She steps closer, and her scent drifts toward me—soft, feminine, intoxicating. Jasmine? Roses? Some kind of flowers. Whatever it is, it clings to her skin, warm and inviting, stirring something in me I haven’t felt in a long time. She smells like a woman.
It’s been years since I’ve been close to one, let alone one like her—beautiful, confident, completely unaware of the effect she’s having on me. The way she tilts her head, the slight curve of her lips, how her scent wraps around me like a slow burn—I feel it everywhere.
And after a long time of feeling nothing, I wonder if I’m ready to start feelingsomethingagain.
“Hey Molly, what does, ‘ate, no crumbs mean?’”
The corner of Molly’s lips tilt upwards like she’s trying to conceal a laugh. “It means that you did something well. Like you crushed it.”
“Huh...”
She smiles and gestures to the table where Jenni’s money and game pieces are still scattered. “I take it you got beat in Monopoly?”
“More like hustled.”
She laughs, her eyes lighting up. “Are you hungry? Want to grab some food? I’m starving.”
Before I can answer, Lydia rounds the corner, her face lighting up when she spots Molly. “Hi, Molly!” she wraps her up in a big hug then pulls back to look at us both. “Are you coming out with us tonight too?”
Molly raises a brow, glancing between Lydia and me. I can practically see the assumptions forming in her mind, and none of them are accurate. Lydia’s a pretty girl, sure, but there’s nothing she could ever do or say to compete with Molly in my eyes.
“Where are you going?” Molly asks.
“The Wednesday volunteers usually head to Krissy’s Bar for happy hour—drinks, games, and food,” Lydia explains.
Molly’s stomach growls audibly as she lets out a laugh. “That sounds perfect. I haven’t eaten all day. Chief has me running around like a chicken. What do you think, Colt? You in?”
I shrug, doing some quick mental math. My curfew is at ten, and I can only travel within a ten-mile radius unless it’s for work. Luckily, the bar falls within the mileage limit, and this technically counts as a work-adjacent event. Besides, with Molly looking the way she does tonight, there’s no way I’m letting her go there alone.
For protection, obviously.
“Sure,” I nod.
“Great!” Lydia claps her hands, beaming. “This’ll be so much fun.” She runs off to rally the other volunteers leaving me alone with my friend once again.
Molly flashes me a grin, her fingers curling around my bicep as she gives it a firm squeeze. Her touch is easy, familiar—something we’ve always done without a second thought. But this time it feels different.
The warmth of her hand lingers, sending a slow pulse through me. We used to be close, all friendly brushes and casual hugs, but now? Now I want more. I want her hands on me in a way that isn’t friendly at all. I want to touch her in a way that shows her I’m not sure I want to be friends anymore.
“Let’s go. You’re driving since I walked here from my house,” she says with a grin before we head out the door.
Chapter 13 – Molly
I've never stepped foot in Krissy’s Bar before.
After leaving town at eighteen and only returning three weeks ago, I haven’t had much time to explore the places where the younger crowd now spends their nights. Growing up, my world revolved around the creek—where Maverick, Colt, Regan, and I would swim on scorching summer afternoons—and the fairgrounds, the beating heart of every seasonal festival, parade, and, of course, the annual state fair each autumn.
Back then, those moments felt like the height of excitement. The state fair, with its grand parade honoring the fall harvest that kept our farms alive and our town’s economy running, was the event of the year—and it’s fast approaching again.
But the town has changed since I left. New bars, small restaurants, places that never existed when I was young. Whitewood Creek has grown in ways I never expected, offering more than I remember. More than I ever thought it would. I wonder if I could find my place here again.
Krissy’s Bar, for instance, is a charming surprise—a nostalgic homage to days gone by. The front half of an old vintage Ford juts out near the entrance, setting the tone for the quirky décor inside. The walls are an explosion of Coca-Cola memorabilia: tin signs, glass bottles, and retro logos everywhere you look. Even the chairs are the old-school molded plastic kind, their surfaces cracked from years of wear, each bearing a faded Coca-Cola emblem. A jukebox is tucked in the corner playing country classics—Martina McBride, Tim McGraw, and other legends—while a handful of regulars linger around, shooting pool and playing darts. It feels frozen in time yet somehow vibrant, alive.
“This place is cute. Is it anything like the bar and restaurant that your family is building in Charlotte?” I ask over the loud music.
Colt shakes his head. “No. The Whitewood Creek Brewery and Restaurant is more upscale. Fancy lights, a dress code and less dive bar.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see it.” I smile genuinely.
