Page 49 of Prime Time Romance

“Are you on drugs?” she finally asks.

Great question. “Definitely still a possibility, but I don’t think so.”

I get a slow nod and another full turn. “Well…it looks good in here. Who knows? Maybe a few more will wander in now that you can actually see what you’re drinking. I guess we will find out on Friday.”

Friday. Right. I noticed when I was cleaning the windows that the posted hours are only Friday and Saturday nights.

Maybe it’s seeing how far I’ve come today, or maybe it’s the comfort of being in someone else’s life, but I have this sudden urge to see what this place is capable of.

“Is there a reason you’re only open on the weekends?”

She turns to the bar, grabs the Scotch from earlier, and pours herself a shot. “I only have the energy to wrangle you into working Friday and Saturday, Fletch. By Sunday, I’m too old and too tired.” She downs the shot in a single gulp.

“I know it’s Sunday, but what if I opened up tonight? Just to see if anyone does show?”

She looks around the bar and then shrugs. “Fill your boots. Just don’t expect too much.”

15

Brynn

There’s a soft tap tap tap on the kitchen door at exactly seven o’clock.

I peek out the window and see Spencer outside my kitchen door, ready for our date to the observatory, wearing a freshly pressed pair of khakis and a soft linen dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms, and I have to grip the kitchen countertop as my heart beats so damn hard that for a moment I think I’m actually going to swoon—that is, until I notice the bicycle behind him.

I assumed when he said “Pick you up at seven” earlier that he meant in his car. Now, as I stare out the window, I notice that Spencer is holding his bike, and my swooning shifts to panicking because I do not bike.

Or at least I haven’t since I was in middle school, and even then, my skills were questionable.

My brain immediately seeks out an excuse. Injury? Weather? Strong belief that it’s next to impossible to look cute while riding?

But by the time I get outside, Spencer is already inside Sloan’s shed, pulling out her mint-green cruiser.

“It’s such a beautiful night.” He wheels the bike toward me. “I thought we’d go for a spin. I know how much you like to ride.”

I stare down at my sundress. Today it’s a two-piece matching set made of pale-pink fabric with yellow flowers. It has a smocked-waist top and a full skirt that falls to the knee. No one in their right mind would look at it and think it’s cycling attire.

Except for Sloan.

That was her thing.

Zipping around town in her cute dresses, hair flowing in the breeze.

And now her thing is my thing. So I smile my best Sloan Edwards smile and grab the handlebars.

“Sounds like fun.”

Fun is maybe a bit too ambitious of a word.

I almost crash three times before we even get to the end of Sloan’s street.

Then I do crash.

While I’m making a sharp left, my sandal slips off the pedal, and my fall is broken by an overgrown hydrangea bush.

When Spencer comes to pull me out, I blame a nonexistent pothole.

Post-bush, things do take a slight upturn.