Page 74 of Take Me Home

The three of us pile into the Mercedes coupe Blair rented and follow Poppy’s directions into town and around the corner from Dr. Miller—Jackson’s—office. A brown barn comes into view, with a green tin roof strung with lights, and a gravel parking lot. Bobcat’s is…shall we say…shabby-chic?

We can hear music thrumming all the way from the gravel parking lot as Blair pulls into one of the few open spaces left. Bobcat’s Beer Garden is also packed.

“I didn’t realize this many people even lived in Honey Badger Creek,” I muse, unbuckling my seatbelt.

Poppy chuckles from the back seat. “That’s because everyone lives outside of town on cattle farms and ranches. When people make their way into town, it’s a party.”

The three of us step out of the car and onto the rocky parking lot—if you can even call it that.

Blair sniffs the air dramatically. “What is that horrible smell?”

Poppy wobbles precariously, clearly not used to wearing heels, especially on gravel. “That’s what we like to call the smell of money. AKA cattle.”

Blair forces a smile on her face as she nods. “Okay, well, cattle smell or not…we’re going to turn some heads tonight, ladies.”

We continue wobbling across the gravel until we finally reach the door and stride inside. The air is warm; the cattle smell replaced with the scent of beer, sweat, and greasy food. Country music plays so loud, the ancient wood floor beneath us seems to rattle.

“Over there!” Poppy yells over the music, pointing to an empty booth against the wall.

We follow Poppy around the edge of the dance floor that’s already alive with a line dance I don’t know the steps to—not that I know the steps to any line dance.

My mother put me in dance lessons, but I learned how to waltz and tango.

Scooting into the half-circle booth beside Poppy, I make eye contact with Blair across the table. The look of alarm on her face tells me she’s probably having the same realization about line dancing.

A pretty server stops at our table. She has a bright smile, and her curves fill out her jeans and plaid top that’s tied up around her waist. “Poppy! Good to see you.”

“Hey, Calla!” Poppy smiles back. “These are my new friends, Hattie and Blair.”

Both of us wave, and she looks us over, but not in a mean girl way. “My goodness, you girls are gorgeous! And these dresses? Killer.” Calla blows out a breath. “The men of Honey Badger Creek are gonna pee their pants when they get a load of you three.”

Blair wrinkles her nose.

“They’ll do something in their pants.” Poppy shoots her a salacious wink, and they both burst into laughter.

“You’re a hoot! Bradford has been begging for another play date with Tripp. By the way, let’s plan something.”

Poppy nods, and Calla takes our orders—three margaritas and a plate of loaded fries—then she rushes off toward the bar.

“Her son is in Tripp’s class at school,” Poppy explains.

Blair smiles. “Okay, I like the vibe here. I misjudged Bobcat’s on first glance.”

The lights in the building dim, drawing our attention to the neon signs hung around the bar. It creates a nice, glowy sort of ambiance.

“Most people do.” Poppy shrugs. “Honey Badger Creek doesn’t have many options, but I love walking into a business knowing I’ll be greeted by name. Where a server or bank teller will ask how Tripp is.” She sighs dreamily. “There’s nothing like living in a place where you’re known.”

Blair’s eyes take on a nostalgic look, and for a second, I almost wonder if she might cry. But Calla delivers our margs, and then the look is gone.

As the first sip of lime and tequila hits my tongue, the blaring music fades and the line dancers pause. With the room quieted and the movements halted, a set of familiar broad shoulders grabs my attention. Lincoln stands beside the bar with Owen and Jackson on either side of him. He’s leaning one elbow on the counter as he leans in and orders something. Calla smiles, resting her hand on his forearm.

My vision goes red. An ugly feeling bubbles up inside of me toward the completely innocent woman. I blink, shaking the jealous monster out of my head. Lincoln politely pulls his arm away from her and takes a step back.

She eyes him appreciatively but doesn’t touch him again.

My sip of margarita gets lodged in my throat as I try to swallow…then it burns all the way down.

“Goodness, Hattie,” Blair says, her tone betraying her amusement. “Please don’t murder our new friend Calla, I need her alive to bring me several more margaritas.”