Chapter 7

Ipour out a couple of glasses of whiskey.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and I just closed the brewery for the private party Cole is having this evening with his girlfriend and the rest of the Mayberry clan.

The only people at the brewery right now are Ivy Anders, me, and Logan Garrison.

Before he showed up earlier today, I hadn’t seen Logan for a few days—not since the day he kissed me and told me he wanted to carry on with me in secret. But he came in with a puppy dog look he’s been wearing all night, and has been falling all over his feet to be nice to me without actually trying to get me alone for a meaningful conversation.

The message is clear enough: I still don’t know what the fuck I want, but don’t hold it against me.

I’ll be honest, I do.

He’s spent the last half hour ushering out boozy guests who figured they’d prefer to stay than wander around in an attempt to find somewhere different to get their drink on. It was helpful, sure, but I resent his attempts to take ownership of something that isn’t his. I don’t go into his auto shop and try to tell him how to fix an engine.

Even as this thought passes through my head, Logan reaches for one of the two glasses of whiskey.

“That’s for Ivy,” I snap, falling just short of slapping his hand.

He raises his eyebrows, giving me the wounded puppy dog look again. “Where’s mine?”

“In a bottle at your apartment, I’m guessing,” I say. “You can’t stay here, Logan.”

He looks genuinely shocked by this, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that I might not want him to hang around until the party starts.

As if he thought he could backtrack and everything would magically go back to being normal between us—to the kind of banter and flirtation that leads nowhere—until or if he’s ready for more.

Part of me feels bad for him. It’s the soft part, the little girl who hugged teddy bears and wrote love notes and dreamed of being saved. That part of me wants to wrap my arms around him and tell him it’s okay—that he can have me any way he wants me or not at all, and I’ll be good to him no matter what. But I’m stronger than I was, and I’m through with men messing with my head—saying they want one thing and acting like they want another. It was always that way with Tommy, and the last thing I need is to jump from one confused man to another.

I said as much to Midge on the phone last night, and she said, “Amen, sister. You keep talking that way, and you’ll always be a couple of divorces behind me.”

It’s New Year’s Eve, the time of year people make resolutions they don’t intend to keep, but this is one I’ve promised myself I”ll stick to: I will act like my needs are as important as other people’s.

If I act like it for long enough, I’m hoping I’ll start believing it.

“Cole’s going to be here in half an hour,” Logan complains, watching me. “He invited me to the after party. I’d like to stay.”

I harness the badass bitch inside of me, telling the part of me that’s moved by his puppy dog act to curl up and play dead.

“Then come back in half an hour. I didn’t invite you.”

Something flashes through his eyes, and they dip down to the neck of my shirt. To the Celtic cross I’m wearing—a present from my parents that has replaced his amethyst. I meant to tuck his gift away in a box or maybe even give it to someone else, but I couldn’t bear to, so it’s sitting out on my dresser.

His jaw works, but no words come out. Then he turns and leaves without saying anything.

Disappointment burrows into me and bites. Even though I’m pissed, maybe more angry than I’ve ever been in my life, I want him to get it together. I want him, full stop. But not in a way that compromises my dignity.

The door shuts, the sound not as loud as he probably wanted it to be given the doors were all installed to close softly.

For a second, it’s completely silent inside of the bar, though Ivy Anders is studying me with the kind of interest you don’t want to get from a romance novelist who is very openly working at your brewery only to get inspired for her next book.

Well, shit.

I’d prefer not to be a character in a book. I have a hard enough time being myself.

Finally, she waggles her blonde eyebrows at me and says, “I’m impressed, Britt. Can I call you Britt?”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “You start calling me that, and I’ll call you Little Bit like your brother does. Britt is something only my daddy calls me.”

I don’t like it much when he does it either, but Ivy doesn’t need to know that. I like her. She’s the kind of person it would be hard to dislike, but I still haven’t been able to shake my envy. She’s just so…young and fresh and full of life, not at all like the used-up piece of gum I feel like half the time.

“Fair enough,” she says, reaching for her whiskey and taking a sip. “Why don’t you like Logan? I’m going to be frank with you, he’s one fine piece of ass.”

I laugh through the throbbing of my heart.

“There’s no story,” I lie, because I’d prefer it if my private business doesn’t make it onto the pages of her book. “He just reminds me of my ex-husband. I prefer not to be reminded of my ex-husband whenever possible.”

It’s true…and not. It’s more the situation that’s familiar than the man. Logan might be a player—a man who usually has a different woman with him every weekend, but he’s always been open about it. Or at least he was in the past. For all I know, he’s been bringing other women out all week. Hell, he might have gone on his little day trip to Asheville without me and joined up with a bachelorette party.

The thought stings. No, it hurts like hell, but I’m proud of myself and my resolution. I’m proud of the person I’m starting to become.

A sigh escapes me, but if Ivy notices, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she hoists her glass in the air in a salute that I meet with my glass. “Say no more. I”m a child of multiple divorces. My mother’s been married four times, and my father’s about to get his second divorce in the bag. Hell, from the way the widows and divorcees of Highland Hills have been crowding around him, I’m guessing he’ll get around to divorce number three in no time.”

“So you understand why I wouldn’t want to repeat old patterns?”

“Hell, yes I do,” she says, then adds, “To breaking the mold,” and lifts her glass again.

I clink mine against it and smile at her. “Hell, I don’t need a reason to drink. Not tonight.”

“Same,” she says with a sigh that makes her wilt. So Princess Charming has a story. I don’t know why I’m surprised except that she comes off as someone who’s lived a charmed life. Then again, if I’ve learned anything from years of tending bar, it’s that we all have skeletons tucked away in our closets, stored between dresses and outdoor wear.

Maybe it’s time to own those skeletons.

“I’m going to ask for what I want this year,” I announce, and Ivy grins and pounds the bottom of her whiskey glass against the bar.

“Hell, yeah. Is this where we do resolutions? Because mine is to continue being awesome.” Her eyes flash at me. “And to write books about badass bartenders.”

“You’re insufferable,” I tell her fondly. “And I definitely don’t want my sad life to serve as inspiration for your book.”

“You can’t corral inspiration, Brittany,” she says with a grin. “And you’ve been inspiring the shit out of me.” She tips an imaginary hat to me. “You ready to party?”

No. But I am ready for the new year. It’s past time to leave this one behind.