned a hefty chunk of downtown Silverlake. He was probably stupid. She could aim a lot higher than him.
But he’d broken it off with her four years ago because there was something missing. Something big. An emotional connection.
Someone like Bridget, whose life had unrolled so flawlessly, like a red carpet, couldn’t connect on some level with a rough-and-tumble, damaged guy like him. But there was no way to explain to her why that was . . . because she had no idea that she was missing the life experience he had. The grief and the hurt and the cynicism—or the relief of working through it all and coming out the other side. For lack of a better word, it was depth she was lacking—and it wasn’t in any way her fault.