Delight dances in his eyes. I’m the ‘last man standing’ in our motley crew of blended family. All three Bennett brothers are married now, one of them to my younger sister Shayanne, and both of my older brothers are in relationships, Brutal married and Brody doing the no-marriage-but-committed thing with his woman, Rix. All of which inconveniently leaves me as the only single. My sisters-in-law have tried to remedy that, repeatedly attempting and failing to play matchmaker.

  But my focus has only been on music.

  At least until last night.

  I’m not getting out of this. Brutal has his ways, one is easy and the other is hard, so I can spill my guts now or after he tackles me to the dirt and forces it out of me. Sounds barbaric, but it’s our way and done in brotherly love. Mostly.

  Still, I try to keep to the bare bones. “Bartender’s name is Willow, and she’s Hank’s niece.”

  “And?” he prompts threateningly.

  “And nothing.”

  He takes one giant step closer, and I’m on the edge of doing this the hard way. I consider it for a moment. Getting out some of this liquid uncertainty in my veins would be nice, but I’m already down my right hand and we’ve got shit to do. Words it is, I guess.

  Hey, Universe! I notice a running theme of my last twenty-four hours. Try these words on for size . . . fuck off.

  I sag, sighing heavily. “And nothing. She shot me down.”

  Brutal freezes with his brows comically high on his forehead. “She . . . shot . . . you . . . down?” His smile blooms as slowly as the heirloom tomatoes we grew last spring, then he damn near busts a gut laughing. “Holy shit! Never thought I’d see the day that Pretty Boy Bobby would get turned down by anyone. I like her already.” He’s bent in half, hands on his knees, eyes watering from laughing so hard that he’s speaking in short bursts of phrases before the next hee-haw of laughter.

  I shove him and he stumbles, but only because he’s so off-kilter from laughing at me. The stutter in his steps and the angry scowl on my face only make him howl again.

  More pissed than ever, I grab another plum from a low branch and toss it in the bucket, being too rough with the fragile fruit.

  “Hey! Don’t damage the merchandise with your pissy attitude,” Brutal scolds, as if I’m a stupid kid or a newbie laborer he’s training. I throw him a middle finger, making sure it pops up good and strong despite the twinge in my knuckle. His shit-eating grin of victory is audible in his tone. “I’ll let Mama Louise know you won’t be at dinner tonight, seeing as you’ll be eating at Hank’s for round two, loverboy.”

  And with that, he gets back to work too.

  It’s his version of advice, basically telling me to quit moping, get my shit together, and try again. I grunt, the unofficial Tannen family language, saying thanks and that I appreciate it.

  He’s right. I just need to figure out what I said wrong, figure out how to say it right, and try again. Just like a song.

  Last night was just a first rough draft of our meeting. I hope.

  6

  WILLOW

  Sunday evenings are slower than molasses. The lunch rush after church is busy but light on bar work, so I spent most of that time helping Olivia. I’m nowhere near the waitress she is, but I can run food when Ilene dings her bell.

  Now, as the clock on the wall approaches six, I’m beyond bored and desperate for something, anything to do because I can see my own reflection in the bar after the number of times I’ve wiped it down. “Unc, what can I prep for this week? Or need me to deep clean anything? Sort the paperwork into the file cabinet?”

  He looks over from the table where he, Richard, and a guy who introduced himself as Doc are sitting and drinking a beer. As I suspected, neither of the guys paid, but Unc doesn’t seem to mind the loss of revenue to friends. Richard is nursing his first Miller draft, Doc’s on his second Budweiser can, and Unc has another bottle of that craft beer he prefers.

  “Willow, you’ve been buzzing around like a hopped-up bee on crack. Sit down and relax, for God’s sake. You’re making me jumpy.” He pushes out the fourth chair at their table in invitation.

  I perch on the edge of the chair, still wanting to work, but as soon as I stop moving, the tiredness washes through me and I feel just how heavy my feet have become.

  “I just want to help, earn my keep, you know?” I tell Unc. “It’s one thing for the owner to sit around on his ass, another for an employee to do it when she’s on the clock.”

