Chapter 1 Jess The problem with working remotely: There was nobody around to enforce some kind of schedule. Jess should be at home figuring out what, exactly, it was that was bogging down the novel she was supposed to be editing. The characters had been solidly fleshed out. The plot was strong. This was the author's fourth book, so it certainly wasn't the quality of the writing. It was . . . the romance itself? Maybe the meet-cute was too cheesy. Or the chemistry could be steamier? Jess just couldn't put her finger on it. With a sigh, she pushed the Staple's scarred wooden door open and stepped through. Getting a drink in the middle of the day didn't feel like the most responsible way to approach the problem, but sitting at home, spinning in slow circles on the wheeled chair in front of her ridiculously cluttered desk, certainly wasn't working. And, hey, she'd brought her laptop with her. That had to count for something, right? Proof of intent? A token of professionalism? Per usual, country music drifted from the speakers. She recognized the song as "What Was I Thinkin'" by Dierks Bentley-not because she was a fan of the genre but because the Staple hadn't bothered to update their playlist in more than a year. The exact same playlist had been looping for more than 365 days in a row, and Jess was pretty sure if she had to hear a roomful of out-of-tune Georgia boys howl the lyrics to "Friends in Low Places" one more time, she was going to be forced to embrace a life of sobriety. She should be safe today, though. Friends didn't usually sink into low places until they were at least three pitchers deep. The Staple wasn't as empty as it should be in the middle of a workday. It also looked messier than usual, probably due to the sunlight streaming through the windows. The mismatched tables and chairs, clusters of photos tacked haphazardly to the wall, and neon beer signs mounted inside were better suited to nighttime, seen through the hazy gaze of one too many. It smelled amazing, though, like everything doctors warned their patients against eating. The fryers had clearly been working overtime. Jess let the door swing closed on the chilly day, her mouth watering at the thought of the whole basket of fried pickles she was going to get for herself. She couldn't make the mistake of sitting next to Sammy Olson, though. He was a constant presence at the bar, and Jess had figured out years ago that he was never more talkative than when conversation could be used as a distraction while helping himself to other people's food. As far as strategies went, his was flawless. Polite conversation was the lifeblood of small-town living. There was no greater sin in Redford than being too busy to chat-except for being too high on oneself to chat, of course. "Well, if it isn't Jessica Reid." The bartender, Bryce Howard, grinned at her truancy. While Jess could be counted on to pop in occasionally for line dancing on a Saturday night or a spontaneous happy hour with friends, she wasn't a regular. Not like the handful of people who were currently resting on their elbows, nursing pints and retelling the same old stories for the thousandth time. "Have you finished all the books? All the stories been told?" "It's done." Jess met his grin with one of her own. "There's no shelf space left in the world." Like The Staple's music, its staff never changed. Bryce had been working shifts behind the bar since the day he turned twenty-one, when Jess was still a senior trying to sneak in with a fake I.D. that claimed she was from Texas (as if she and Bryce hadn't attended pep rallies in the same gym her freshman year). In his nine years of service in keeping the town's thirst at bay, his cheerfulness and easy laughter had remained unflagging. It was easy to resent only having one bar in town, but you couldn't argue that a friendly face like Bryce's made it a pretty great place to end up. Jess waved hello to the people who looked up at the exchange and called out greetings. They weren't a closed-off crowd. Such a thing couldn't exist in Redford. Not when everyone knew everyone. "Why don't you set up down here?" Bryce said, gesturing toward the far end of the bar. "Then, if you decide to get a late lunch, you won't have to worry about Sammy eating all of it." "I wouldn't do that," Sammy sputtered. He grabbed a couple of his neighbor's fries and outrage-ate them. "You know you can order food of your own, right?" Bryce said to him. "I would if I were hungry. I'd order a whole basket of onion rings and share them with everyone. Because that," Sammy said, nodding approvingly at the fries' owner, "is what neighbors do." Jess tried to focus on this exchange, but her eyes snagged on the far end of the bar where Bryce had directed them. A man was sitting there. A man she'd never seen before. She blinked, trying to determine if he was an illusion. Sure, Redford, Georgia, got its share of visitors. Hikers came to do the Billy Goat Trail. People liked to spend a few days on the lake. Every now and then, someone even drove all the way from Atlanta to get one of Luanne's mixed-berry pies. Not one of those people, however, had looked like this man. He was too put together, for starters. His crisp white button-up didn't have a speck of grease on it, no dinginess from age, and his gray slacks had a crease ironed into them like they'd been delivered on a hanger from the dry cleaners. His dark hair was styled neatly, and he sat a little too straight on his barstool. Tense muscles pressed through the material of his shirt, creating