Page 47 of Chasing Callie

As Aspen reluctantly heads toward her station, I notice a group of men standing near the edge of the midway. They stick out like sore thumbs—tailored pants, crisp button-ups with the sleeves rolled up to expose their forearms, watches that probably cost more than my car. Definitely not Big Ridge locals. Honestly, they don’t even really look like the tourists we usually get. The tallest with dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass whispers something to his companions without taking his gaze off my friend.

I narrow my eyes. Something about their focused attention makes my protective instincts flare. Before I can investigate further, a familiar voice calls out behind me.

“There you are! It’s shot o’clock, baby girl!”

I turn to find my mother holding two tiny paper cups of what I’m guessing isn’t lemonade.

“Mom, it’s barely four in the afternoon.”

She presses the cup into my hand. “It’s tradition! First day of the summer festival means apple cider shots.” Her eyes twinkle. “With a kick.”

I sigh but take the cup. “You’re the only mom who actively encourages day drinking.”

“Honey, I’m the reason half these tourists come back year after year.” She throws back her shot with practiced ease and grins. “They come for the mountains but stay for Sally Mae’s special cider.”

I can’t help but smile as I down my own shot. The cinnamon-apple warmth slides down my throat, followed by the familiar burn of whatever whiskey Mom’s snuck into it this year.

“Strong,” I cough.

“Perfect,” she counters. “Happy tourists spend more money. More money means a better winter for everyone when they’re gone.” She links her arm through mine. “Now come on, I need you to help me set up the rest of the cider station. We have cornhole tournaments starting in an hour, and those daddies get mighty thirsty watching their kids toss bean bags.”

As I let Mom lead me away, I glance over my shoulder. The men in their fancy clothes are gone, but something about them lingers in my mind like a question I can’t quite form.

Maybe it’s the shot hitting my empty stomach, but something tells me this summer festival is going to be different from any before it. Whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen.

For now, I’ll follow Mom and help get the tourists liquored up. After all, someone has to fuel this town’s economy, one overpriced shot at a time.

The drink making doesn’t stop. Disposable cup, pour, serve, smile, repeat. My hands move automatically, and while this dinky drink station has nothing on The Bar, it’s set up logically. Mom even makes a good bartender. I swear she’s forced Jager Bombs on every person she’s served. I slide three tequila shots across to a group of smiling tourists who’ve clearly pre-gamed before arriving at the Summer Festival.

“Anything else I can get you?” I flash my best bartender smile.

One of the men leans forward, all confidence and swagger. “Your number would be nice.”

I laugh, the sound practiced but not entirely fake. “Sorry, my phone’s broken.” That line has saved me from enough come ons. It’s not a good excuse, but they usually take the hint. Not this guy though.

“I could buy you a new one.” He winks, and I notice his friends exchanging knowing glances. “I’d be happy to pay for whatever you want.”

Did he just offer to be my sugar daddy? He’s not even daddy age. What would that make him? My sugar buddy? Either way, not interested. “That’s sweet, but⁠—”

“She’s good.” A deep voice cuts through our exchange.

I don’t need to look up to know who it belongs to. My body recognizes it before my brain does, heart tripping over itself as that familiar rumble that used to make teenage-me dizzy with want brushes down my spine.

Knox stands at the bar, flanked by Brax and Jax. The Williams brothers in all their glory, looking like they walked straight off the cover of some “Hot Country Boys” calendar. Work boots. Jeans. Carhartt shirts.

Tourist Guy straightens, his gaze flicking between me and the three men glaring at him. Jax, in particular, looks like he’s calculating how many punches it would take to make this guy regret even looking my way. My body warms from head to toe. Apparently possessive and aggressive is my type.

The guy doesn’t deserve Jax’s intimidation though. “Your shots are on the house.” I push them toward Tourist Guy. “Enjoy the festival.”

He finally registers the visual daggers aimed in his direction and steps back. “Thanks. We’ll, uh, be moving along.”

I watch him leave with his friends before turning to the brothers. “Was the murder-stare really necessary?”

Jax bristles and pretends to be offended. “Murder-stare? That was my I’ll-break-your-kneecaps stare.”

“Uh-huh. You guys realize you can’t threaten everyone who thinks I’m cute, otherwise you’d be picking a fight with the whole world,” I tease.

“Fine by me,” Brax says, checking me out. “You look pretty.”