Page 7 of Home in the Country
He doesn’t reply as he gets out of the truck and walks toward the entrance. Matching his pace, we’re equally damp by the time we step inside. The Iron Cask is a passion project for Colt Harrington, who plays for the Illinois Blues and also happens to be Hank’s lakefront neighbor.
It’s all dark wood and mood lighting in here and somehow manages to be the perfect balance of sports hangout and date night. Grabbing two seats at the bar, I wave the bartender over.
“What can I get you boys?” The woman, with her silver hair cut short, is somewhere between Mama and Miss Thelma in age.
“I’ll take two shots of whiskey and a beer, and he’ll have a Dr Pepper.”
I smirk, and Sorren’s eye twitches before turning to her.
“A root beer, please.” She nods and turns to hide her smile.
“Why do you do that?” he asks, annoyed.
“I just want to see how long it takes to get you riled up.”
“You’re a dick.”
“It’s been said.”
Our drinks arrive, and I throw a shot back before setting the empty glass on the bar. The alcohol burns, but I relish the feeling. Sorren will definitely be dragging my ass inside tonight.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Thank fuck.”
Ialmostcrack a grin at that, but I don’t. Instead we sit side by side in silence. Sorren turns back to a local football game playing behind the bar even though I know he doesn’t give a shit about what’s on. He’s good people, and I appreciate the hell out of him right now.
“You ever been in love?”
Breathing a heavy sigh through his nose, Sorren takes a leisurely sip of his soda. “No.”
Downing my beer, I take the next shot in front of me and then pick at the label of my empty bottle.
“I didn’t think I’d see her again, and it’s fuckin’ with my head.”
My words are quiet like I haven’t fully committed to sharing this little revelation.
“Same girl that had you all messed up at the chowder thing?”
“Chowda,”I correct but he ignores me, and I go back to pickin’ at the label before clearing my throat. “Yeah, same girl.”
“And she’s friends with Cheyenne?”
“Yes.”
“And Cheyenne is friends with Rhea, Marlee, and Isla?”
“Yeah?” I don’t mean it to come out as a question, but it’s more because I know I’m not going to like this line of questioning.
“So let’s just assume for argument’s sake,”—he gives me a look that says he thinks I’m an idiot—“your girl is going to hang out with them.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“But you want her to be.”
“Doesn’t matter if I do, she—”
