Teddy

JENSEN'S HAND, ROUGH WITH THE CALLOUSES HE earned from farm work his whole life, skims down my arm to wrap around my wrist, tugging me in the direction of the bar.

The day slowly turned to night on the brief drive into town, and now everything is saturated with muted blue tones. We walk under the warm glow of the streetlights, as if illuminating the point of contact where he's touching me.

He turns to look at me, first with a slight turn of his head and then he pivots his body when he realizes I'm barely moving. "Teddy," he says as he jiggles my arm to get my attention. "Let's go! Hangry, remember?"

I roll my eyes at his stupid smirk and try to tug my arm away. Instead of relinquishing his grip on my wrist, he moves his hand to take mine in a light hold. The touch feels tentative, as if any sudden movement could break the contact. In fact, the moment we approach the door to the bar's entrance, my hand falls out of his, leaving it dangling between us as he pulls open the door.

I use the hand to swipe the loose hairs that fell out of my braid behind my ear and walk through the door he holds open for me. I'm immediately assaulted by the commotion of the bar, and I pause to get my bearings. It seems most of Lake Hope residents have beaten us here. The low tables in the middle of the building as well as the high-top tables that line the perimeter are filled with people, their voices and laughter competing with the loud music filtering through the speakers.

Jensen stops a few inches behind me and tugs at my braid. "This way, Chipmunk," he gruffly whispers into my ear, the heat of his breath raising goosebumps on my neck. He guides me to a high-top table in the back corner that is already filled with familiar faces. He's busy greeting his friends and family as I find an open seat and fall into it.

"Teddy!" a petite blonde next to me squeals. "Thank God you're here! It was turning into a sausage fest."

Jensen's baby sister, Sutton, is usually the loudest in the room. This is probably because she grew up in a house spilling with chaos. Jensen and Sutton's dad remarried a few years after their mom's death, which gained them three stepsiblings – twin brothers and a sister. Also add in a foster brother. Oh, and a cousin who lived with them more than she didn't.

The Anderson house was always a bustling center of activity. If you weren't loud, you might go unnoticed.

At Sutton's mention of sausages, I look around the table to see who showed up tonight. We often end up here at Roxy's, one of three bars in town, on Friday nights. Tonight we've only pushed two tables together, indicating we're missing quite a few people. And, yep, Sutton's right: sausage party.

"Where are Vivi and JJ?" I shout at Sutton.

The music blares through the speakers, the energy in the bar amping up as more people trickle in. Roxy's is where the younger crowds tend to congregate. Although, looking around, I'm realizing that maybe we aren't exactly the young crowd anymore. It's the only place in town that has a designated area for dancing. And, by that, I mean tables are pushed aside after 10 pm to allow for those drunk enough to gyrate to the loud music. I try to always leave before the dancing begins.

"They're being lame," Sutton whines, showing me her pouty face.

Vivi is her stepsister. Since they're the same age, they grew up telling everyone they're fraternal twins. They went through a brief transitional period after their parents married where they were sworn enemies. Growing up in this small town meant they knew each other pre-marriage, but they both belonged to different groups of friends. After the marriage, they made sure the line separating the friend group was as defined as the line they taped down the center of their shared bedroom at home. Thankfully the feud was only a brief affair and they ended up working through their issues before the end of the first year of marriage.

"And by lame, do you mean they have other plans?" I ask as I search for Jensen. My growling stomach reminds me of the true reason for meeting here. He slides into the chair next to me with a basket full of buffalo wings and ranch dressing in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other. I dig in immediately, which earns me a chuckle from Jensen.

"If you mean my little Sutton Button here is the lame one, then I must agree," Jensen says, filling two frosty mugs with beer.

"Ha ha." Sutton rolls her eyes at her brother. "Vivi apparently found herself a man. Some dude she hooked up with a few times last year. I guess he's back? I don't know. I can't keep up with her dating life. And don't get me started on JJ. That girl flakes more often than not lately. Not sure what her deal is."

