A Very Merry Bromance (Bromance Book Club #5) (13)

Evan stood, apparently feeling that he’d won this round in their unending boxing match. “Gretchen, you know I have always admired your passion.”

She snorted.

He spread his hands. “Fine. I haven’t always admired your passion. Your little teenage rebellions cost us a lot of money and embarrassment in the past. But I thought you had at least grown out of some of your more radical tendencies. You should be grateful.”

“For what? Being born?”

Something vicious flickered through his eyes. “Yes, dammit. You were born into one of the most prominent families in Tennessee. The whole damn country, for God’s sake. You never wanted for anything.”

Except respect and acceptance.

Evan let out a long, weary sigh. “I don’t have time for this. Are you going to talk to him, or not?”

Gretchen’s pride told her to flip him off and walk out. The starving puppy inside her spoke instead. “When do you need an answer?”

“By the end of the year would be preferable. If at all possible, we’d like to get this squared away in time for the annual gala.”

“That’s less than a month away,” she protested. The family hosted a fundraising gala for the foundation every year just before Christmas.

“Then you’d better work fast,” Evan said, returning to his seat, a dismissal if she’d ever seen one.

Gritting her teeth, Gretchen turned and stomped toward the door. She didn’t know who she was angrier with—Evan for putting her in this position, or herself for going along with it. But she was going to do it. She was going to willingly talk to the man she’d sworn to avoid for the rest of her life just to prove something to her brother.

Turns out, she really was that pathetic.

“Gretchen.”

She turned around against her better judgment.

Evan smiled, and it sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s nice doing business with you.”





CHAPTER FOUR


Old Joe’s had all the ambience of an armpit, but the dank, musty pub was one of the only places in the entire state of Tennessee where Colton could sit in peace and listen to some music without someone exclaiming, “Holy shit, you’re Colton Wheeler!”

In here, no one gave a shit who he was. This was a locals-only bar, a songwriter’s bar, right down to a scuffed stage wedged into a small corner, an unremarkable address far from Honky Tonk Row, and a grizzled bartender named Duff who’d met everyone and was impressed by no one. Especially Colton. The first time he walked in a year ago, Duff plunked a light beer he hadn’t requested in front of him and said, “There’s only two reasons someone like you starts hanging out at a place like this. You’re hiding from something or you’re looking for something. Which is it?”

Tonight, he was definitely hiding.

Duff’s back was turned when Colton sat down, and the man pretended to not hear Colton behind him.

“You gonna give me a beer, or what?” Colton finally said.

“Fuck off, princess.”

That was Duff’s nickname for him. Colton no longer reacted to it. “It’s looking festive in here,” he said instead.

It was a lie. Duff’s attempt at decorating was more terrifying and depressing than cheery. The fake wreath on the door had faded from green to gray, and there was enough dust on its bow to cause an asthma attack. Limp tinsel that had long ago lost its shine framed the dusty mirrored shelves where Duff kept “the good stuff,” as he called it. His standards and Colton’s about what constituted “good stuff” were apparently quite different, because the only bottle Colton recognized was a brand of vodka his grandfather used to affectionately call “rotgut.” He’d tried it once and puked for three days.

Duff finally turned around. He grabbed a bottle from under the counter, twisted off the cap, and set it in front of Colton.

“I don’t drink Budweiser,” Colton said.

“You do tonight.”

This was part of their game. Duff was one of the only people on the planet, aside from his friends, who didn’t fawn over him. Colton tipped back the bottle and choked down the beer. “You got any peanuts or anything? I’m starving.”

“Does this look like a fucking restaurant?”

“You know, some could argue that it’s irresponsible for a bar to offer liquor without anything to soak it up.”

Duff turned away for a moment. When he returned, he had a bowl of lemon wedges. “Suck on that.”

The place was deserted tonight, even by Old Joe’s standards. Colton was the only person at the bar, and the only other two people in the place were huddled together in a back booth as if they were conspiring to rob the joint. On the stage, a young man with longish hair and a well-loved six string was warming up. Colton had never seen him here before, but the way he ran through a complicated fingerpick with ease told Colton that he at least knew his way around a guitar.

“Who’s the kid?”

“Name’s J. T. Tucker.”

“For fuck’s sake, please tell me that’s made up.”

“People used to say the same thing about you.”

Colton flipped him off. Duff was right, though. A lot of people assumed Colton Wheeler wasn’t his real name. It was too perfect for a country star to be anything but a stage name, but it was real. He was named after his great-grandfather.