Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Anna

While I privately thought I could possibly lose my dignity if she put me in something ridiculous, I find myself in the Red Arrow—a bar on the edge of downtown—an hour later wearing an outfit I never would've put together without Brit's help. It works, though, and I've gotten endless compliments from the other women who've come to girls' night.

She's dressed me in a white tank top and swishy floral skirt, with a white gauzy button down over it. Except she had me leave it unbuttoned and instead had me tie it at the waist and roll up the sleeves. It's summery and pretty and shows off my curves in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable, but when she told me I looked fantastic, I couldn't argue with her. She tried to get me into the pair of nude heels I keep at the bottom of my closet for the rare occasions I feel like wearing them, but let me stick with my strappy flat sandals that I wear to work.

Girls' night is a small crowd, which is a relief, and as boisterous as Brit can be, they're not a rowdy bunch. Or at least not any more rowdy than the bar's other denizens. It's busy tonight, all the bar stools full and most of the tables as well. Loud music blares over the speakers, but not loud enough to cover the clack of balls at the pool tables in the other half of the bar and the general laughter and chatter.

Brit and I were the last to arrive, enthusiastically flagged over by the other attendees of girls' night. I halfway expect them to shout, "Brit!" at the sight of us, like they do in that old sitcom my dad used to watch, Cheers . They apparently take turns camping out and claiming tables on Friday night, holding the fort until everyone else arrives.

Two seats are open at one end of the tables, and I grab the end one because it'll be easiest to get out of here when I'm ready to leave. But I almost immediately regret my decision when I'm introduced around and discover that the women on Brit's other side are Amanda and Stephanie, the owners of the local yarn store, Fuzzy Fibers. I nearly ask Brit to switch places with me, since I love their store. I've purchased a few things since I moved here, but I brought a sizable stash with me that I've been working on knitting through on my own.

Sarah, the manager of The Christmas Emporium, sits across from Brit with her younger sister Nora on her other side with her friend Hailey. I was a little surprised about the last two since the group tends to skew a bit older with everyone else in their thirties at least. But she's apparently been hard at work at her summer job and took her older sister up on the invite to come along, asking her friend to tag along too. The two of them sit at the end opposite me, talking more with each other than anyone else.

Glancing their way indulgently, Sarah leans closer to Brit and me. "Between the three of us, I didn't expect Nora to come when I invited her. I think she's tired of being at my parents' house, though. She's the youngest, and with everyone else out on their own, she's kicking around there all by herself, and I don't think she likes it. She practically jumped at the chance to join us." Sarah laughs like that's both surprising and ridiculous.

"Well, why wouldn't she?" Brit asks, banging her palm lightly on the table for emphasis. "We're amazing!"

"Hear hear!" calls Amanda, holding up her glass of beer. Brit, Sarah, and Stephanie all clink glasses, while I chuckle at their antics.

Amanda leans around Brit. "Anna, right?" she asks. At my nod, she smiles. "You've been into the store once or twice, haven't you?"

Nodding again, I lean closer. "Yes! I love your shop. It's a good mix of local treasures and solid workhorses."

Amanda beams. "That's exactly what we were going for."

Catching on that we're talking yarn, Stephanie leans in. "Oh! Yes! I recognize you now. You usually have on a hand knit in the winter, don't you? But of course you wouldn't when it's sweltering like today. Can you believe how hot it's been?" She fans herself dramatically, and everyone makes similar noises about how hot it's gotten before it's even July.

I lapse into silence, sipping my drink—a cosmo, because I don't drink often enough to know what I like other than something sweet. And I'm the very definition of a lightweight. One drink is enough to make me feel warm and chatty. After two drinks I'm downright tipsy.

And the only time I've gone beyond two drinks was with my ex-fiancé. He viewed my aversion to getting drunk as some kind of challenge, and so one year for his birthday I agreed to go out drinking with him. We took an Uber to a divey bar with a live cover band where he plied me with alcohol until everything felt spinny and my normally terrible aim with darts devolved into something that would've been dangerous had it been an old-fashioned dart board with metal-tipped darts. Fortunately, we were using boards made of plastic mesh and the darts that have plastic tips and stick in the little holes, so anyone in the unfortunate path of my wild aim would've gotten an unpleasant surprise, but nothing genuinely harmful.