JJ is Jensen's cousin from his mom's side of the family. His aunt wasn't the most reliable parent, and JJ was often dumped off at the Anderson's house for extended periods of time, ranging from a few days or weeks to even months at a time. There was even a time where she lived with them for over a year. She is known around town as a surrogate Anderson sister rather than the cousin she actually is.

"Hey, get your own!" I slap a hand away when someone tries to steal one of the wings from my basket.

"Ouch, Teddy! You don't have to be so mean!" Kelly rubs his hand and turns to his friend for help. "Didn't you feed her before you let her out in the wild, man?"

Jensen rumbles that deep chuckle that sets my nerves on edge. How can a laugh be sexy? And why can't I turn that part of my brain off? You know, like an app notification setting on a phone? I don't need to be notified when my best friend does something that attracts all the wrong signals in my head.

"I didn't realize it was my job to feed the feral animals," he says with a mouthful of food. I try not to notice the hint of buffalo sauce in the corner of his mouth, but my stupid, traitorous thoughts have me hyper focused there. I shove a napkin at him and point at his mouth like he's a toddler.

"Oh, shut up, Kelly," Sutton huffs. "Why are you always showing up to our family stuff anyway? It's not cute. Go get your own family already."

"Awww, Sutton. If I didn't know any better, I'd be halfway in love with you by now with all your flirting." He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and smiles smugly at her.

She pretends to gag at him. "You wish, old man. Besides, I'm not your type. I actually have a brain. You wouldn't know what to do with me after the sexy stuff is done and it's time for the talking part."

Jensen pauses with a saucy wing halfway to his mouth, chucking it back into the basket. "Fuck. Gross. Can we not tonight? You guys know I can't fucking stand it when you do this back and forth bullshit where one person pretends the other wants to fuck them. Besides, I'd rather not think about my baby sister's sex life, especially with my best friend." Jensen punctuates his disgust by downing the rest of his beer and slamming the mug down on the table.

"Just ew. I wouldn't fuck Kelly if he were the last man on earth and I was hard up for a human-induced orgasm."

With that declaration, Sutton hops off her chair and saunters across the room and plops down on a stool at the bar. I don't miss the way Kelly's eyes track her, and I glance at Jensen to see if he notices, too. He's too busy refilling his mug, his attention already moving on.

I can't decide if he's completely oblivious or if he chooses to ignore whatever it is that's happening between his sister and friend. Sutton and Kelly have always bickered, but lately there seems to be a new tension between them. The one time I brought it up to Sutton, she laughed it off and quickly changed the subject.

I demolish my wings in record time, throwing my napkin down in victory. "I beat!"

"So that's still a thing, huh?" Kelly empties the rest of the beer from the pitcher into his mug. "You still turning everything into a competition like you're 10 fucking years old, Chipmunk?"

Jensen drapes his arm over my shoulders, pulling me in closer to him. "You know how Teddy is."

Before he can elaborate on how I am, I duck out of his grasp. I point at Kelly. "You. Stop with the Chipmunk bullshit." Grabbing the empty pitcher, I hop off my chair and practically sprint away. "I'll get the next round."

I'd rather not hear Jensen explain how I'm predictable Teddy. No big surprises with me. I'm grumbling under my breath as I stop next to Sutton at the bar. I plop onto the stool and slide the pitcher toward Randy, the bartender. He takes it without speaking. Since we're regulars, he knows our beer preference.

"Who pissed you off? My brother or his stupid best friend?"

"Huh? What? Oh, no. No one. Neither, I mean. Or maybe both. I don't know." I wave my hand off. "Whatever. Should we get shots?"

Sutton whoops, "Yeah, we should!"

She hails Randy over and orders tequila, which I instantly regret. I should know better. Sutton's go-to alcohol is always tequila. Tequila and I don't always get along well. We like each other a lot, until we don't, if you know what I mean. But it's too late to bail. Randy fills two shot glasses and walks away.

"Come on, Randy! You should know better by now!" Sutton bends over the bar, her ass on full display, as she reaches for a saltshaker and two lime wedges. Raising her eyebrows at me in challenge, she chants, "Lick, shoot, suck!"

