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 glass. “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.
So he felt guilty, sitting across the rough wooden table from her and not being attracted to her on more than a surface level. He felt bad that he didn’t enjoy her company. He could feel her frustration and puzzlement and the wound to her ego, just as much as he could feel the perspiration and the chill of his beer bottle.
He felt the crazy urge to apologize to Bridget. Some version of the “It’s not you; it’s me” speech he’d given her four years ago. But that would be even more offensive, since he’d be giving voice to the currently unspoken and unacknowledged rejection that hung in the air. Shut it and keep it shut, you jackass.
He found his gaze straying back to Charlie, who was still deep in conversation with his sister at the bar. Lila’s shoulders were hunched and her head was cocked at a dejected angle, and Charlie put her hand on Lila’s and squeezed it.
This was more than a bitch session about Bridezilla.
Charlie’s hand remained on Lila’s, and Jake remembered the way it had felt on his own. In his own. Her skin soft, her fingers tapered, her nails free of any polish.
He became aware of a deadly silence across the table from him. Bridget took a perfect sip of her beer and waited. For what?
“Uh,” he said, at his most articulate. “So . . . how is your dad?”
Judging by the flash of hostility in her blue eyes, this was exactly the wrong question to ask. “I was just telling you that, Jake. But I guess you weren’t paying attention.”
“Bridge, I’m sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
“Clearly.”
He could almost see the gears turning in her head, telling her to warm up her smile and play it casual.
“Want to talk about it?” she said.
His gaze returned to Charlie, to the way the barstool hugged her curves. “It’s complicated.”
Bridget followed his eyes; her own narrowed at the sight of competition. And as if Charlie felt them looking at her, she turned her head. Lifted an eyebrow.
Jake raised his Shiner Bock in a wry toast.
“Are you serious, Jake?” Bridget said. “You’re thinking about going there again?”
“What?” He so didn’t need this right now. “No. Of course not. I’m just a little worried about Lila, is all.”
“Is that right? Yeah, your little sister’s got herself into a situation, or hadn’t you heard?” Bridget washed down the faint tinge of malice in her tone with another sip of her beer.
Jake stiffened. He didn’t like hearing Lila spoken about in such a tone. He sure as hell didn’t like Lila having a situation that people like Bridget knew enough to gossip about but that he knew nothing about. Jake was racking his brain for a polite out from a conversation that was about to go south, fast, when a shadow fell across the rough wooden table—a curvy, Charlie-shaped shadow, which brought with it the scent of jasmine and fresh lime. And to his surprise, his heart skipped a happy beat.
“Jake, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think Lila needs you.”
Jake tried to process this. His little sister . . . needed him? Since when? And when the hell had seeing Charlie started to feel good? First, he’d gotten used to the dark memories of her. And then he’d gotten used to feeling blank. But good? Good was . . . bad. Terrible, in fact.
“Lila needs me?”
“Yeah. Believe it or not, she does.”