Thankfully, my wild throws only hit the wall behind the dart machine.

Glancing around, I spot a couple of dart machines in the corner past the pool tables. I always had fun playing darts, though I haven't done it since Jared and I broke up. Part of me wants to now, but I'm not sure anyone else would want to join me and it's less fun to do alone. Plus, it brings back memories of Jared. And though those memories are of fun times, any memory of Jared is sensitive and painful even now, three years after he left me at the altar.

I slurp down the rest of my drink in an effort to distract myself. But I've been sipping at it for a while, and there's not much left. I'd only planned on having one drink and then leaving—which is why I sipped so slowly. I figured if I could drag out the one drink long enough, no one would be able to object to me taking off.

But if I go home now, I'll be stuck with the memories of Jared, and I'm so tired of being stuck in those spirals with no escape. I need to stay until I can shake off his ghost and go home happy, or at least neutral. It's gonna be a two-drink night after all.

And why shouldn't it be? I'm here to have fun, aren't I? Sure, everyone knows each other better than me, but they're not ignoring or excluding me. It's not their fault I'm just as content to hold down the end of the table and observe.

Hell, maybe if I have another drink, my natural reticence will let up and I'll be able to join in like a normal person.

Sighing, I stand, needing to shut up the soundtrack of Jared in my head telling me that I'm more fun after a couple of drinks anyway. That normal people don't have so much trouble socializing.

Maybe I'm not normal. Maybe it is strange that I'm perfectly content to spend most of my free time alone, engaging in solitary hobbies that bring me joy. But who cares? I'm not a total recluse. Look at me now, joining in a girls' night! Yeah, okay, Brit had to twist my arm a bit to get me to come. But I could've stood my ground and refused. The truth is, I've always been curious about these things, but I've always felt like I wouldn't fit in. That I'd go out and they'd think I'm weird and never invite me out again, so it was easier to avoid it altogether.

But no one's acting like I'm strange. I've had nice conversations. Brit and Sarah don't mind when I interject something. But a lot of it's had to do with the politics of the downtown business district, so while it's fascinating to listen to, since I'm not a business owner, I don't have anything to add. And as far as I know, Dr. Banks doesn't involve himself with the downtown association, saying we're two blocks away so can't consider ourselves part of downtown, and that it's more for restaurants and tourist shops anyway. Well, to be fair, his description of the shops is far less charitable, but that's beside the point.

Brit looks at me when I stand, eyebrows raised in question. "I'm going to get another drink. Anyone else need anything?"

She glances down the table at the others ensconced in their own conversations and shakes her head. "Don't worry about us. We'll grab our own when we're ready." As I'm about to head toward the bar, she puts her hand on my wrist. "Don't be shy when you get up there, okay? It's loud and busy in here. If the bartender doesn't notice you, don't be afraid to move right in front of him and get his attention."

Forcing a grin, I nod at her advice. "Got it."

It's clear she's figured me out enough to realize I'd likely stand there forever waiting to get noticed. Even with her advice, that's still not outside the realm of possibilities.

I'm just not a very forward person.

It's a fact I've come to accept about myself, even if I realize that sometimes—like in a busy bar when I want a drink—it doesn't serve me all that well. Sucking in a deep breath, I mentally prep myself to be more assertive than I normally am.

But the crowd at the bar basically forms a wall. I don't even see a way in. There's being assertive to get the bartender's attention, then there's elbowing my way through a group of people. Fortunately, a few people break away from the bar, beers in hand, heading toward the pool tables and dart boards, and I slip into the gap they leave before it can close up again.

Of course, the bartender's now at the other end of the bar, talking to a customer, his back to me. Tapping my fingers on the bar, I try to wait patiently for him to turn this way.

