Page 9 of Hand Picked
“No.” I shook my head and took a step toward the door. “Thanks, but I want to be alone.”
Knox laid a restraining hand on my arm. “Webb, I know you’re angry. I don’t blame you. But you have family. You have an attorney. We have resources. We’ll fight this. Please don’t do anything that’s gonna get you in trouble or hurt your custody chances. And sure as shit don’t go anywhere near Luke Williams.”
Until he said the words, the thought hadn’t entered my mind. But as soon as he did, it was all I could think about. My jaw worked side to side. Luke Williams could certainly use a piece of my mind right about now.
“Think of Aiden,” he said softly.
Was he kidding?
I jabbed a finger toward him. “Fuck you, Knox. I onlyeverthink of Aiden.”
Aiden was the reason I was so damn angry. Angry because I worked my ass off to give him stability and a good home, despite his mother leaving us when he was four years old. Angry because I’d spent my life propagating varietals in that orchard so they could be enjoyed by Aiden and his kids and grandkids one day, and now someone was trying to snatch that stability away.
“I’m going to the Bugle,” I said flatly, motioning across the empty town common to where the lights of the bar shone. “Come and get me when you’re done.”
* * *
A wall of welcome heat greeted me when I stepped inside, along with the usual sounds of a hockey game in progress on the big screen and a country music song playing over the speakers.
I hung my jacket on a hook, remembering to duck my head under the low doorframe and touch the brass Unity Bugle on the plaque by the door for good luck, then headed directly for the alcohol.
“Rusty Spike?” I greeted Van, who’d been tending bar there longer than I’d been old enough to order.
“Well, hey there, Van!” Van mocked as I slid onto a stool. “Have you lost weight, Van? Ain’t seen you for the whole second half of football season, Van. How’s the hockey going tonight, Van?” He leaned toward me. “I’ll give you that one for free—Habs are losing, thank the bugle.”
I snorted. “I’m betting they’re losing because Montreal couldn’t score a goal if they were the only ones on the ice, but sure. It’s your good-luck bugle.Nowcan I have a—?”
“Hey!” Van slapped his towel against the bar near my hands. “Respect the bugle, Sunday. That fucker’s been hanging there for two hundred years as a symbol of unity, good fortune, and friendship. It’s our town’s greatest treasure. It’s the reason this bar exists!”
“I apologize,” I said solemnly. “I’m in a shit mood, but I shouldn’t take it out on…” I waited a beat before finishing. “The bugle.”
“Hmph.” Van filled a glass from a giant beverage dispenser filled with reddish-orange liquid that I knew contained whiskey… and an incredibly dangerous something that made the whiskey not taste like whiskey. “You folks are starting early tonight. You’re lucky I made a triple batch for after the town meeting.”
“Yep.” I was already busily sucking down the tangy beverage. There was something apple-y about it. Maybe lemony too. “That’s me. Lucky.”
As I drank, I surveyed the bar. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in here without my brothers or Jack, or even Amanda back in the day. What did people do in bars when they didn’t have a friend to talk to?
There weren’t many faces I recognized, which was probably good because it meant there were lots of tourists, but was also weird because I was used to knowing most people in town.
A table of women in the middle of the room cheered at something on the television, and one of them—a pretty blonde in a pink snow hat—gave me an up-down look and a flirty smile.
Oh, right. That was what people did in bars.
I licked my lips, and my cock perked up at the idea of getting some action that didn’t involve my right hand for the first time since my divorce.
Her smile turned into a wink in my direction, and my palms went a little damp, nerves warring with anticipation. I hadn’t flirted with anyone in a long time, and I forgot how this was supposed to go.
Or maybe I’d never really known.
“You know, Webb,” Van continued, apropos of nothing. “The thing about the bugle is, it’s misunderstood.”
“Oh?” I murmured as Van refilled my glass. I hoped he didn’t think I was listening.
The woman kept sneaking covert glances at me from under her lashes, making my blood fire for reasons that had nothing to do with fucking Luke fucking Williams and his ice-cream-robbing, land-thieving, apple-grubbing, son-stealing treachery, and I was very willing to let myself be distracted.
Her long, blonde hair looked really, really soft, and I’d bet anything it smelled like coconut shampoo.
My dick twitched in my pants. I apparently had good feelings about coconut shampoo.
