CHAPTER ELEVEN
DANI

Bottoms Up! is already loud when I get there, which is normal for a Thursday night. Especially, when East Divide is in town.

The place smells like beer, fryer oil and whatever that citrus cleaner is that Gus panic-bought in bulk. The neon sign over the bar flickers like it’s tired but still committed to the bit. Same, sign. Same.

Every stool is full. Standing room is packed. The class of 2008 is surrounding three of the pool tables in a last person standing series of cutthroat. Gus is behind the bar with his sleeves rolled up and moving fast. His jaw is locked tight in the way that means he’s stressed but totally thriving.

He spots me and points without slowing down. “You’re late.”

“I’m on time,” I argue, sliding behind the bar to pitch in like always. “You’re just dramatic.”

He snorts and shoves a stack of pint glasses at me. “Aria got here twenty minutes ago.”

“Of course she did.” I glance down at the end of the bar and throw up a hand-heart at my friend who is absolutely glowing and pregnant enough she should probably be off her feet and within two minutes of the emergency room.

She catches my eye and waddles over with both arms outstretched. “I missed you!”

“I missed you back,” I shout in return, grabbing the tap with one hand and reaching for a tall glass with the other. “When did you get back in town?”

Aria leans her hip against the bar like she owns the place, which, honestly, she kind of does on nights like this. Her currently dark auburn hair is thrown up, her cheeks are flushed and she’s letting one hand rest low on her belly. My mind immediately assumes she’s anchoring herself to the fact that she is currently manufacturing two human beings simultaneously. “Literally, last night.” She winces mid-sentence.

I point at her stomach. “Tell your kids to stop throwing punches from the inside.”

She laughs again, slightly breathless probably from the impact. “Deck says they’re  trying to start a mosh pit.”

“That tracks.” I yank a beer from the tap and slide it down the bar toward Elijah, who catches it without looking because carpenters apparently have insane hand-eye coordination, which I can only assume after being on multiple job sites with the guy is from years of catching hammers midair before they take out their toes. He’s only missed once… as far as I know.

Aria hooks her fingers over the bar edge and leans in like we’re about to share state secrets. “I heard you’re working on the inn with Ryan Calloway.”

I stop mid-pour. “Sophie ratted?”

“Sophie told Val who told Charlotte who told me,” Aria corrects.

“Ah,” I sigh. “The good ol fashioned Oak Valley press release.” I shake my head and continue to pour drinks for the familiar faces lining up in front of us. “Ryan Calloway’s in over his head. He’s trying to resurrect the inn from the dead.”

Aria’s eyebrows lift and I can tell she’s filing that away for later. “Are you still planning on heading to Nashville?”

“I…” I start, then pause because my brain tries to supply an image of Ryan standing in the lobby with his sleeves rolled up and his stylus tucked behind his ear. “Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. I refuse to be manipulated by my own subconscious in public.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” she asks.

“What?” I gasp and nearly drop the glass I’m holding. “How did you… What?”

She just stands there watching me. Her smile slowly spreading to her eyes.

“He’s a walking corporate agenda.” I drop my head in shame. “But with a strong jawline.”

Aria makes a noise that is absolutely not neutral. “Oh, Dani.”

“Don’t you start.” I slide a water across the bartop to her. “You’re pregnant. Hydrate.”

“I am fine,” she laughs immediately, taking a sip anyway.

Gus barks, “Dani! Two vodka sodas, one beer, and… a lemon drop?”

“Love you too, Gus!” I shout, already moving.

Work at the bar is pure muscle memory at this point. Grab glasses. Ice. Pour. Slide. Dodge someone’s elbow. Smile at Mrs. Voss like I don’t see her scanning the room for singles to mentally arrange into couples like floral centerpieces.