  Richard smiles, flashing his slightly yellowed teeth. “Hey, Olivia, whatcha doing?” he calls over to where she’s sitting in a booth with her feet up and crossed at the ankles. She can see the front door, but we haven’t had a real customer in almost an hour and she’s already done all her side work, stuffing sugar packets into the bins on the table, filling salt and pepper containers, and deep cleaning the coffee machine.

  She lifts her eyes from her phone to answer, “Talking to Hannah. You need something?” She makes zero move to get up.

  Richard shakes his head. “Nope, you just proved my point. Thanks.” To me, he says, “See, Olivia’s on the clock and she’s chitter-chattering away with her girl. She look anxious about that?”

  I glance over and see that Olivia is smiling at her glowing screen at something Hannah said, not a care or concern in the world with doing that while she’s supposed to be working.

  Unc lowers his voice, leaning in to me, “Ain’t her fault we aren’t busy. She’s guaranteed forty hours and she works ‘em, whether I need her or not. Sure as shit, someone comes in, she’ll hop up and take care of ’em like she’s s’posed to.”

  I know he’s right. I’m just used to buzzing around, being busy. Being in the city, there’s always something going on. This slower pace of life is . . . different.

  I like it, I think. It’s just going to take me some time to get used to.

  Doc drops his beer can to the table with a thud. “I got a question. Hank tells me you take pictures and sell them on the interwebs, but not portraits and such. I ain’t never heard such a thing. People pay for pictures that aren’t their kids or their dogs?”

  I laugh. It’s a generational thing. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I do photography—portraits and commercial stuff when I get a client. But mostly, I get paid from my social media account, which is monetized because of the number of followers I have. For that, I take random shots of my day, usually close-ups with short captions, and post them. People check in and see what I’m up to.”

  Three sets of scrunched brows meet my explanation so I try again.

  I pull out my phone, click into my social media app, and show them. “See, here’s today . . . my morning cup of coffee, a stoplight over Main Street, the parking lot out front, and a shot of the neon reflecting off the spotless bar.”

  I click into each picture, pointing out the number of hearts and comments. “The more people who look at the pictures, like them, and comment, the more money I get.”

  Doc moves his glasses down his nose and leans in closer to focus on my phone. “That’s a job? Those pictures are real nice, I guess, but you can’t even see you in them. Or anyone. It’s . . . a cup of coffee.” He shrugs, and I can’t help but giggle a little.

  “I know, it’s different. People are curious creatures by nature. We like to see what other people’s lives are like, so I show them mine. It lets me do photography, stay anonymous, and make a living. Well, that plus ‘working’ behind the bar.” I do air quotes around the ‘working’ as I look at Unc because I’m still sitting on my butt, talking instead of helping.

  The sound of gravel crunching out front breaks up my TED talk on creative ways to turn hobbies into careers. I hop up, pointing at the three guys, asking if they want another round, but they all decline. “Nah, we’ve got a game to get to. Sunday night poker. Hank’s turn to host.”

  “Don’t go too hard on him, fellas. Payday’s coming and I’ve got my eye on a new lens filter for my camera.” I smile and swoop behind the bar as Olivia pockets her phone and goes to greet the next round of customers.

  The dinner rush is more of a trickle, but it gives me something to focus on as I make drinks for Olivia. I add a couple of cherries and a dash of grenadine to some Sprites for a family with two little girls, delivering their Princess Punch to delighted giggles. A few beers here and there, but mostly, I pull soft drinks and sweet tea to accompany the food the few tables order from Ilene.

  Unc leaves with Richard and Doc, heading to their weekly game. I’m glad he’s got friends, and now that I’m here as bar backup, they can play earlier because I can close up. It’s the least I can do, but I’m willing to do so much more. Anything I can to help him.

  The door opens, and I automatically look over to see who our latest customer is. I find . . . Bobby Tannen filling the doorway.

  Whew, boy, he looks good! Good and . . . determined.