sharp ridges. Maybe, in another town, the presence of a man like this wouldn't be so shocking. Here, it was the equivalent of spotting the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast. Jess took a step toward him, as Bryce had instructed, then faltered. The man didn't look like he wanted company. There were five empty stools between him and the rest of the bar patrons, and Jess would bet her basket of fried pickles plus a daiquiri that he'd created that buffer on purpose. As if she'd already crossed the room, Bryce headed down and slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of the stool next to the stranger. He looked at her expectantly and she shifted the messenger bag on her shoulder, rolling her eyes at herself. It wasn't as if she was going to pull a Sammy and start eating off the man's plate. She'd be respectful, not engaging unless he spoke first. She was here to work, after all. She definitely hadn't stuffed her laptop in a bag and dragged it along just so she'd feel less guilty about playing hooky. Hurrying forward, she slid onto the stool next to the man and pulled out her laptop, setting it on the bar. To fully sell the illusion of intended productivity, she even opened it. The romantic comedy filled the screen, a massive block of text that stared at her reproachfully. "Let me guess," Bryce said. "A whiskey. Neat." Jess laughed. "Perfect." The man glanced over in approval, and Jess noticed that he had a glass filled with amber liquid in front of him. Of course . It was exactly the kind of drink she would've given his character in a novel. Simple, no-nonsense, classic. "Are you in town visiting someone?" The moment the words were out, Jess realized she'd not only failed in her determination not to engage but she'd also skipped a couple of steps. She was supposed to start with a "hello." Introduce herself. Then she could begin the interrogation. "Kind of." The man glanced over at her without shifting his body. His dark eyes were shot with red. The stubble covering his jaw surprised her. Jess had pegged him as the type who would shave daily. "How do you kind of visit somebody?" Jess grinned. "Are you like a bookie or something? 'Paying someone a visit' to collect your money?" She did that ridiculous thing where she curled her fingers to indicate quotation marks, then regretted it immediately. Bryce looked up from the ingredients he was collecting for her drink. "He's in town for the funeral." "Oh." The grin froze on Jess's face for a moment before shifting into a grimace. "Crap. I'm sorry. I should've realized that." She should have. The fact that it hadn't been the first thing that occurred to her felt wildly disrespectful to Jasper Wilhelm. It made it seem like she hadn't even been thinking about him, which wasn't true at all. She'd thought about Jasper constantly since she heard the news. Obviously because she was sad and would miss him, but also because it was hard to believe he was really gone. Jasper had always been such a massive presence in Redford. Larger than life, truly. And fun . It seemed like a silly way to describe such a powerful man, but Jasper really had been. There was no event he couldn't turn into a party. No holiday he hadn't been ready to celebrate to the utmost. "We're all reeling from the loss," she added before the man could speak. "Everyone in town loved him." "I'm not surprised," the man said, turning back toward his drink. "He was very lovable." He didn't want to talk about it. Jess could see that, and she wasn't inclined to judge him for the withdrawal. People coped with loss differently, after all. Some wanted to discuss every detail, like they could cling to what was gone if they only focused hard enough on it. Others held on by burying it deep. "Are you hungry?" Jess wanted to change the subject, but since she didn't know the man, no obvious topics sprang to mind. Food was the one thing all people had in common; everyone had to eat. "Me?" He squinted at her, and she wondered if he was drunk. That would explain the bloodshot eyes. She didn't think so, though. There was a sharpness to him, and it wasn't just due to the cut of his jawline. "You're the only one here," she said. Bryce had walked to the other side of the bar after bringing up the funeral. She could see him dumping frozen fruit into the blender. "I'm not hungry." "Are you sure? Because I'm ordering a basket of fried pickles, and I was going to offer you five of them." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't big enough to show his teeth, but it was something. "Five?" "It's a generous offer. If I was just letting you taste them, you'd only get one." "Five is five times as many as one," he admitted. "I'm a generous person." "Clearly." For the first time, the man did more than glance over at her. His whole top half turned, shoulders shifting in her direction. "But let me ask you this: How many come in a basket?" Lawyer, she guessed. Or maybe he worked with numbers. If he was a lawyer, there would probably be a suit jacket on the stool next to him. "I don't know," she said noncommittally. "Your best estimate." Yep. Numbers. He was definitely a numbers guy. "Probably thirty," she admitted with a laugh. "Maybe even forty." "So, it wasn't really that generous of an offer." He grinned, this time showing a flash of white teeth. The sight made her want to lift at least one arm in victory. "Better than a single pickle, though. I stand by that." Big talk for someone who could feel her cheeks flushing beneath the fullness of his attention. She