Whiskey Kisses (15 page)

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She turns the burners down and takes a seat across from me at the table. “Izzy.” She folds her hands and looks into my eyes as if she’s about to dispense life changing news. God, maybe she’s ready to pass the baton and give me the business? I’ve wanted that—hoped for it. Heck, I think I expected it on some level. “The reason I’ve had so many investors look into the dance studio is because I’m in talks with a real estate agent.”

“Real estate? Are you thinking about selling the house?” My hair stands on end at the thought. When my father left, my mother whisked us away to a faraway town where no one knew our shame. We came with nothing and no one to call our own except this tiny piece of real estate my mother purchased. And now this was our house. Our dingy yellow walls, our weed-riddled yard. This was more than our home. It took the place of my father when he left us all those years ago. It’s strong and loyal and managed to stay in one place unlike the man that ran out on us.

“Izzy.” She lets out a breath, slow and full of frustration. The bacon starts to burn, but she doesn’t pay it any attention. “It’s the
studio
I’m looking to sell.”

“What?” I bounce back in my seat, holding onto the lip of the table as if it were anchoring me from drifting away. I was wrong. It wasn’t just the house that held us together after my father left—it was the studio. They’re my brick and mortar parents that I love as much as the real deals. And why I still love my father after what he did is a mystery to me.

“This is exactly why I wasn’t looking forward to telling you.” She says it sweetly, and, ironically, in a maternal tone I’ve never heard before. “I’ve given that studio everything I’ve got. I think it’s holding me back. If I hadn’t been married to that damn box all those years I might have a normal life right now, and, truthfully, it kills me to see you going down the same path.”

“Oh, please.” I jump to my feet trying to hold back a laugh. “So now you’re pissed at the studio because of your poor choice in men? How about having some standards? How about meeting someone and scoping out their morals before you let them shack up with you, and your two young daughters!” My voice rises to the ceiling before ricocheting off all four walls. “How about you open your
damn
eyes
and see that the fallout of your actions cost me so much more than I was ever willing to give!” I knock the chair over, grab my purse, and get the hell out.

I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.

I’m so damn sick of protecting everyone all the time.

And, as usual, it’s me I forgot to protect.

The Fourth of July is next to Valentine’s Day as far as couples holidays go. I found out the hard way one year when Laney invited me out with her friends, and it turned into one big make-out session with me being the only one focusing on the explosives in the sky. Nevertheless it’s the Fourth, and, oddly enough, tonight is the third blind disaster Laney has set up for me. Three strikes and she’s out. Those are the rules, and I’m sticking to them.

I’m not sure what has Laney so motivated to boot me over to testosterone-laden pastures other than the fact she may not like having her sister turn into an old maid right before her eyes. Too bad. Not only have I been an old maid in training since my eighteenth birthday, but I’m driving the bandwagon for future old maids of America. I might even start an alliance. Of course, there will be a four-cat minimum for admittance into the organization. Bonus points if you live with your mother. A spot on the board if she happens to be a battle-ax that prefers pond scum sleeping next to her at night.

All the way over to the Black Bear, the conversation, or more like shouting match, I had with my mother replays on a loop.

“Sell the studio,” I whisper, shaking my head as I enter the bar. My mother is out of her fuchsia-lipped, headband-wearing mind. First she wanted to fire up the RV with Don, and now she’s trying to sell the studio? It’s obvious she’s having a midlife crisis. That studio takes better care of us than any man ever could. It puts food on the table, keeps a roof over our heads, and has turned every girl that’s ever graced those halls into an extended family member—not to mention a seasoned dancer.

Inside, the Black Bear is thick with people. The heavy scent of fajitas permeates the air, and, sure enough, I catch Laney carrying a sizzling platter to a nearby table. I do a quick scan of the bar and spot Bryson and Cole. Down at the far end, ensconced with a pair of amply endowed girls that look far younger than Laney, is Holt.

