Split(18)

“Oh . . .” I take it all in, thinking I underestimated this woman.

“It’s—”

“Yeah, I get it.” Grey Goose and water with a lemon wedge. “Clever.”

A small curve hits her lips. “Thanks.”

She walks away and I look over to see Adam’s eyes darting between the drink and me. Oh for shit’s sake. He’s waiting.

I throw back the shot of vodka and my throat ignites.

“Never did back down from a challenge. Nice to see Shyann Jennings hasn’t changed.” He holds up his pint glass, half filled with beer, and I clink my water glass to it.

“Ooooh, sure she’s changed . . .” Sam presses into the bar on my other side, an unfriendly smirk on her face. “If she were the same Shy, she’d have run away about ten minutes ago.”

Bitch. Yeah, coming here was definitely a mistake.

“Unless . . .” A sick but gorgeous grin paints her already painted face. “Maybe there’s a little bit of fighter in you yet.”

“You gonna test a theory, Sam? If so, I’ll need a couple more of these.” I slide the empty shot glass to the bar and it gets the Strawberry Shortcake on Acid’s attention.

“Another?”

I fix my eyes on Sam, waiting.

Mountain kids grew up kicking the shit out of each other. I’m too old for it, but I’d rather maintain my dignity than cower. Besides, blowing off a little of this tension I’ve been carrying around doesn’t sound half bad.

I give myself a mental shake. I’m not a mountain kid anymore; I’m a f*cking news reporter. Someday if I’m lucky I’ll become a news anchor in a top three market. That means no bar fights!

She tilts her head and holds my glare for a few silent minutes before her expression softens. “I’ll have the usual.”

The bartender pulls out a light beer in an icy longneck and pops the top. “And you?”

Light beer is hanging out booze, not fighting fuel. It’s Sam’s olive branch.

Thank God.

“I’ll have the same.”

I exhale as the tension that surrounds us, along with a few gawkers who had drawn close, dissipates.

With a tilt of the bottle, I swing the watery beer and Sam drops onto the stool next to me. “See you’ve been reacquainted with Adam.”

“He hasn’t changed much.”

She shakes her head and brings her bottle to her lips. “Not a bit. Probably still picks his boogers and eats ’em too.”

I snort, stifling a full-blown belly laugh.

“Enjoying your stay in our fair city?” She swivels toward me, her long, tan legs crossed.

No, I hate it. “Sure. What’s not to enjoy?” I tilt my beer to my lips.

Silence builds between us for seconds that stretch into a minute. I don’t know what I was thinking would happen between us now that I’m back. We’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t think either of us missed a birthday party or sleepover. I don’t have a single memory that doesn’t involve Sam to some degree. Then I left her behind without a word.

Fuck, I wouldn’t blame her if she hated me.

“Been by to see Dorothy I guess.” She must know that’s how I’d find her.

“I did.”

“So I’m sure you know about me and Dustin.”

“No big deal.” I push away a tiny twist of betrayal. What did I expect? Dustin would stay single forever, pining for the one who got away?

She nods and presses her lips to the bottle.

“Sam, taking off like I did, it wasn’t right. I should’ve kept in touch.”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t do the hiring, Shy. You don’t gotta kiss my ass.”

I pick at the peeling label from my bottle, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not apologizing to get a job. I’m really sorry. After Mom died, I just . . . I don’t do feelings. At least, not well.”

She nods and turns back to her beer, almost as if she’s giving me some privacy to put my tough girl mask back on. People in this town are rugged; they don’t cry in public and they certainly don’t get mushy over beers and apologies.

Having said what I needed to say, I pull my shit together and drown the rest of my apology with a healthy swig of booze.

“Loreen!” she calls, and the bartender moves to us. “This is Shyann Jennings. She’s looking for some work.”

The redhead studies me and blinks. “Jennings . . . as in—”

“Yep.” Sam chuckles and props her elbows on the bar.

“Why the hell do you need a job? You’ve got the richest last name in Payson.”

Is there not a single person in this dirt hole who doesn’t know who my dad is? “It’s personal.”

“I can respect that.” She wipes her hands on a bar towel before shoving one corner of it into the waistband of her jeans. “You have experience in a bar?”

Not unless drinking in one counts, but how hard could it be? I contemplate saying, No, but maybe a degree in journalism and media communications might suffice, but I bite my tongue. “I’m a quick learner.”

“Don’t got much, but if you’re willing to work a few weekends here and there, we’ll see how you do, maybe add more hours as the ski season picks up.”