I groan but follow her lead, licking salt off my hand and then throwing the clear liquid down my throat. Before I can cough from the burn, I suck on the lime wedge, tears forming in my eyes. "Why, Sutton? Why tequila?" I glare at my friend as she throws her hands up and whoops again.

"Teddy, Teddy, Teddy. You never learn. Tequila is the only way to go." With this, she hops off the stool and crosses the room. Instead of rejoining her family's table, she sidles up to a group of guys hanging around a high-top table in the opposite corner.

I sometimes forget there's a six-year age gap between us. It was more obvious when we were younger and she was my best friend's baby sister, but once you hit a certain age, a few years between friends doesn't matter as much. But Sutton has always been spirited, which makes her seem younger at times than her 26 years.

"Already regretting your life choices?" a voice interrupts my thoughts.

"Huh?" I whirl around on my stool to face the voice and find a broad, masculine chest directly in front of me. I follow the chest up to its face to find Jackson Olson standing next to me at the bar.

Jackson is the new hire at the farm. He started a few weeks ago, moving here from a suburb of the Twin Cities. He's some big fancy apple farmer, I guess, filling the open position on the apple orchard team. "Oh, hi. You're there. Or here. Or, I mean, you surprised me."

His deep chuckle irritates me. Why must everyone find me so amusing? When I move to get off the stool, he sets a warm hand on my shoulder. "Whoa, sorry, didn't mean to piss you off. I just meant that you didn't seem to love that tequila shot."

I look at where his hand touches me and he quickly removes it, opting to take a seat opposite me instead. He swivels the stool so he's facing me again. I study his face to see all traces of humor have been erased. Whatever my body language was spelling out did the job because he looks a bit nervous now.

"Yeah, well, tequila and I go way back. And by way back, I mean she's a mean bitch who likes to come back up just when the night's winding down and realizes I had waaaaay too much fun." I laugh at my own admission and then groan, my head falling down face first on the bar. "Why did I do that to myself? I know better."

Jackson rubs my back with a tentative hand. When I don't react to his touch, he applies more pressure, before coming to a stop on my lower back. I can feel the warmth of his skin through my shirt. "I think you're safe with just the one shot. Right?"

I turn my head on the bar, opening one eye to look at him. He's smiling down at me and it's nice to see it's devoid of amusement. Like maybe instead of finding entertainment in my misery, he just might like what he sees. He just might like me.

Wait. What? I sit up quickly in my seat, the sudden movement causing his hand to fall off my back. I stumble off the stool, grab the pitcher of beer that's probably halfway to warm by now, and walk backwards away from Jackson.

"Uh, well, nice seeing you. I mean, talking to you." With that awkward exchange, I turn around and walk quickly back to my table.

Jensen looks over at me as I climb back in my seat next to him. He's wearing one of those looks again. The ones that confuse the hell out of me. Like he's studying me. And like I always do when I catch him looking at me a little too long, I wonder: What is it he sees? Does he like what he sees? Do I want him to like what he sees?

-

RYLIE: Running late. As usual. Be there in a sec.

ME: Figured. I ordered for you.

RYLIE: You're the bestest bestie in the land!

ME: Yeah, yeah. Just stop texting and get your butt here.

Wrapping my cold fingers around the steaming mug of coffee, I peer out the window of my corner booth at the Cozy Corner Café. It is one of two restaurants in our small town, the only one open for breakfast. The inside décor is the same as when the original owner Suzi opened the café years ago, outdated and showing the normal everyday wear and tear.

At the front of the café is a counter with backless stools. I spent many hours in those stools as a child, dizzy from spinning them round and round, my mom's scolding to sit still fresh in my ears.

That's the thing about living in the same small town you grew up in, memories lurk in every corner.

Currently, an elderly couple occupies two of the stools with their breakfasts and the

local newspaper between them, probably catching up on the small-town gossip column masquerading as an editorial news article by none other than Lake Hope's own local resident Marg Newhouse. On slow days, Marg has been known to pick up her corded landline phone from the comfort of her home and call around to the families in town, digging for scoops.