On the other side of the bar, Jake’s crew has clustered near the stage like a construction crew field trip. Elijah Brooks is telling a story with his hands, palms wide. Matt Rivera is leaning in, laughing loud enough to overpower the warm up track playing through the sound system. Cole Walker is posted a half-step behind them, arms folded, watching the crowd, which tracks for him. He’s the moody, broody and probably ready to fight a stranger if necessary type.

Sophie’s leaning against Jake, bright-eyed and smug as hell. I make a mental note to ask her about that look later, but for now I go back to pouring drinks.

Aria follows my gaze and grins. “Our people,” she says.

“They’re ridiculous.”

“That’s what I love about this place,” she says proudly.

The stage area is a mess of cables and bodies. East Divide is setting up, which means chaos with a soundtrack because nothing’s plugged in yet. Deck, Aria’s husband, is down on one knee messing with a pedalboard like he’s defusing a bomb. Nate is tuning on stage like it’s a warm-up set, wearing his too tight tank top that ensures his bis and tris are fully on display. Bobby is holding a bass in one hand and his phone in the other, thumbs still moving. I’m guessing he’s trying to get one more level up in whatever his current game obsession is this week before their set.

And then there’s Jax.

Jax is already on the drum riser, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever who found caffeine. He spots me and points a drumstick extra dramatic like he’s accusing me of a crime. “Dani!” he yells into the mic attached to the swing arm over his head. “Tell your brother I need a Red Bull!”

Gus, without looking up from behind the bar, shouts back, “I’m not giving you wings, Jax! Last time you climbed onto the roof!”

“That was one time!” Jax screeches, then looks back at me with his grin as sharp as his jawline. “Aren’t you gonna help me here?”

A feedback squeal hits the room and everyone flinches and groans in unison.

I wipe my hands on a bar towel and raise my chin. “I’ll see what I can do, but only if you promise not to pull that shit again,” I say, still cringing from the high-pitched squeal.

Jax clutches his chest like I stabbed him. “Fine.”

“Deal,” I call back, reaching for the mini-fridge and pulling out a trio of energy drinks and slide it over to Aria.

Aria leans closer to me, whispering, “This is going to be a long night.”

“It always is,” I admit with a smile.

She turns and I can’t help but watch as she moves through the crowd… my friends, and how they’re all enjoying the moment. A weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, but I don’t have time to think about it because Gus is already glaring and the crowd just got louder. I grab a dozen shot glasses and line them up in front of me because someone ordered shots like they’re trying to forget a whole decade.

Jax does a rapid-fire roll across the snare.

The crowd roars in response.

Deck finally stands, looks out at the town like he’s seeing it fresh, but when his eyes land on Aria, his whole face shifts into something softer. 

I wish I had that.

Wait.

What?

No, I don’t.

What the fuck?

I take a shot of Gus’s cheapest vodka and add it to my tab with my free hand.

Aria sees me from across the room and lifts her water like it’s a toast.

Deck taps the mic once.

“Alright, Oak Valley,” he says into the microphone.

The room loses its collective mind as they scream back at him.

Jax chugs one of the drinks, tosses the empty can behind him and counts them in.

Gus mutters, “Here we go.”

The first chord roars through the speakers. My brother’s bar shakes in unison with the sound, like even the building wants to get in on the action.

Aria is singing along at the top of her lungs.

Jake’s got both arms wrapped around Sophie. 

Gus is pretending not to watch the crowd like this isn’t his favorite part of owning this place. And for a minute, with the music loud and the town pressed close and the future not asking for answers yet, it feels like maybe staying wouldn’t be the worst thing.

I glance back toward the entrance of the bar to see if the stream of people is slowing down yet.
It’s not.

But that’s when I notice Ryan. I’m not sure how long he’s been here, but he’s hovering near the back with his beer in hand like he’s still deciding whether he’s allowed to enjoy this. He catches me looking and raises his bottle an inch.

He doesn’t offer me a smile.

But it’s not not a smile either.

