Spreading out over the equivalent of several city blocks and anchored on four sides with stately brick columns, the square included a playground, benches, a fountain, gazebo, and a large statue next to a massive tree in the center. That would be Captain Thad, she guessed, and the famed bitter bark tree that gave the town its name.
Except that looked an awful lot like a hickory to her, not that she was a botanist. But she’d never heard of a bitter bark tree. Was there something there?
Come see the world’s only bitter bark tree? Strolling through the square, she snapped some pictures and stared at the tree and paused to read the plaque that described how Captain Bushrod founded the town after the Civil War, seeking a place of peace for his family.
The most peaceful town on earth?
Which would be the most boring tourism campaign ever.
She continued on to one of the four streets that ran the perimeter of the square. Along the avenue, there was an abundance of cutesy mom-and-pop stores, with green and white awnings over precious window displays. She wended around a few tables outside the Bitter Bark Bistro, meandered past window boxes full of pansies at Bitter Bark Books, and stopped to take a deep inhale of the buttery deliciousness of Bitter Bark Bakery mixed with an overpowering scent of honeysuckle from Bitter Bark Buds ‘n’ Blooms.
Maybe old Uncle Frank took this name thing a little too far. Or was there a certain kitschy quality that tourists might like? Bittersweet Days the Bitter Bark Way? Bitter is Better than Butter? Take a Bite of Bitter Bark and Die of Happiness?
Oh boy. She was tanking here.
She stopped in front of a pub-type place called, no surprise to anyone, the Bitter Bark Bar. A glass of wine to kick her creativity back to life, perhaps? She’d earned it after today.
Praying the place met her impossibly high cleanliness standards, she pulled open the door and blinked into darkness. Clean enough, with booths and tables and an expansive hardwood floor that looked scuffed from dancing.
She opted to sit at the mostly empty bar, and as she picked a stool, a man came out of the back room wiping his hands on a towel. “You’re all set back there, Billy,” he called to the bartender, who was at the register, counting bills. “I found the problem and fixed it.”
Chloe eyed the back-bar fixer in well-worn jeans and a filthy white T-shirt, inching back at the impact. Because…whoa. A shirt that dirty in the back of a restaurant ought to be…illegal. And one that fit like that? All tight around too many muscles? Also illegal, but for entirely different reasons. By the time she made it up and down over all six, no eight, of those abs outlined by the sweaty shirt, she reached his face and discovered his gaze locked right on her.
“You got a customer, Billy,” he said, staring right back at her. “I’ll take care of her for you.”
He took three slow steps closer, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Beautiful lips. Soft, sexy lips. Lips that were moving and she didn’t even hear what he said until she realized his broad, strong shoulders were shaking. In laughter. At her.
“Woman clearly needs something strong, Billy.” His voice was low, but still a little playful. “Let me buy it for her.”
“No, that’s…” Good God, her voice came out like a strangled goat’s. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He wiped his hands on his shirt, which just made them—or the shirt—dirtier. “Newcomer’s special. We give one to all the tourists, right, Billy?”
Billy grunted while he counted, and Chloe nodded. “All right, then. A pinot grigio, preferably dry and crisp, please. And from a fresh bottle.”
He lifted both brows like she had to be kidding.
“Okay, anything white,” she relented. “Do you really give a free drink to all the tourists?” Because that was a decent hook.
He snagged a glass and pulled the cork out of some cheap Chardonnay that had probably been in the bar fridge for days. “Only the beautiful ones, right, Billy?”
Oh. He was flirting. Well, she had stared at him like he was wrapped in gold with a red ribbon and Godiva stamped on his abs.
“He doesn’t even work here,” Billy said, as if his friend needed an explanation.
“I just clean up the messes in the back,” the man shot back at the bartender. “And, whoa, that was a wreck.”
“I know, sorry.” Billy stuffed his bills in the cash register and slammed it shut. “Thanks, Shane.”
Shane. Dirty, unshaved, cocky Shane with short chestnut hair and a riveting gaze the color of oxidized copper. Not gold. Not green. Not bad.
“S’okay.” He looked right at Chloe and not the glass that he filled to the top. “I love a challenge.”