Page 175 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Everything.”

I frowned.

She saw, and shrugged. “When we were younger, everyone was trying to figure out what the hell they wanted. College. Jobs. Leaving Willow Creek. Staying. And then there was Carson Rome.” She looked at me, shoulders pulled inwards and head tilted as if memories played across her mind. “You had Blueberry. The rodeo. Marigold. Your grandparents. You’d tell anyone who asked that you were going pro.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “You were so damn certain.”

My chest tightened. “I wasn’t.”

“You looked like you were.” Rosie traced one finger through the condensation on her glass. “I thought I’d leave Willow Creek. Do something interesting. Then Dad got sick, the tavern needed someone, and suddenly this was my life.”

“Do you hate it?” I asked her, surprised to hear her truth.

“No.” The answer was immediate. She looked around at the amber lights, wooden bar, the rowdy regulars. “That’s the annoying part. Somewhere along the way, the life I thought I’d settled for became mine.”

I understood that more than I wanted to. Rosie looked at me.

“I guess nobody ends up exactly where they thought,” she whispered.

“No, they definitely don’t.”

“Sometimes that’s not the tragedy we think it is.”

The words sat between us.

I took another drink. “That was suspiciously insightful.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” She winked.

“Your reputation is safe with me.”

The front door opened. Mild September air followed Jax inside. Rosie’s entire body changed as her head swiveled in his direction.

Jax walked toward the bar wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, grease still staining one forearm. “Beer, Rose.”

Rosie stared. “Please.”

“Beer, please.” He shot her a smirk.

“Better, Jones.” She got up and rounded the bar, grabbing him a bottle of Corona.

Jax looked at me. “Carson.” He tilted his head in greeting. He glanced around. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

My heart stumbled. “Don’t have one.”

Rosie set the beer down harder than necessary. “Stop interrogating my customers.”

Jax looked at her. “Didn’t realize you were protective.”

“I’m protective of my tips.”

“I tip,” he countered.

“Barely.”

“Twenty percent.” He smirked again, thinking he’d won that spat.

“Minimum,” she said with a sway of her hips as she walked back over to our spot in the corner.

“Since when?”