Page 17 of Shifting Sands

“Sounds good,” I say as she grabs the empty glasses left by the guys who just vacated and walks away.

When she returns, she wipes down the tabletop and places a fresh paper coaster in front of each of us and takes our order. Fifteen minutes later, we have cocktails in hand and are enjoying the music until the band takes their first break.

“Maybe you should go try talking to Cody Banks. Rumor has it, he’s single again,” Erin suggests.

I glance toward the side of the stage, where there’s a crowd of stunning young women already vying for the musician’s attention. “Yeah, I think he has more than enough women to chat with,” I reply.

“Well, that’s all right; the night is still young,” Erin says as she raises her glass.

Brandee

There’s a vibrant energy in the air that I can’t quite identify—maybe it’s the sound of the bass guitar vibrating through the wooden dance floor or the mix of perfume, whiskey, and sweat. I tug at the thin chain of my necklace and step into the pulsing warmth of the crowd with Erin and Jena, who are already swaying to the music.

“I’m too old for this,” I mutter under my breath.

“You’re thirty-seven. Not dead,” Erin quips, looping her arm through mine. “You just have to keep an open mind—that’s all.”

Perhaps. Or maybe the idea of engaging in awkward small talk over overpriced cocktails with some overly confident frat boy or being pawed on the dance floor repulses me. Perhaps I simply want to enjoy one drink without being treated like a target for a man looking for an easy hookup. Maybe I’m not as lonely as they think I am.

But I let them drag me forward to the front of the stage, passing tables full of giggly girls and flirtatious guys in backward ball caps. The music kicks up. Cody Banks, the rising countrystar, is onstage. He’s all Southern charm and raw talent, and the crowd’s practically worshipping at his boots.

He strums a chord and leans into the mic with a smile that I’m sure has made panties drop in honky-tonks across the US.

“Whiskey Joe’s,” he drawls. “Let’s get into some trouble tonight.”

The girls cheer like they’re all volunteering as tribute.

I don’t. I clap politely, my eyes scanning the crowd, then the bar.

My breath catches for a second—not because of Cody Banks, but because of him.

The bartender.

Tall, with dark hair pushed back in messy waves, sleeves rolled up over corded forearms. He pours a bourbon with one hand and laughs with a customer, oozing easy charm that doesn’t try too hard. His jaw’s strong, and his eyes are beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you stare too long. There’s something … unbothered about him. Confident and quiet. A calm amid the chaos.

I blink as those eyes meet mine.

Shit. I’m staring.

“Go flirt with Cody,” Erin whispers to me, eyes lit with mischief. “He’s already looked at you twice.”

“He’s looking at everyone and no one. It’s his job to engage with the crowd.”

“Yeah, but he looked at you with interest,” Jena teases, nudging me. “C’mon, Brandee. You’re hot, a walking thirst trap, and you don’t even try.”

I shake my head, laughing. “I’m just here for the drinks and the music.”

Erin fake gasps. “Lies. You need someone to knock the cobwebs off your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I bite out as I scan to see if anyone is listening.

She grins, unrepentant, and waves over a guy who looks like an Abercrombie model and reeks of expensive cologne. He’s exactly the type I’ve learned to avoid—too smooth, too sure of himself, too loud. Jena’s chatting with his friend, who’s leaning in close, a beer in each hand and his eyes locked on her cleavage.

“Hi. Want to dance?” Mr. Abercrombie asks.

I take a step back. “Sorry, I’ve got to pee,” I reply.

I make a hasty escape toward the ladies’ room, where I hide in a stall while some drunk girls stand at the sinks, discussing their odds of being invited to Cody’s trailer tonight.

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