Page 13 of Reach Around

“How many times have we done this?” I demand, my hands on my hips as I lean across the counter slightly.

“This is year four, I believe,” Heath responds, his tone neutral now, businesslike.

“Exactly. And every year, I show up. I hand over the coaster mock-up. I give you the details. I basically shout instructions on my way out the door. And we get on with our lives. What gives?” My words come out rushed, a cascade of frustration that’s been building since I walked in.

Heath shrugs, a playful twinkle in his eye. “Huh. Well, we had one customer who gave us the wrong sample and then she wanted a refund. So now I have to double check everything. The whole… assuming makes an ass out of you…”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be asking for a refund. Have a nice day,” I retort, my tone clipped. I’m out the door before he can toss another quip my way, the bell jingling mockingly above me as I leave.

Back on the street, the air feels cooler, or maybe that’s just the chill of realization beginning to seep in. Did I just make a massive mistake of some sort? Shaking my head, I dismiss the thought. Beth was clear. Christmas carol trivia in shades of redand green. Maybe an elf or two. Heath’s just messing with me... right?

As I stride briskly back to Power Play, the chill in the air seems to match the growing unease twisting in my gut. The streets of town flicker with the warm glow of early evening lights, shoppers mingling with diners and the after-work crowd, all oblivious to the nagging worry nibbling at the edges of my thoughts. Heath’s playful taunts echo in my mind, his words tingling like a warning I might be too stubborn to heed.

With every step, the familiar clatter and buzz of the bar draws nearer, pulling me back into the reality of my responsibilities. Shoving aside my interaction with Heath, I push open the door to the welcoming clamor of Power Play, ready to dive into the controlled chaos of another busy night. The transition from the print shop’s quiet mockery to the bar’s vibrant hustle helps refocus my energies on the immediate tasks at hand—serving customers, managing staff, and keeping the evening running smoothly.

“Did you get the coasters ordered?” she calls out as I slip behind the bar to stash my jacket.

“It’s handled,” I reply, forcing a confident smile, though the weight of uncertainty lingers.

“Great. You know how everyone looks forward to the Christmas coasters.” Beth’s voice is light, but there’s a hint of something else—maybe expectation, or just the usual pre-holiday stress that gets to all of us. “They’re going to be excited about the trivia.”

“Sorry I’m late. Heath kept me forever, writing everything down by hand,” I explain, beginning to line up glasses for the next round of drinks.

“No problem. You’re usually really reliable. Hardly ever make a mistake. And you’re practically family,” Beth responds, her tone teasing but with a warmth that feels like a gentle nudge.

“Ugh. Don’t,” I sigh, not in the mood to delve into the implications of being ‘practically family.’

Beth chuckles, leaning on the counter with a knowing look. “Worried it’s the kiss of death?”

“You think of me like a daughter, which means… others might think of me… not as an option…” I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure he already doesn’t think of you as an option,” Beth retorts with a wry smile, her bluntness a trait I both admire and at times, like now, dread.

“You used to be nicer,” I shoot back, only half-joking.

“And you used to show up on time,” she counters without missing a beat, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Before I can formulate a comeback, Virgil ambles over, his ever-present grin in place as he sidles up to the bar. “Hey, Joely, Beth, how’s about a round for the old man to celebrate the season?”

“Only if you promise not to call yourself old. It makes the rest of us feel ancient,” Beth quips, pouring him his usual without needing to ask.

The door swings open again, carrying a blast of cold air—and every hair on my body stands at attention before I even look up.

Because of course it’s him.

Brogan strolls in like the damn mayor of Sorrowville, tugging off his beanie, running a hand through that mess of dark, sweaty curls like he doesn’t know half the women in this bar are already staring. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and somehow still manages to be stupid hot. Hoodie tight across his chest. That same lazy grin that ruins me every damn time.

Beth leans toward me, muttering under her breath, “Speak of the devil.”

I ignore her, grabbing a glass like I haven’t already cataloged every single detail about the way his jaw flexes when he’s scanning the specials board.

Brogan makes his way to the bar, leaning across it like it’s a goddamn crime scene lineup. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a burger and wings around here?”

“You here for takeout or planning to actually tip me for once?” I deadpan, already reaching for the order pad.

Virgil lets out a low whistle. “Ooooh. She’s feisty tonight.”

Brogan flashes that grin—the one that probably gets him out of speeding tickets and tabs at Molly’s. “I’m here to eat, JoJo. Right here. With you.”

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