“Friends do nice things for each other.”
She struggled to smile but couldn’t. Her eyes burned and her throat ached and she wanted to climb into her bed and pull her covers up over her head and cry.
And she didn’t even know why she wanted to cry. It’s not as if she liked him. It’s not as if she had any feelings for him, either...
“So I’ll pick you up,” he said after a moment. “How does five forty-five sound?”
“Good,” she said.
“Great. It’s a date.”
Troy walked Taylor back to the library parking lot. He waited until she’d safely left before he started his SUV.
He’d eaten dinner but he needed a drink.
He was staying at the Graff tonight, and he could easily get a drink there. It’d be convenient to pull up to the hotel, have valet take the car, and be done with it. He’d get served fast in the bar, too, as the staff at the hotel knew him and jumped to please him, but Troy wasn’t comfortable with all the jumping and scraping. The constant display of deference put him on edge. For God’s sake, this was Marietta, Montana and he wasn’t a Rockfeller but a Sheenan.
One didn’t bow and scrape to a Sheenan. Sheenans got into scrapes. Sheenans were tough and practical. Sure, Troy had made some money in the fifteen years since he finished college, good money, money didn’t make a man, and money certainly didn’t define him.
Troy drove down Main Street to Grey’s Saloon.
No one at Grey’s bowed and scraped. Grey didn’t tolerate airs. The only one at Grey’s Saloon with attitude was Grey himself, the surly bastard.
Troy stepped from his SUV, pocketed his keys, entered the corner building, and took a seat at the bar. Tonight it was Reese behind the counter and Reese poured Troy a shot of whiskey, neat, before giving Troy space. Good man.
Troy nursed the whiskey for a bit, welcoming the space and quiet. After a bit, Reese returned and they talked the way men liked to talk, about not much of anything, which was the best sort of conversation because it was never too personal and, therefore, never too uncomfortable. Men didn’t need to share their feelings, not like women.
“Another one?” Reese asked, approaching Troy and gesturing to his empty tumbler.
Troy nodded and slid the glass across the counter.
Taylor Harris kissed like a pin up. Her lips were soft and sweet but she kissed with heat.
There’d been serious heat in that kiss. Serious chemistry, too.
Troy hardened, remembering.
“You’re in town for the Ball,” Reese said as he placed the fresh whiskey in front of Troy.
“Yeah.”
“Who are you taking?”
Troy shifted. “Taylor Harris.”
Reese frowned. “Do I know her?”
“She’s the new librarian.”
“The librarian?” Reese shot him an amused glance. “Not your usual type.”
Troy chose not to dignify the remark. He took a long drink from his glass. The whiskey burned going down, a good kind of burn. “So are you going Friday night?” he asked Reese.
“To the Ball?” Reese shook his head. “Not my thing.”
“Apparently it’s not a lot of folks’ thing.” Troy grimaced. “Seemed like a good idea back in the Fall, but I’ve been away from Montana a long time. I’d forgotten that folks here aren’t into fancy dress balls.”
“Especially in the dead of winter.”
“Winter’s harsh this year.”
“Winter is harsh here every year.” Reese leaned against the counter behind him. “I guess it’s easy to forget the twenty below zero wind chill when you don’t even need a coat in February in San Francisco.”
“Oh, you need a coat in San Francisco. But just a thin one,” Troy retorted. He raised his glass. “To all the idealistic bastards in the world with more balls than brains.”
“The world needs idealistic bastards to balance out the assholes and realists.”
“Which one are you?”
Reese smiled darkly. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s a tender idealist buried somewhere deep inside you.” Troy grinned crookedly. “But I won’t tell anyone.”
“And I was just about to compliment you for doing a good thing here in this town.”
“The Ball?”
“The Graff.”
“Huh.”
“Marietta didn’t need the Graff, but you’ve done something this town can be proud of. And that’s a good thing.”
“Maybe you should have been my date Friday night,” Troy said, lifting his glass.
“You are pretty, but you’re not quite my type.”
Troy laughed. “I’m crushed.”