Page 18 of Caught Up In You

“Speed dating,” she says with a wink and a saucy grin.

Jesus fucking Christ. Because what Libby Hart needs in this season of her life is aman.

Mrs. Eberle, who’s been stone still, listening to every single word like she’s trying to commit it to memory, finally leans forward to extend one of those stupid index cards.

“I thought you had too many women,” I say.

“Oh, it’s fine, there’s always room for more!” Mrs. Eberle says, but I’m pretty sure what she means isI need only two things in life: Jesus and gossip.

My mother hands over a ten-dollar bill, then carries her name tag and index card to an empty two-top. Which at least means I’m done talking to her.

The door to the bar flies open, and Archer McBride stomps in, his jaw set, his lips pressed into a thin line. He’s wearing a Cardinal Springs High School Hockey hoodie and a frown. Felix McBride comes in behind him, rolling his eyes at his big brother and scratching at the stubble along his jaw as he scans the bar.I find myself holding my breath, watching the door behind him, but Owen’s not with them. I exhale and try to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Welcome, boys! Here you go.” Mrs. Eberle thrusts a name tag and a hot-pink index card at each of them.

“What’s this for?” Archer asks.

“I told you—speed dating,” Felix says. When Archer opens his mouth to protest, Felix cuts him off. “It’s for charity. You’re doing it. Sit down.”

Archer’s jaw tightens again, but he takes the card and the name tag and stomps toward an empty table.

“What’s his problem?” Grace asks.

Felix shrugs. “He won’t say, but I think it has something to do with the BMW parked in Madeline’s driveway.”

Madeline is the single mom who moved in next door to Archer last summer. The two of them have become good friends, though anyone with eyes can see that Archer’s feelings are bigger than that. Well, anyone except Madeline, who seems blissfully ignorant that the hulking ex–hockey player next door is made of Jell-O when it comes to her. “I think Betsy’s dad showed up for a surprise visit?”

“Moreimportantly, where’s Owen?” Mrs. Eberle asks. I can see her silently counting heads. Owen’s arrival would make the numbers slightly closer to even.

“He said he was coming,” Felix replies, slapping his name tag onto his broad chest. He glances out at the crowd and spots Keeley Wentworth, a teller at the bank with wide brown eyes and a penchant for low-cut tops. He grins and heads in her direction.

“We’re not starting yet!” Mrs. Eberle calls, but Felix ignores her and slides into the chair across from Keeley.

I, however, am still stuck on the fact that Owen is coming.

Over the last month, I’ve had plenty of practice being face-to-face with Owen McBride. I’ve served him beers and sat acrossfrom him at McBride family dinners. I even sat practically shoulder to shoulder with him in a tiny candy-colored exam room while he balanced Eden on his knee, his stethoscope pressed to her chest. I tried not to stare at the little V that always formed between his brows when he was listening to her heartbeat or the way his face lit up when she giggled at his silly faces.

I did not realize how many pediatrician visits a baby has in the first four months of her life.

And each time I saw him, my mind replayed our parking lot encounter like my own personal porn film. Anytime I was near Owen McBride, I wound up pressing my thighs together, simultaneously trying to stem the tide of arousal and chasing the feeling toward the cliff.

I really wish we had just fucked in the parking lot that night. Then I’d have this out of my system.

I feel like the ghost of Owen McBride has been edging me for weeks.

Ernie, the owner, pushes through the swinging door from the back and drops a box of limes on the bar. His gray hair is shaggy and curls at the ends, and he shakes it out of his eyes, the neon beer signs reflecting off the silver hoop in his ear.

“Ernie, will you step in if—” Mrs. Eberle begins, but Ernie cuts her off with a snort.

“I’ve been married twice already,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m out of the game.”

“C’mon, third time’s the charm,” I say with a wink.

Ernie rolls his eyes. “How about you shut your smart mouth and go grab us another keg of that cherry IPA. We’re almost out, and this crowd is gonna want it,” he grumbles, but his eyes are glittering. He’s always sort of been my surrogate father, and even though he’s got all the warmth of a dying cactus, he’s always been there for me when I needed it. I’ve worked at the Half Pintsince I moved back to Cardinal Springs eight and a half years ago. Ernie’s second ex-wife, Margo, used to sit with Hazel when I worked nights. Every year on my birthday, Ernie makes sure there’s a strawberry cupcake waiting for me on the bar with one lit candle for me to blow out.

He’s remembered far more of my birthdays than my mother.

About six months ago, Ernie dislocated his shoulder trying to heft a keg, no small feat for a man in his late sixties. He’s been going to physical therapy entirely against his will, and I’ve taken over keg duty. Not an easy task. I like to think of myself as small and mighty, but a full keg weighs more than 160 pounds. Luckily, I’ve got a system.

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