by Anne Harper
“Oh shit.”
She dropped her chin so quickly that it hurt her neck. She wasn’t about to look up to see if they’d heard her. Nope. She was going to stare at the bar top like a totally normal human and then try to melt off the barstool and escape.
Great. Solid plan. Ten out of ten.
Sloane mentally kicked herself. There she was, trying to avoid three people, when she should have added Bartender Brady Knox to the top of the list. Because she’d forgotten one massively terrifying detail, thanks to way more than one of Cassidy’s mixed drinks.
There was one person who knew who she’d been absolutely over-the-moon in love with…and he was a fucking bartender.
She’d come right back into his bar like the genius she was.
Sloane lifted her head slowly and peeked through a gap in her fingers. Maybe he didn’t remember her. Maybe he didn’t remember her confession to him the year before. Surely at the only bar in town, he dealt with so many people that he’d just tuned her out. Not really heard what she confessed, just nodded and said things like “uh-huh” and “yeah, sure” so he’d get a nice tip.
It had been a year ago. Right around Christmas. Surely there was much more exciting gossip than her getting a little too drunk and a little too into her feelings. She’d also lamented about Janet Kepler running off with one of the waiters from the catering company she did the occasional odd job for, so maybe he’d really taken a liking to that information instead?
Neither bartender looked at all interested in her now.
Maybe she could finish her drink and escape. Never come back to the bar or Arbor Bay and go get some snow boots and a sled for the arctic and—
“Well, if it isn’t our own personal superstar, Sloane De Carlo.”
Every part of Sloane tensed at the high-pitched bullshit that floated up to her ear from behind. Objectively, she knew it wasn’t Emma’s fault for Sloane deciding to make her public debut by going to the only after-hours establishment within a thirty-mile radius, but she still felt a flash of anger at her best friend.
How dare she tell Sloane to not keep sulking!
How dare she tell Sloane to go out where the people were!
That anger swiftly turned to an even more urgent urge to flee as she faced the new voice behind her.
Carol “The Classic Bitch” Robertson was smiling sweetly. Past her shoulder, Sloane could see a group of people climbing into a booth near the patio door. Among them was Carol’s twin.
Marcus Robertson.
Sloane’s very own former soul mate.
Crap on a spatula.
Chapter Two
The problem with small towns was not that they were small but that they were awful.
At least, that was Sloane’s deep-seated belief as she tried to smile like she wasn’t panicking inside at Arbor Bay’s own Queen Bee. An unwelcome experience on its own. Never mind the fact that the guy who had taken the spotlight in her freak viral tour was across the room. And the only person in the entire world who knew Marcus was that guy? The bartender standing not more than two feet from them.
Sloane wished she was back on Emma’s kindergarten classroom floor, groaning like the responsible adult she was.
“Hey, Carol! It’s been a while.”
Two years, give or take. A brief conversation at the drive-in fraught with passive-aggressive remarks about how Sloane hadn’t changed a bit since they’d graduated.
Not that Sloane was keeping tabs.
Carol tossed her long, loose blond curls over her shoulder and tilted her head ever so slightly to the side.
“I heard you were back in town, but I didn’t believe it. What with everything going on, I thought you’d be much busier. Then again, I guess you’re not used to the spotlight. It can be hard to manage.”
Sloane gave a small, fake laugh.
“It’s been interesting, that’s for sure, but there’s not much I can really do at this point other than just ride it out, I guess. Taking the blog down wouldn’t even do much, considering we live in a world of screenshots.”
Carol pressed a hand to her chest and faked sympathy.
“You know, I haven’t had the time to read the blog myself, but Ruby filled me in on the highlights.” Whereas Emma and Sloane had been best friends since childhood, Ruby had been a loyal lackey of Carol’s since seventh grade. Sloane had no doubt that Type-A Ruby had a binder somewhere with every embarrassing detail from the blog to give to Carol. Probably even a PowerPoint presentation, too, with an added bonus of pictures from school. “I was cringing just listening to some of your stories. I don’t know how you can stand to be in public right now, to be honest.”
Had Sloane not been taught the ways of faking politeness as a part of her southern upbringing, she would have frowned hard at that. Gritted her teeth a little bit. Maybe growled. Carol was good like that. She had this tone that pushed a person to want to show her up yet somehow reminded that same person that that just wasn’t how you did things here.
Once again, of the many things Sloane was grateful of since the blog had gone viral was the fact that she’d never written about the queen bee. Even after changing all the names of the others, Sloane hadn’t even rolled the dice at incurring her wrath.
“It’s an exercise in willpower, I assure you,” Sloane replied. She glanced over at the bartender. He wasn’t at all interested in them.
Small blessings.
“Well, from what I can tell, for The Girl Who Said Nothing, you sure said a lot.” Carol’s tone dipped into serpent territory. Her eyes were absolutely alight. She was the snake who’d just caught the mouse. Leaning in enough that Sloane could smell her perfume, Queen Bee lowered her voice. “Between us girls, I think it was very smart of you not to tell the world who you-know-who was. There’s no pride to be had when feelings are one-sided, you know?”