I know Brit said not to be afraid to get his attention, but he's with a customer …

Biting my lip, I debate whether I should try moving to the other end of the bar or keep waiting here.

"Did it hurt?" a voice asks from my left.

At first, I don't realize he's talking to me. But then he leans close to me, pressing his shoulder into my side. "Hey there, beautiful. I'm talking to you. Did it hurt?"

My eyebrows pull together in confusion, and I look at him, taking in the dark side-swept bangs he pushes out of his brown eyes and grubby graphic T-shirt, then down at myself, then back at him again. "Did what hurt?"

He grins widely. "When you fell from heaven?"

The guys around him erupt in a chorus of guffaws, and he takes a triumphant sip of his beer. I look at the two other guys sitting on the bar stools on his other side—also clad in graphic tees and shorts with similar hairstyles, one with a baseball hat on backwards—then back at him, entirely unimpressed.

They're young, probably early twenties. There's a solid chance they're here to celebrate one of their twenty-first birthdays.

Still grinning, the first guy swivels and turns toward me. "What're you drinking, beautiful?"

His casual use of the endearment makes me uncomfortable. "I'm just waiting for the bartender to look this way," I murmur, wanting to shake off his attention. I take a half step back, hoping that's enough to dissuade him. I don't want to lose this spot, though, because there are people all around the bar. If I step back all the way, I don't know where I'll be able to find another opening to get to the bar again, and then I'll never get a drink. Why can't these guys just leave me alone?

"Well, we can help you with that, can't we, boys?"

They all make rowdy sounds of agreement, one of them yelling, "Sigma Phi!" and it occurs to me why they seem vaguely familiar. These are the quintessential frat boy types I saw and did my best to avoid back in college. But their obnoxiousness has one positive—the bartender glances our way, holding up a finger to indicate he'll be with us after he's done pulling the beers he's currently filling.

"Toldja we'd help you out," Frat Boy Number One says, turning to face me again. "Now how ‘bout you help me out with your name?"

Pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. "No thanks."

He chuckles, like I just told a funny joke. "Okay. We'll circle back to that. What're you drinking?" When I don't respond, he leans in again. "Aw, c'mon. How're we supposed to order your drink if you won't tell us what it is?"

The other two chime in with, "Yeah, gorgeous," and, "Tell us your name! Don't leave us hanging!"

I'm stuck, unsure what to do, because I don't want to tell these overgrown toddlers my name, since that will only encourage them, but I don't want to ignore them either, because that could go very badly very quickly.

Thankfully, the bartender walks up—a guy a little older than me with close-cropped hair and a goatee wearing a faded Green Day T-shirt that looks like he got it at a concert over a decade ago— wiping his hands on a bar towel and making eye contact with me. "What can I get you?"

I force my voice out as loud as I can without shouting. "A cosmo, please."

"Coming right up." The bartender glances at the frat boys and back at me, and he must read something in my posture that clues him into the fact that their attention is unwelcome. He jerks his head toward the other end of the bar. "There's more room over here." Then without waiting to see if I move, he turns and starts pulling the ingredients for my drink.

Relieved, I follow his directions. It's clearly a lie, which is beyond obvious once I get around to the other end of the bar, as there's no more room at all. But it's quieter, populated by a few older men watching a game on the TVs above the bar, a couple who seem to be on a date, and a foursome who, based on their conversation, are in town on vacation. Everyone ignores me, though, which is far more welcome than the frat boys who can't read the room. It's a toss-up on whether it's because they're too drunk or too arrogant to notice.

While I wait for my drink, I survey the bar, my gaze snagging on the big corner booth where a trio of very attractive men sit, their shoulders hunched in that way broad-shouldered men do when they're trying to make themselves fit better in what they perceive as a small space, all dressed in T-shirts, drinking beers, laughing and talking. Two women are with them, flanking the three men, and the guy in the very middle of it all—with startling blue eyes I can make out from here and dark hair that's getting shaggy and looks in need of a trim—is clearly the odd man out.