Gus leans across the bar and follows my line of sight.  Of course he does. He’s been clocking my bad decisions my entire life. “Uh oh,” he chuckles under his breath, but loud enough I hear him over Jax’s weird catcall he’s currently doing from behind the drumset.

I don’t look at him. “What?”

He snorts and grabs a bar towel, wiping away a spilled IPA. “Do not pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m working,” I say, reaching for another bottle.

“You’re staring,” he corrects. “And you only stare like that when you’re about to do something annoying.”

I finally glance at him while reaching for a replacement IPA for the clumsy local standing in front of Gus. “That narrows it down zero percent.”

He jerks his chin toward the back of the bar. “That’s the Calloway boy, right?”

My stomach does that stupid drop thing again. Traitor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gus arches a brow. “You gonna go talk to him or are you planning to just brood from behind the taps like a weirdo?”

“First of all, weirdo is my entire brand,” I scoff, reaching behind him to drop a handful of dollar bills into the tip jar. “And second, I’m not staring. I’m working. Like I said…”

“He looks like he wandered into the wrong Sims expansion pack,” Gus says, as his eyebrows smoosh together on his face. “But he showed up. That should mean something.”

Damn it.

The crowd surges when Jax crashes into the chorus again, someone slams the bar for another round and I pull another stack of clean glasses from under the bar.

“Go,” he says. “Before I change my mind.”

“I don’t—”

“Dani.”

I meet his eyes. There’s no teasing there now. Just that big-brother stare that irritates my soul because it’s almost always right and I hate admitting it.

“Go,” he repeats. “I’ve got this.”

“Fine.” I set the glasses down harder than necessary and slip out from behind the counter before I can overthink it. The floor is sticky. Someone bumps my shoulder and yells sorry like we’re old friends. We probably are, but I didn’t see who it was. The bass punches me in the chest as I move, rattling my ribs and I ride that feeling as I weave through the bodies on the dance floor.

Ryan’s still near the back, watching the band and looking somewhere between totally fine and might bolt, when I stop in front of him. 

“Hey,” I say. Very mindful. Very demure.

“Hi.” 

The music swells and crashes again, loud enough I feel it in my teeth. I don’t move right away. Neither does he. We’re just standing here like two people waiting for the other to blink. I slide around and lean against the wall next to him, tipping my chin toward the stage. “Are you avoiding all that on purpose?”

He gives me a sideways glance. “I like to observe,” he says, then takes another sip of his beer.

“Uh huh,” I say. “I noticed that.”

His mouth twitches. “Was it that obvious?”

“Painfully,” I say, being sure to add extra drama to it by drawing the sound out as long as possible. “So, how are you liking Oak Valley so far?”

He glances back at the crowd and our hometown heroes on the stage, then back at me. “Undecided.”

 “Yeah, okay.” I huff a laugh. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them?”

He lifts his bottle and takes a sip, eyes flicking past me to where the crowd is packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies bouncing with their hands in the air. “I’m not really a dancer.”

I blink. “No? You seemed like an okay dancer at our prom.”

He chokes on his beer, and looks at me sideways as he wipes at his mouth. “You remember that?”

“You stepped on my foot twice.”

“Once,” he says. “The second time was a mutual collision.”

“That was a long time ago,” he says finally.

“It was,” I agree.

Neither of us says anything for a second. The music fills it in, which is convenient. I study him out of the corner of my eye. Buttoned shirt. Sturdy boots. Posture like he’s fresh from boarding school. The bass drops. He shifts his weight.

“Oh,” I squeal. “You’re thinking about it.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was assessing risk.”

I grin and sit my drink on the nearest table. “Same thing.”

He squints at me. “If I step out there, I’m not committing to… whatever that is.” He gestures vaguely toward a couple grinding like the world might end at midnight.

“Relax,” I say. “I’m not asking you to twerk with me, but… I mean, I could be convinced.” The sound of my words gets swallowed by the music, but his eyes flick to my mouth like he heard it anyway. That’s inconvenient, since I hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing I need is to get cozy with Ryan Calloway again. I already learned how that story ends once and I don’t want want to go through that again.