Sloane nodded, tight-lipped, and hoped that would be it, but Carol was a bitch after a bone. She turned away from Sloane’s reheating cheeks and motioned to Brady the Bartender.
“The usual for us.” She motioned back to the booth her brother, Ruby, and another friend were seated in. “And another one of whatever our very own celebrity here is drinking.”
Brady’s eyebrow rose at that. Carol looked ready to cackle.
“Haven’t you seen the news? Sloane here is famous now.”
Brady changed his gaze over. Sloane gave him a smile that she hoped was one of several he didn’t remember.
“Oh really? For what?”
“For being in love.” Carol gave her a side wink and then pointed a manicured finger to her phone. “Google her. Sloane De Carlo.”
Sloane opened her mouth to beg for mercy, but Carol seemed pleased at the verbal dance she’d participated in. She squeezed Sloane’s shoulder and was back to her fabricated smile.
Then she looked like she’d forgotten something.
It was a look that put a foreboding sense of danger in Sloane’s gut.
Run, Sloane! Run or she’ll eat you alive!
Carol’s smile went to high-wattage bright. “You know what? It’s so sad to drink alone; why don’t you come join us? You know Marcus already, and I’m sure Ruby and John would love to pick your brain. It’s not every day an Arbor Bay native makes such a big splash.”
She winked. Again. Why was she always winking? It made Sloane panic even more. For whatever reason, she glanced at Brady.
Which didn’t help matters at all.
Recognition didn’t just flash across his expression; it exploded.
He looked at her…and then to Marcus at the other end of the room.
All reasonable excuses as to why she couldn’t join Carol went out the window. Once she lost those, she was toast.
And Carol knew it.
“Grab your drink and let’s go.” She wrapped her arm around Sloane’s should
ers and guided her off the stool. “Between your fame and Marcus’s new engagement, we’ll be talking all night.”
Sloane had never had a panic attack before, but, by God, she was about to. There were too many things going on. Too many opportunities to say the wrong thing or slip up. That was half the reason she’d come back to Arbor Bay in the first place: to avoid anyone she interacted with daily picking up what she didn’t want to be putting down.
And now she, a grown-ass woman, was letting another grown-ass woman walk her to her awkward doom. Best case scenario? She kept her one secret safe while making a fool of herself. Worst case? She admitted she’d been totally and terrifyingly in love with Marcus to Marcus, which had earned him top-shelf treatment in her blog…and with the queen of all gossip in Arbor Bay at the table watching.
Small towns were truly awful.
…
Brady Knox had already counted the cars in the parking lot before he’d come inside the bar. There weren’t as many as he’d hoped. While Fridays and Saturdays were a much busier time for most bars, their small-town establishment lived and died during the weekdays. All except Wednesdays. There was a plummet in patron attendance, thanks to church services. At least, that had been Brady’s experience during the last six years he’d been working at Cassidy’s Place.
Tonight was no exception. Brady had already counted the vehicles and done the damage in his head.
There were four cars, two trucks, and a bicycle. One truck was his, one car was his cousin Dixon’s, and their only server and part-time cook, Santana, cruised between the bar and her house a block away by bike. So their numbers weren’t great. Not since The Drinking Spot, the brand-spanking-new bar twenty minutes outside of Arbor Bay, had opened. Instead of trying to compete with the city he had opened the establishment in, Thomas Bleuth had decided to come for Cassidy Place’s locals.
And for the last six months, he’d been getting more and more of them.
That thought was what was occupying most of his mind when Brady had first walked through the back of the bar, the kitchen, and out into the main room. Even as Dixon tried to show him something on his phone, he was still running numbers and lightly thinking about sabotaging The Drinking Spot on his night off.
So he missed a lot of things all at once, and then he finally clued in all at once, too.
What started the chain reaction was Miss “Pain in the Ass” Carol Robertson.
Brady was an Arbor Bay local but not one of the longer-running ones like Dixon. He’d transferred in as a sophomore in high school and had the great fortune to be two years older than Carol. He’d missed living through her reign once she arrived in school and had been able to keep ahead of it as they’d gotten older. Sure, he’d talked to her every once in a while—it was hard not to talk to someone in a town this size—but Carol never seemed to be interested in anything past that. A blow to his pride in any other situation, but, in this respect, he’d been grateful. “High-maintenance” didn’t quite do the woman justice. And that was before Dixon had recapped their awful first—and only—date they’d gone on during her senior year.
So when Carol told him to google the woman at the bar, Brady had started to cue in on what was happening in the present and not the lack of vehicles in the parking lot. Not because he had any interest in googling anyone, but because he wanted to pay attention to what Carol wanted so he could do the opposite.
People like Carol, with their constant need to remind everyone of their wealth and status, rubbed him the wrong way. Though that might have had more to do with the fact that Felicity had left him for not having much of either.
Thinking, even fleetingly, of his ex made Brady more rebellious against her order. He took the name, Sloane De Carlo, and burned it into his brain so he’d make sure to never search it.
But then the woman looked at him.
Dark, mocha-colored eyes set in a face filled with not-so-hidden discomfort.
And then it clicked.
