Page 89 of Best Friends, Tennessee

“You sure, Ori?” Finn asked.

“If your friend wants another game, I won’t intrude,” the woman said.

“No, no,” I said. “He’s all yours.”

Lie.

He’s all mine.

But I felt like taking a step away might be good for me anyway. I needed a breather. I needed to remember what the hell I was doing in a Tennessee saloon with Finn in the first place, let alone drooling over his goddamn body.

“Very gracious of you,” the woman said. “I have to admit, I’m already a fan. I’ve watched a few of your videos online. My friend sent me one, and when I found out you lived in Bestens I couldn’t believe it.”

“You know my videos?” Finn asked, genuine surprise on his face. “I’ve never been recognized before.”

“Well, with that new one, you’re about to be even more famous,” she said. “It’s already at half a million views.”

“No chance,” Finn said.

“You haven’t seen? You should check your numbers more often, cowboy.”

Finn had a stupid grin on his face. He leaned down to finish our pool game and took his shot. He was distracted, though, and the shot missed entirely, his last ball bouncing off of the edge.

I leaned over and easily sunk the 8-ball, winning the game.

“Enjoy,” I said, handing off the cue to the woman right away.

“Good game, Ori,” Finn was saying, and I gave him a little wave as I walked off toward the bar.

“Have fun,” I said over my shoulder, not looking behind me. I heard the woman start flattering him some more, and by the time I got to the bar, my heart was pounding for no reason at all.

I sat down and Max and Kane came up to serve me right after.

“Want a mojito?” Max asked.

“Mojito? How come?”

“I’m trying out a new recipe for one,” he said. “It’s got cranberry cinnamon orange syrup in it.”

“Then that’s not a mojito, kid,” Kane told him, giving him a glance.

“How’d you get the idea for it?” I asked.

“The cat ghost knocked over the cinnamon in the back earlier today, so I decided to try making something with it,” Max said.

Kane rolled his eyes. “I knocked that over when I was carrying a box earlier. And I’m telling you, if there’s cinnamon in it, that’s not a mojito.”

“Well, it still has mint and rum in it,” Max protested.

“I’m telling you,” Kane said to me, “since I hired this guy, I’ve had the strangest cocktails that have ever graced the walls of this saloon. What was it last week? A hamburger martini?”

Max snorted. “Kane doesn’t appreciate innovation and creativity,” he said. “It was a ketchup martini.”

“Um, Max,” I said, “I’ve got to tell you, that sounds utterly fucking gross.”

“The weird thing is that it was actually not too bad,” Kane admitted. “But it sure as hell isn’t going on the menu.”

“The mojito tonight is good. Trust me. It has a little rosemary in it, too.”

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