He hesitates. Long enough I almost step back. Then he says, “You’re not going to make fun of me are you?”

“Oh, I absolutely am,” I admit. “But only a little.”

He studies my face like he’s checking for fine print. Whatever he sees must pass inspection because he sets his bottle down on a nearby ledge.

“Fine,” he says.

“Wow,” I say. “Be careful or someone might think you’re almost having a good time.”

He steps closer, not touching me but close enough I feel the warmth flowing off of him. “Don’t make me regret this.”

I start to drift backward into the bodies, still watching him. “I make zero legally binding commitments.”

The second we hit the edge of the dance floor, the music wraps around us, all bass and sweat and movement. I let the rhythm take over as my hips find the beat and follow it, trying to forget the years of history sitting between us. Having a good time on the dance floor is not the same thing as letting my guard down and that is something I refuse to ever do again with Ryan Calloway.

Ryan stands there for a second, stiff as hell.

I glance over. “You okay?”

“I’m just…” he says carefully, “out of place.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He exhales, long and slow, but finally lets his shoulders drop. His footwork is subtle and controlled, but there’s heat under it. A precision I didn’t expect. I feel a surge of heat low in my spine before my brain catches up.

“Oh,” I say, leaning in so he can hear me. “Your moves have improved since high school.”

“I like patterns,” he says. “Music has them,”  he adds, letting the rhythm lead him. 

It’s irritating because he’s not playing to the room but it’s still smooth as hell. 

“You’ve done this before.”

He glances at me. “Define this.”

I tilt my head to the side, trying to decide if he’s serious or just playing dumb to annoy me. I settle on the latter of the two options.

His mouth ticks up at the corner. “I had a phase.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” A laugh launches itself out of me, sharp and surprised. “You don’t get to say that and not elaborate.”

“College,” he says. “Two semesters.”

“Stop. No way.”

“All-nighters,” he continues. “Bad decisions and a roommate who refused to study without music.”

“And that turned into… this?” I gesture at him. At the way his body fits the sound like it belongs there.

He shrugs. “Turns out counting beats is easier than spreadsheets.”

I catch his eye and lift a brow.

He shakes his head, as a deep laugh falls out. “Do not look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just won.”

I lean in again, close enough he has to hear me over the music. “But I did.”

He snorts, shaking his head.

The crowd surges and I get bumped sideways. His hand comes out automatically, wrapping around my arm and pulling me back to him.

He freezes.

I wrap my arms around his neck and let him set the pace as the crowd is pressing in from every direction. The music is loud enough I can feel it in my chest. When I glance up at him he’s already watching me. “What are you doing?”

He leans in so I hear him, but all I can think about is the way his breath feels against the exposed skin of my neck. “Running the math.” 

“I’m not sure that’s how dancing is supposed to work.”

“Who said I was talking about the dance?” he asks, flicking his arm upward and guiding me into a spin before drawing me back into his chest again.

If I didn’t know better I’d think he was talking about us. I can’t even let myself think that because there’s no scenario where it ends differently this time. He’s only back in Oak Valley to help his grandparents and I’m leaving in less than a month. 

The room keeps moving. The music keeps going. Jax crashes into the bridge like he’s personally offended by the concept of subtlety.

I look up at Ryan.

He’s already looking at me, which is the problem, which has been the problem since I walked into that lobby and found him standing in it like the last ten years were a minor scheduling conflict.

I suck in a deep breath and take a step back, immediately wanting to feel the warmth of his arms around me again. No. I can’t do this. “I have to get back to the bar.”

His jaw moves like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just nods, once and I turn around retreating back through the crowd with the bass rattling my ribs and Gus’s eyes on me before I even make it to the bar. “Shut up,” I say, grabbing a rag from behind the bar.

He doesn’t say anything back, which means he saw everything.