He's looking right at me, those bright blue eyes meeting mine, and for some inexplicable reason, I flush. Embarrassed, I jerk my gaze away, turning back to face the bar, once again rescued by the bartender with impeccable timing.

But when I turn to head back to my table, I find my way blocked by the Frat Boy Brigade, Frat Boy One leading the charge.

"You're breaking my heart, beautiful," he claims, clutching his chest dramatically. "First you won't tell me your name, then you won't even tell me your drink order, and when I tell the bartender to add your drink to my tab, he tells me there's no way a classy woman like you'd ever accept a drink from a guy like me. Whaddaya say we prove him wrong." Even though it should be a question, he says it like a statement, his hand reaching for me, though I'm not sure where he plans on grabbing me. I just know I don't want him touching me anywhere.

"Hey!" I shout, taking a step back and causing my drink to slosh over my hand. "Dammit!" And once again, Frat Boy One can't take a hint, following me and making cooing sounds about my drink spilling.

"There you are," booms a voice, and I look up, startled to see the blue-eyed giant towering over the scrawny frat boys. His eyes are locked on me, and all I manage in response is a squeak. He deftly maneuvers himself past the Frat Boy Brigade, his large hand landing on the scruff of Frat Boy One's neck and gently but firmly moving him out of the way. "You were gone for so long, I was beginning to worry something'd happened to you."

"Hey!" protests Frat Boy One, his bros chiming in with their own noises, but they're silenced with one look from the gentle giant.

But when he turns to face them, their protests turn to sounds of amazement. "Holy shit! That's Troy Easton!" one of them practically shouts.

I see the gentle giant's—Troy's, presumably—shoulders tense. "Hey, guys. Thanks for looking out for my girl here."

I snort, and he glances at me over his shoulder with a reassuring grin, making it clear that he knows as well as I do that they were doing no such thing. And also, his girl ?

The Frat Boy Brigade, however, is now stumbling all over themselves to reassure him that of course they'd look out for his girl. Any girl. All girls. Women! Not girls! They respect women! Some of their best friends are women! Or at least they know one or two. Their moms, for sure. Grandmas. The neighbor girl across the street. Woman. Neighbor woman.

"That's what I like to hear," Troy says, clapping one of them on the shoulder hard enough that he stumbles, and I have to stifle a laugh, hiding my smile behind the hand holding my glass. At least I'm mostly behind the wall of man that is Troy Easton. Who's apparently someone recognizable, though I have no idea who he is or why these guys know him, and all their attention is now on him.

One of the frat boys asks for an autograph, and Troy makes a show of patting his pockets. "Y'know, I don't have a pen on me right now, but if you call this number"—he pulls a business card out of a pocket on his phone case—"they'll hook you up with some signed photos, alright?"

More fawning and stumbling over themselves from the frat boys, but Troy ignores them, turning back to face me, and it's clear that he's still guarding me from them. Taking me in, he tsks. "They made you spill your drink," he says quietly, but since he's standing well inside my personal bubble, I hear him just fine. "Let's get you a new one." He signals the bartender over my head. "The lady spilled her drink. Can we get another one? Put it on my table's tab."

The bartender nods and sets to work on the drink, while Troy gives me an apologetic smile. "Once he gets your new drink, you should join my friends and me. At least until those assholes clear out. We gotta sell the bit now, right?" His blue eyes twinkle.

I'm all flushed and nervous, but I can't help smiling back. "I—uh, yeah, I guess so."

Looking around, he grimaces. "Sorry. I should apologize. You probably don't need a random guy white knighting for you, but you looked trapped, and I came over on instinct. Look, you don't have to?—"

"No! I mean, thank you. I appreciate the rescue. I was feeling trapped, and I wasn't sure how to defuse the situation with them. I'd hoped simply moving away would be enough, but they followed me."

He nods, his face solemn. "I saw."

I swallow hard. "Right. So. Yes. Thank you. I appreciate the rescue, and I'll take you up on the invitation. If—if that's okay."

A slow smile spreads across his face, as beautiful as the sunrise. "Trust me. You'd be doing me a favor."