Page 27 of Small Town, Big Storm

Now it’s her turn to frown, and I want to stroke my fingers over the V there, want to smooth it out.Want to ask her a thousand questions about the last years.Want to discover if she tastes the same, if she still makes those little moans in the back of her throat.If she still uses vanilla shampoo.

And more than anything, I want to know why I woke up alone.

But I need to hear the truth.

So why the fuck are you asking about drinks and thinking about the past?

Before I can come up with a good reason for that, Poppy pulls a menu out of the holder and opens it.“Storm Warning.”I read the words out loud, take in the little cloud and lightning bolt beside the list of ingredients.Then continue reading, “Clover Honey.”Bees and a honey pot.“Bitter Blossom.”Flowers and a bottle of champagne.“The Fine Print.”A pen and a ruler.“Close Quarters.”A bed and a golden retriever.

“And,” she says softly, tapping the heart and soft pink cartoon lips, “the town favorite—The Cedar Kiss.”

Vodka.Peach puree.Orange liqueur.And simple syrup.

Christ.I bet that goes down like juice.

No wonder it’s a favorite.

“I can guess who the Clover Honey and Bitter Blossom are about”—her friendsarenamed Clover and Blossom, after all—“But what about The Fine Print and Close Quarters?”I ask.“Did Sully come up with those too?”

She nods.

“Who’re they about?”

A shrug.“Who knows?Sully…” A sigh as she shakes her head.“Well, you know what he was like.Always marching to the beat of his own drum and keeping his own confidence.”

“Yeah,” I say.“He was that.”

A stubborn bastard with the foresight of a true psychic.

And the balls to back up his predictions.

All of that’s the truth.

But it’s not the reason I’m here.

Yet, I still find myself saying, “Will you make me a Cedar Kiss next?”

Her eyes come to mine and she sighs softly, shakes her head.But she grabs two more glasses, starts mixing up what I presume are two Cedar Kisses, especially when she grabs the vodka and peach puree.

I take a long sip when she passes me one of the cocktails, and I instantly see why the sweet drink is a town favorite.“Yup,” I mutter.“Just like I thought.”

“What did you think?”

“That it would taste just like juice.”

She laughs softly.“You’re right,” she says.“And it’s taken down more than one unsuspecting townsperson.”Her mouth hitches up.“And many more unsuspecting tourists.”

I chuckle, take another sip, and silence falls between us.

It’s comfortable—sitting across the bar from her—even though I never did it before I left town.Her uncle Sully was a lot of things, but he wasn’t about to risk his liquor license serving an underage kid with a chip on his shoulder and enough alcohol in his own house to get an elephant drunk.

Always plenty of booze.

Meanwhile, I had to buy my own food.

And hide it because my drunk dad didn’t have boundaries…or know to not eat an entire week’s worth of food in a single day whenever the mood struck him.

Thankfully, there were always leftovers at The Shack.