It goes without saying that Marg is kind of a big deal in town—all with differing opinions on whether her status is a positive or negative thing. I guess it would depend on which end of the gossip train you fell on in that day's news.

She must be approaching her 80th birthday any day now, but she's a spry lady who never leaves the house without a fully done face and the appropriate attire, which, to her, always means a boxy dress in a number of brightly colored patterns. I always make sure to compliment her on her array of dresses, hoping to gain her favor.

Along with her position as the gossip columnist in the paper, she also leads the super-secret and exclusive Paperback Riders, the cheekily named book club of which the monthly book picks are always spicy romance novels with half-naked men on the front covers.

I want in. Bad. Something I've been working on my whole adult life. Well, since returning after college and accidentally learning of this exclusive club from a whispered conversation in my mom's kitchen.

So far, no luck. One day, though; one day.

When I reposition myself in the booth, the red plastic cushion of the bench seat groans in protest, suspiciously sounding to innocent ears as if I passed gas. The regular patrons recognize this as the café's original soundtrack, not paying the offending noise any attention, their own seats farting with their movements, too.

Outside my window, I watch as the town goes about its business on this cold spring day. With it being Monday, everyone seems to be especially lethargic, anticipating the start of the work week. Across the street I spy an older woman unlocking the post office, stopping to wave at a car that honks at her. A mom with her arms full, a toddler propped on one hip and a box balanced on the other side, follow the postal worker inside.

A blur of color zooms by the window and then the bell above the café door tinkles, announcing the arrival of my tardy friend. Rylie spies me and strides over to the booth. Before sinking in across from me, she unbuttons her lightweight yellow peacoat and drapes it over the edge of the seat.

"Sorry, sorry," she sings, adjusting her wind-blown hair. Where I'm more reserved and quiet, Rylie is outgoing and loud. Buzzing, that's the word I'd use to describe my college best friend.

I wave off her apology. In the years I've known her, she's rarely on time. It's part of her charm. "You're awfully dressed up for a day of work at the farm." I eye her flirty skirt and silk blouse. "Hot date tonight?"

Rylie's personal life is certainly more colorful than mine. Hers revolves around a dating app, whereas mine is just plain nonexistent at this point.

She bounces her eyebrows at me. "That hot fireman slid into my DMs. Meeting up with him after work tonight."

"Of course, it's a fireman. Geez, Ry, can you be any more predictable?"

Just then a man about our age—Roy, the owner's son—drops off our food. Egg white sandwich on unbuttered wheat toast for Rylie, biscuits and gravy for me.

After a few bites, Rylie picks up the conversation. "The only thing predictable about me is my taste in men."

I've had a front row seat to Rylie's taste in men since our freshman year in college. We were stuck together as roommates in the tiny dorm room, and although I tried to steer clear of the bubbly red head who demanded I attend all the frat parties with her, she was annoyingly persistent that we be friends. Ultimately, her tenacity won, and we've been best friends since.

When I moved back home after graduation to work at the Anderson Farm, Rylie followed me. She works in a clean office environment, whereas I work outside, literally getting my hands dirty.

I only meant to be a temporary employee at my childhood best friend's family farm, but my job search proved fruitless, making my employment permanent. Jensen had just taken over the farm from his dad and was looking to add an HR position to the team. With the farm expanding, the number of employees was also growing, and with that came a need for a management team beyond his scope of experience. Cue my recommendation of my college friend Rylie, who just so happened to have a specialized major in human resources.

Scraping the last bits of the sausage gravy from my plate, I toss the fork down with a sigh. "Probably time to head to work."

"You going to bring the boss a coffee again?" 

The smirk on her face irritates me, mostly because I was going to get Jensen his favorite drink but now the gesture feels weighted.

"Ry. Don't start." 

I look at the slip of paper Roy passed us on his way by our table a moment ago, toss some money beside it, and scoot out of the bench seat. "Let's go."