  He’s got on a black T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, dark-wash jeans slung low on his hips with a black belt laced through the loops, and black cowboy boots that look like they’ve seen a lot of dance floors and very few pastures. I realize something . . . he’s dressed up, like for a date. This is fancy Bobby.

  A stone settles in my stomach, knowing I’ll have to watch him have dinner with whoever he’s going out with tonight. Maybe she’s still outside? Or he’s meeting her here?

  But I’m not surprised. A guy like that must go on dates every night of the week, probably with a different woman each time, judging by how many were throwing him come-hither looks. And fine, also by the fact that even I almost fell for it, wanting to meet his kiss when he moved in closer. Luckily, sanity reigned supreme because that whole ‘you’re special’ thing was straight out of ‘How to Hit on Chicks at Bars 101’. In other words, no thanks, Bucko. Any interest I’d harbored had floated away like smoke.

  Until I see him standing in the door and that sour taste climbs the back of my throat. Jealousy? Of his potential date?

  Yeah, that’s what that feeling is. On the bright side, maybe I can get an up-close look at what a guy like him goes for. I’m thinking a pretty, blonde, cheerleader type. I don’t say that to be bitchy, more like my observations of life have led me to believe that’s how it always works.

  And that’s what I expect . . . right up until the moment he walks over to the bar and sits down. Right in front of me.

  Oh, I might be in trouble here.

  Olivia is dancing around behind Bobby, eyes huge and mouth silently screaming ‘yessss!’ and ‘get him, girl!’ while she does some version of a pelvic thrust I think is supposed to be sexy but mostly just looks like she’s humping empty air.

  I drag my eyes back to Bobby, who’s smirking like he can guess exactly what I’m looking at behind him and gives zero fucks. “Hey, Willow.”

  Grit and gravel, no honey to smooth the roughness of his voice. I swear it vibrates through my skin and muscles and straight to my core.

  “Hey, Bobby.” See? Playing it cool here. No big deal. Just another customer, like any other. “What can I get ya? Jack? Or is it a beer night?”

  “Sweet tea, please.”

  Hmm, unexpected and interesting.

  I set a glass in front of him, watching as he fishes out the lemon wedge and squeezes it into the drink. “Dinner?” I ask, holding a menu between us like a shield. “Or are you waiting on someone?”

  I lick my lips, wishing I could chase those words back and swallow them down. Why did I ask that? It makes me sound needy, like one of his groupies. Which I’m not. Nope, not a bit.

  “Yep. What time’s your dinner break?” he drawls out slowly. But it’s not casual. If anything, the speed makes his intention clearer.

  Me? Me. He really is here for me. He’s dressed up like walking sex for me. The very idea is almost laughable.

  “Oh, I don’t really get one. I’ll grab something later.” That’s the truth, but also, I’m trying to put some distance between us. I’m not sure what to do with him, with this intensity, with this directness.

  I wipe down the spotless bar aimlessly, quiet and waiting. He came here for a reason and will spill eventually. I can be patient.

  He watches me again, eyes tracking me closely. After a solid five minutes of silence, which feels like an eternity, he looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Olivia?”

  She’s been watching from a booth with some folks she must know because she’s sitting down with them, all four sets of their eyes on Bobby and me too. “Yeah?”

  “Can I get two of whatever Ilene thinks Willow would like to eat for dinner, please?” He talks to Olivia but is looking at me again, daring me to disagree. When I’m quiet, he smiles ever so slightly, the smallest lift of the corners of his mouth. Victory. I can see it in his eyes. But he balances it with his words. “If you want to take it to-go for later, that’s fine. But I thought it’d be nice to have dinner together and didn’t figure you’d go out with me after I crashed and burned last night.”

  Bold self-deprecation? I hadn’t expected that from the cocky cowboy either.

  “So you thought a captive audience while I’m at work was the better option?” He cringes, despite the decided lack of heat in the accusation.

  He sighs heavily. “Look, I’m really bad at this, but I’m trying. I’m trying to get to know you. I’m just not that great with words.”

  I scan his face, his jaw set tight as though those were the hardest words he’s ever said. I believe him. I heard him express himself beautifully and confidently on stage last night, but he seems more real, more vulnerable now than the larger than life version he was then.