My heart sinks at the sight. A jealous fire rages through my bones, and a part of me says that’s my Holt. But he’s not. At least he shouldn’t be.

I step into the crowd and bump into a body—Baya.

“Hey!” She jumps as if she’s genuinely happy to see me. “Rumor has it you have a hot date in T-minus five minutes. Your sister is freaking out. For some reason she was afraid you wouldn’t show.”

“I’m here. Ready for dating duty.”

She clicks her tongue at me. “It’s not a chore, Izzy. I promise tonight’s offering is a drool worthy specimen who has his head on straight.”

“We’ll see.” For as little as Laney has been screening the prospects, I’m sure Baya knows them that much less.

“No, really. He works for Ryder’s father. He’s got his MBA and everything.”

MBA? A wave of heat floods through me. I wonder how Laney sold me? I have the furthest thing from an MBA. Hell, I barely got out of high school with a C average.

“Nice. Tell Laney I’ll be back in the corner.” I wanted to say
nobody puts Izzy in a corner
—with the exception of Laney. But Baya is so young she probably wouldn’t get the reference. We part ways, and I take the long way to the back in an effort to avoid walking past the bar. I stride by a halfway decent looking guy sitting alone, perusing the menu, and he holds up a finger as I’m about to pass him.

“Izzy Sawyer?” His pale green eyes connect with mine as he gives a pleasant smile. He’s about my age with deep-welled dimples and dark, thick hair, eyes that command my attention. He’s abnormally handsome, but something deep inside me is already holding him at bay.

“That would be me.”

He’s quick to stand. “You’re even more beautiful than your sister let on. Wyatt James.” He offers his hand, and I take it, strong yet gentle as he gives a solid shake.

“I’m impressed. You’re early.” I take a seat across from him. My eyes skirt the bar to see if Holt is still sandwiched between the cleavage-wielding cheer squad, and, to my horror there are at least four more girls surrounding him, creating a bubble of silicone. Should we have an earthquake, Holt is well protected.

Crap. At least I know that cutting all ties with him was the right thing to do. God knows I’d hate to slow down his mojo. I frown because I hate the thought of his mojo being spread out over all of Hollow Brook without me.

“I like being punctual,” he says, trying to pull me back into the moment. “I’m not one to keep a pretty girl waiting. You hungry?”

“You’re not going to ask me to run my feet through a spongy dessert are you?” I pick up the menu and glance over it. I think I have it memorized by now.

“I wasn’t—but it sounds like a neat trick.”

He leans in, and his warm cologne washes over me. It’s a touch more vibrant than the one Holt wears. More spice than I’m comfortable with, and it makes me miss Holt that much more.

Wyatt looks decent, and, for the most part, sane, but, in truth, I’m growing impatient just sitting around waiting for his insanity to sprout from his head like horns.

I put down the menu, and he does the same.

“Okay, give it to me.” I fold my arms and wait for it. “You like mountain climbing at midnight? Running up fire escapes more your thing? Let me guess—you have an entire closet full of women’s clothes you’re just dying to show off. Maybe a little lingerie runway action?”

The smile glides off his face. He dips his chin and examines me as if I’ve just confessed to killing his puppy, and now I feel like a bag of crap that just accidentally set itself on fire.

“Fire escapes?” He shakes his head. “Not my thing. I am into spontenatiy though. How about we blow this place and catch the next flight to Europe? I’ve got a backpack I’ve been meaning to dust off and a few McDonald’s gift certificates I’m looking to blow. We can eat cheeseburgers while walking down the Champs-Elysees.” He leans in serious as death. “How would you like to wolf down a pack of French fries at the Eifel Tower?”

Holy hell. Knew it. He’s as psychotic as they come with his handsome face, that quasi-arrogant air about him, and all he wants to do is have a carb fest in the city of lights.