The first time he’d met Sloane, she was rosy-cheeked, rocking back and forth on her barstool, and professing her intentions to marry Marcus Robertson.
“I’m going to put a ring on his finger,” she’d pronounced, index finger soaring through the air over the bar between them. “Yep. I’m going to be the one who proposes. I’m just going to do it. Like Nike. I’m going to just do it!”
Her voice had risen at the shoe company’s slogan. Then she had ended the fantasy with a laugh.
Because that’s what it was. A fantasy.
One of the many Brady had heard over the last six years of bartending. He hadn’t been sure where that particular daydream landed on the scale of what was plausible and what would only ever be fiction. Sure, it hadn’t been up there with the local drunk’s plan to become an honest-to-God, panty-dropping, selling-out-the-stadium rock star, but it hadn’t been on the same level of reasonable, either.
Brady might not have known Sloane past the fact that she could get drunk off two of their famous mixed drinks, but he did know the object of her affections.
Marcus Robertson was the biggest, richest, model-looking stick in the mud in town. Just like his twin. Who wanted to be a rock star when they could be a Robertson? The petite, dark-haired woman who’d been swaying on her barstool across from him would have to stand in a long, long line to get on that ride.
If she was even tall enough to ride it.
“That’s very progressive of you,” Brady had decided on when the woman seemed to be waiting for some kind of response. She’d apparently appreciated the one he had picked. Her mass of hair had bounced as she nodded.
“Equality,” she had said sagely. “Feminism!”
She’d gone after her glass after that, and for a second Brady was sure she was going to raise it in a toast. Thankfully, she’d just tried to drink from it. A hard feat, considering she’d already finished that drink ten minutes beforehand.
“See, I’m done with being the only one without a life,” she had continued, replacing the glass on the bar top. “Why don’t I just tell him? I mean, it’s my turn to be the one making plans. It’s my turn to be the one showing off. It’s my turn to get the pony.”
Brady had raised his eyebrow while she had quickly deflated on her last point.
“I don’t know if that’s code for something, but I’m sure one day you’ll get that pony,” he had tried. “Whatever that pony may be.”
Now, after making the Robertson group drinks and then going to the office to drop off some mail, Brady had paused in the hallway that opened up to the back of the bar to begrudgingly google Sloane. He wanted to know if she’d gotten her pony.
Judging by the first post that popped up, Brady had no idea.
Small-town woman strikes accidental gold after blog goes viral. There are no secrets left from Sloane De Carlo…all except the one the internet wants to know. Who is Guy? Will she ever tell him how she felt? How she, the internet assumes, still feels? And if he’s one of the million people obsessed with The Girl Who Said Nothing, could he feel the same way? Also, can we get another blog entry about that fishing trip to Florida? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
Until The Girl Who Said Nothing says something, here’s twenty-five of the best Twitter reactions to the viral sensation to keep you entertained!
Brady didn’t look at the list of gifs and tweets, but his curiosity had been more than piqued.
It went straight through the roof as the woman herself hurried into the hallway and right up to him.
“You remember me,” she greeted. It wasn’t a question. Brady couldn’t help but grin, recalling the woman swaying on his barstool.
“I do, and I have to ask… Did you get that pony?”
Sloane’s hand shot out and over his mouth so quickly that Brady didn’t have time to even flinch. He caught the scent of coconut-something before her eyes went wide and she pulled her hand right o
n back like he’d bitten her. Not that he’d had the time to do that.
“Sorry,” she hurried, her cheeks flaming to life. She lowered her voice. “It’s just that, well, no one is supposed to know about that thing I told you. About, well, you know.”
“Marcus Robertson, resident golden boy,” he filled in.
Sloane’s eyes went wider, if possible.
“Yeah. That and, well, I’d really appreciate it if you could keep that a secret. Keep my secret, I mean.”
She was floundering. Even more so than when she’d actually been drunk. Or maybe she was drunk now? Brady took a second to look into her eyes. Whiskey-in-a-bottle amber, not mocha brown. Warm, smooth, ready to make things interesting.
Brady decided she was just freaking out.
He laughed, a move that didn’t seem to help her nerves, and held up one of his hands in a stop motion.
“Whoa there, don’t worry. I’m not going to spill the beans. Patron-bartender confidentiality. If I told half of what I’ve heard at the bar over the years, then I would be out of a job. And probably have to skip town. You having a secret thing for Golden Boy isn’t as juicy or unusual as you think. In fact, it’s a song I’ve heard on repeat. Fame or not, I just don’t care that much, to be honest.”
Relief, swift and true, looked like it swept through the woman when her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
What if he hadn’t agreed? Had she been planning on jumping him?
Had she been about to Jack Nicholson him like in A Few Good Men right outside the bathrooms?
“You can’t handle the truth!”
“Okay. Thanks,” she said, running a hand across the brim of her blue ball cap. A different look replaced the momentary relief. Brady couldn’t peg it, but he doubted it had anything to do with him. “Now that everyone knows so much about me, they feel like they should know everything. I’ve been over there for five minutes, and they’re already trying to peer pressure the rest out of me.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Brady followed her gaze. Both were met by Carol staring holes into them from the main room.