  Olivia sets down two blue-plate specials, Ilene’s brown butter seasoned chicken breast, homemade mashed potatoes, and fried okra. She disappears as quickly, and the aroma wafts up, making my stomach growl. Bobby smiles hopefully. And I give in, knowing it’s an unwise decision, but it’s only dinner across the bar. How bad could it be?

  I unwrap the silverware, watching as he mirrors my movements. First up? A bite of mashed potatoes, full of peppery goodness and covered in brown gravy. “Mmm,” I moan reflexively. Ilene can really cook, and if I keep eating every dinner here, I’m going to be the size of a house because she has never met a stick of butter she didn’t turn into something delicious.

  Bobby freezes, his bite of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, and mutters under his breath. I swear he says, “Is she trying to kill me?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I dig in. Now that I’ve got food in front of me, I’m starving. I’m several bites in when I remember that I didn’t take a picture. Food pics are one of my most popular posts and an easy capture with a variety of texture, colors, and shapes. But I’ll have to do something different tonight. I’ll see what strikes me on the way home—maybe a moon shot or my freshly painted toes in the tub because I promised myself a long, hot soak days ago.

  Bobby’s taken a few healthy bites too, shoveling it in as fast as I am as though he hasn’t eaten all day. I swallow, lifting my chin toward his plate. “Hungry after a hard day?”

  He pauses, setting his fork aside. “Same as usual. Picked plums all day.”

  “I expected you to say you’d be riding horses all day or rustling cattle. Something like that,” I tease, faking a country accent.

  He flashes white teeth so fast it might’ve been a smile or might’ve been a threat. “That what you think a cowboy does all day?”

  I shrug. “Isn’t it?”

  He mirrors my shrug. “That’s mostly what my brother, Brody, does with Mark. They handle the cattle. My brother Brutal and I do the farming. My sister, Shay, does whatever shit she comes up with—soaps, jams, cakes, and such.”

  I blink, trying to filter all the info he shared into something resembling a family tree. “So, you have three brothers and a sister? Brody, Mark, Brutal, Shay, and you?” I swear Olivia said there were two brothers, but the name Brutal is all that really stuck in my mind. Well, that and the image of Bobby throwing a hell of a punch, because that was definitely memorable.

  “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Two brothers, one sister . . . officially. But the Bennetts, that’s who bought our ranch, took us on, and we’re thick as thieves now. There are three Bennett brothers too, Mark, Luke, and James. And they’re all married, Mark to Katelyn, Luke to my sister, and James to Sophie. Plus, Brody’s got Rix, and Brutal’s got Allyson and a boy, Cooper. And on her throne sits Mama Louise, riding herd over all of us.” He doesn’t sound like he minds that at all, which is surprising. He seems like a rogue, lone wolf somehow who doesn’t let anyone or anything tell him what to do.

  But maybe I’m wrong about that? It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, people are more complicated than they first appear.

  Like Unc.

  Almost reading my mind, Bobby asks, “What about your family? Big? Small? Normal? Crazy?” He goes back to eating while I think about how to answer that.

  “Small and somewhere between normal and crazy, I’d say. Mom and Dad are both hippies who somehow managed to raise two kids. Mom owns an art gallery, Dad is a freelance environmental scientist, and my brother, Oakley, is the black sheep of the family.” I lower my voice as though I’m sharing a secret. “He’s an accountant. And his wife, Madison, is a forensic accountant. They literally discuss math and spreadsheets over dinner.” I shudder, my eyes wide in fake horror.

  He chuckles, sipping at his tea. “What about Hank? What’s the thread from you to him?”

  Isn’t that a knotted tangle of a snag? But I answer anyway, hearing the pain in my voice but not trying to hide it. “He’s my mom’s dad’s brother. I hadn’t seen him for a while because there was some drama I was too young to really understand a few years back. But when my grandfather died and I got older, it just seemed like it was time. I didn’t want to miss out on something—on Unc—because of things that didn’t have anything to do with me.”