“And”—he folds his hands and bounces them on the table—“since we’re getting close, I’d like the passwords to your phone and email accounts. Honesty is the best policy, and there’s nowhere better to start than the beginning. Of course, I’ll let you glance at mine if you want, but you can take my word for it. I’m as trustworthy as they come.” His lips pull back in a manufactured smile, and I’ve either just been bested, or Laney has topped herself with this one.

“Are you for real?”

“I am for real.” His shoulders relax. “But it sounds like you’ve had your fair share of fun-filled blind dates, and I didn’t want to go down as vanilla.” He slumps in his seat. “How’d I do?”

“I almost bolted at ‘passwords.’” I strum my fingers over the table to keep from laughing. “You were anything but vanilla.”

Laney comes by, and we put in an order for shrimp fajitas and a couple of non-alcoholic beers. We talk for what feels like hours about life, Hollow Brook, the bands we listened to in high school—which happen to be the exact same ones. Then it hits me. Not every man out there is a loon. Not every man out there is in on some conspiracy to control women, to steal forty-five dollars out of their wallets, or to mistreat them in some misogynistic way. Wyatt James is an overall nice guy. He’ll be a great catch for someone, someday.

I cut a quick glance to the bar where my eyes have wandered all night. Holt stands alone, wiping down a martini glass, looking as if someone just handed him his balls on a shrimp fajita platter. I can’t help feeling like that someone was me.

“So you almost ready to move this party to the beach and check out the fireworks?” Wyatt asks as kind as possible, and not a single part of me is revolted or afraid he’s planning to kidnap me before the grand finale.

“I think I am.” I bite down on a nervous smile because I’ve never done what I’m about to do next. “But I think this is where we should part ways. I think you’re a really nice guy. And I believe with all my heart there’s a really nice girl out there for you. It’s just—she’s not me.”

“Really?” He looks puzzled, but the smile still lingers on his lips. “I thought we were getting along great. But I get it. If you’re not feeling it, I appreciate you putting me out of my misery sooner than later. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” He offers his hand, and I shake it. “It was real nice meeting you, Izzy Sawyer. Take care. You deserve someone nice yourself.”

We stand, and I watch as he takes off into the crowd. A breath of relief streams through my lungs.

It would have been easy to keep talking with Wyatt, to go the beach and watch the fireworks, maybe set off a few of our own—to keep him in my life in general.

I turn toward the bar, and Holt catches my eye.

But there’s already a man who’s stolen my heart, and I think it’s time I let him know how I feel.

I head over to him with my eyes locked over his. Holt freezes with his dishtowel still stuck in a glass. The electric blue lights that trim the bar illuminate him like an angel ready to avenge.

“How did it go?” Holt buries a smile deep in his cheek, and my insides erupt in flames.

“It came and went.”

“So what was his thing? Did he offer to cast a mold of your feet and build a shrine? Find the highest rooftop and repel down using your hair?”

A laugh trembles from me, and, for the first time in a good long while, I feel relaxed, at home. Holt always makes me feel at home.

“He didn’t have a thing. He was smart, thoughtful, kind, and he has an alarmingly normal sense of humor.”

Holt plunks his glass on the counter. His chest pumps as he takes a deep breath.

“So—you think he’s the one?”

I step in with my knees shaking, my throat dry, gritty as sandpaper.

“No, I think you are.”

Holt

All those years ago, when I first laid eyes on Izzy, all I could think about was how beautiful she was. Here we are, almost a decade later, and she hasn’t changed a bit. Only now, I would stake my life on the fact I just misheard her.

“You think
I’m
the one?” I tilt my ear in her direction in the event she plans on clearing the air right here and now.

“Yes.” She softens toward me. “I’m not interested in anybody else, Holt. I’m interested in you. You’re my pot of gold, and I don’t want to let you go.”

Pot of gold? I can roll with that. A grin breaks loose on my face.

“You want to head to the beach and watch the fireworks? I’ve got a boat we can take out if you want.” It takes everything in me not to hop the bar and scoop her up in my arms.