shouldn't have broken out her sweaters this week. It was too early in the season. She was melting beneath the wool blend. "I think this might be my masterpiece," Bryce said, breaking the charged moment by placing a daiquiri glass in front of her. Jess pulled her eyes away from the man and blinked at the vibrant concoction in front of her. Bryce had managed to layer the colors. Bright blue on the bottom, red in the middle, and a sunshine yellow on the top. A chunk of pineapple and an entire strawberry balanced from the rim, and a paper umbrella was the cherry on top. It was the kind of drink that would look mildly ridiculous on the sandy shores beside turquoise water. Here, where fall had shown up early, flaunting red and gold leaves through the windows of the bar, it looked downright absurd. "I love it." Jess exhaled, her eyes going wide as she took it in. "Seriously, Bryce. It's spectacular." The stranger grimaced at the sight of it. "What happened to whiskey?" "It was never going to happen," Bryce said, sliding a straw into the center of the glass. "Trust me, I've tried. The woman won't touch anything that doesn't taste like liquefied Jolly Ranchers. She's got the palate of a toddler." "That's unfair." Jess pulled the drink toward her, too excited to successfully feign offense. "If a toddler tried to drink this, they'd only make it halfway through before crashing into a sugar coma. I, on the other hand, have the experience and mature constitution that will enable me to order a second." "I'm not making another one," Bryce said firmly. "It's too much work. The most you're getting out of me is a bottle of beer. And you'll have to twist the top off yourself." Jess took a sip of the syrupy-sweet daiquiri, not bothering to argue with him. They both knew he'd be the one trying to talk her into a second when she was ready to leave. Bryce couldn't help himself. Life was a party, and he considered it his personal calling to keep it going. She hummed a little sigh of pleasure as the sugar hit her taste buds, her contentment flagging only slightly when the man covered his glass with his hand as Bryce attempted to top it off. "I'm good, thanks," the man said, pulling out his wallet. Jess guessed that was a no to her offer to share her fried pickles. Maybe she should've offered him ten. Five was really just a tease. "You sure I can't talk you into a burger?" Bryce said, seeming to read her mind. "We have the best ones in town." Jess laughed, and the man glanced over at her. "Aside from the diner, The Staple has the only burgers in town," she said, answering his unspoken question-or what she chose to interpret as a question. If she was being entirely honest, the man gave the impression of already having left. His eyes had gone all distant, and the furrow in his brow was back. There wasn't even a hint of the smile she'd coaxed out of him a moment ago. "Hmm." The man made the sound like it was a valid response, then dropped two twenties on the bar and lifted his glass to his lips, polishing off the last of his drink. Jess felt more disappointed than was warranted. Sure, it would've been nice to talk to someone new, but there were plenty of people in the bar. She'd just drink her gorgeous drink, eat a mound of artery-cloggers, and start up a conversation with the nearest friendly face. Then, as if the world could hear her thoughts and took great joy in mocking them, the door to the bar swung open, and Jess twisted around on her stool to discover the unfriendliest face in all of Redford strutting in. Her stomach sank at the sight of Nikki Loughton, the one person in town who openly hated her. Behind Nikki, like snarling bulldogs flanking their owner, were Cara Tinley and Lexi Farley. They didn't hate Jess like Nikki did, but they were happy to pretend to for loyalty's sake. "Why?" The word slipped out of Jess's mouth. Why did Nikki have to show up here, the one day Jess had actually left the safety of her own desk? Why now, when there were so few people in the bar to distract Nikki from her favorite target? Jess looked to Bryce and found him backing slowly away, the sympathy in his eyes clearly not enough to override his self-preservation. She couldn't blame him. Nikki didn't reserve all of her hostility for Jess; she had aggression to spare, and standing too close to her greatest enemy would only put Bryce in the line of fire. "What?" The man looked at her, responding either to Jess's "why" or the way she'd gone rigid, like a possum preparing to fall over and play dead. "Nothing," Jess whispered, shifting slowly toward him until she ended up facing him completely. Maybe, if Nikki could only see her back, she wouldn't realize whose back it was. Then again, maybe Nikki would stab her in it. Jess could hear Nikki greeting other people in the bar, her voice getting closer. "Nothing?" The man said the word too loud, and Jess wanted to pinch him in warning. Through the speakers, "Before He Cheats" was playing. Until that particular moment, Jess had never truly related to a man who was about to get his tires slashed. "I just had something in my eye," she said, forcing herself not to whisper. The man didn't need to know that she was scared of a woman holding a high-school grudge. And really, Jess shouldn't be scared of a woman holding a high-school grudge. They'd graduated eight years ago. If Nikki was going to rip her hair out or break her fingers, she would've done it by now. Excerpted from The Only Game in Town by Lacie Waldon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
