COWGIRL ERA

Wes' gaze followed the way she set the drink down, offering her a quiet, appreciative smile, his fingertips brushing the edge of the cool glass but not quite picking it up yet. It was pretty — pink and sugared and sharp around the edges, not unlike the woman who had made it. He could tell without even tasting it that it'd catch him off guard. It drew him in, much of the same way she did. That smile of hers was something else. Like she could win a room without trying, and yet here she was, aiming it squarely at him.

He chuckled now, rubbing his jaw as she talked about Texas and belt buckles and cowboys. He knew all about it, and it honestly felt like home to him in the sense that someone got it. Someone understood that world, just like he did. The good, the bad, and the ugly. "Yeah, sounds about right," he murmured, the smile tugging wider for just a second. Lifting his gaze to hers as she asked about the ranch and the bar, a breathy laugh escaped him. "Well—uh—technically the ranch belongs to my mom. On the outskirts of Briar Ridge Hills. Been in the family a long time." He said it gently, thoughtful in that quiet way of his, with a kind of pride that settled in soft and steady. Funny thing was, he’d spent so long wanting to carve out something of his own—his own path, his own name. Yet the older he got, the clearer it became: what he felt most proud of was where he came from. His family. The thought brought a smile to his face. "But the bar—that's mine. The Rusty Spur. Not much but it's honest. Been an old town staple ever since I can remember. Cold beer, good music, a mechanical bull.." A beat lingered, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "You should stop by sometime."

Wes locked his eyes on her again as she started talking about her father’s ranch, and the way her voice softened at the mention of missing it. It made his chest ache, just a little. He could hear the nostalgia in her tone and understood it like it was his own. He nodded slowly in response, fingers turning the glass now but still not drinking. "Yeah.. I like to ride. Grew up with it. Don't remember a time I didn't know how to sit a saddle." A beat passed, and then his thumb brushed along the rim of his glass like he was stalling. When she teased him about the bad leg, he let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh through his nose. "Somethin' like that," he admitted, giving her a sheepish glance. "Rodeo, for a long time. Didn't quite walk away clean. So what brought you to Briar Ridge, all the way from Texas?"

Cheyenne watched him take a sip of his drink, that subtle flicker in his expression not lost on her when he does. The widening of his eyes was just enough to betray the unexpected heat he likely felt beneath all that sugar. It was perfect. She liked getting a reaction, especially one that couldn’t be masked by any sort of bravado or charm. His was honest and honest was rare. That alone made her lean in, just a little bit closer. “Well now,” she murmured, voice honeyed and pleased, her grin now turning slightly more mischievous in nature, “if you can handle that drink, cowboy, you might just be able to handle me.” It was only half a tease. The other half? Was an honest promise.

Chey then reached for a rag and began to absentmindedly wipe down the bar, not because it needed it but, because it gave her something to do while she worked through the tangle of thoughts Wes had now stirred up with just a few quiet truths. He was proud of where he came from. That was new. Most men she’d known were either trying to outrun their past or use it like a credit score. But him? He talked about his mama’s ranch like it was part of his backbone. She liked that. A little too much, maybe. “The Rusty Spur,” she repeated softly, testing the name out on her tongue like it was already becoming familiar on it. “Sounds like a place that knows how to get into trouble on a slow night. You ever line dance there too, or just wrangle drunk tourists off the bull all night?” She arched a brow, her blue eyes sparkling again, like she was daring him to say something that would surprise her. But when he asked why she came to Briar Ridge, Cheyenne hesitated instead. It wasn’t that she didn’t have an answer... she had too many, actually. And most of them weren’t exactly the kind you tell a handsome stranger with honest eyes and calloused hands.

So instead, she gave him a version of the truth but, without all the drama. “I needed a change,” she said lightly, though her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Texas has a way of keepin’ you stuck in the same boots, on the same porch, sippin’ the same tea, watchin’ the same stories play out over and over again.” She tilted her head. “Figured if I didn’t leave, I’d marry some oil executive I didn’t love who worked for my daddy, move into a house with too many rooms, and start collectin’ charity board seats like they're handbags.” She shrugged, smiling like it didn’t ache to say out loud. “Briar Ridge seemed far enough to start fresh but close enough that I could still smell the horses, y'know.” After a beat, she nodded toward his drink. “You ever name that leg of yours?” she asked, tone dipping back into playfulness. “You know, since you clearly still dance with it every now and then, I assume.”

And then, just because she was curious... “You miss it? The rodeo, I mean?” Because she could see it in the way he said he didn’t walk away clean that it wasn't his choice but one likely made for him. And because sometimes, the things you're forced to walk away from end up being the hardest to stop riding toward in your dreams. "What was it like?"

Taking the drink from Chey, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. The alcohol lingered on her tongue before sliding and burning her throat. It was a burn that reminded her that she was still a live. "To answer your question," she started, setting the glass back on the bar top, "it's been a long month." Morgan shook her head, the words a weight on her shoulders that she couldn't shake. "But," she looked to the glass as if it might be the answer to all her problems, "I'm just trying to pretend I've got it all together until I actually do." @cheybriggs

Cheyenne watched her with that kind of practiced attentiveness that gives off equal parts bartender and best friend in waiting. Her expression softened, that sly smile of hers dipping into something more thoughtful and honest. She didn’t rush to fill the silence but also didn’t sugarcoat it with some Southern quip about bootstraps or brighter days. Instead, she let Morgan’s words linger between them like a quiet truth that doesn’t need fixing, just hearing.

After a moment, she reached for the same bottle she’d just poured from and topped Morgan’s glass off by a finger width, like she’d heard everything that hadn’t been said. "Well hell babe, if that ain't the most relatable thing I've heard all week." Her voice is warm but laced with a worn in kind of honesty that only ever shows up after midnight or when your mascara's already smudged. "Fake it till you make it works a lot better when people don't expect you to be holding' the whole damn world together, doesn't it?" She gives Morgan a look, that while pointed is still kind. "You don't owe anyone 'fine' by the way. Not your little girl. Not that no good, almost ex with a ghost man routine. Not even this bar." Chey straightened slightly after the affirmation, tapping her nails gently against the glass in her hand like it's meant to be a rhythmic comfort. "And don't get me wrong, I love a good pretend moment. Lord knows I've smiled through enough migraines and panic Mondays to win me an Oscar. But, if you ever feel like droppin that act around here, I promise not to hand you a Hallmark speech or worse, one of those inspirational quotes you find on a t-shirt somewhere. Besides, you're doin' a whole lot better than most people who come 'round here claimin' they've got their shit together. And you look hot as hell doin' it too. Which frankly, is so rude of you, but I'll allow it."

"Never been to Hill Country but Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio I have visited quite a few times. One time between show stops, we went to Six Flags over Texas and I have to admit, it was pretty anticlimactic. But then again, we were spoiled in Los Angeles with our Six Flags park," he nodded, arms crossing over his chest as he looked at the other. "I haven't been to the location in San Antonio or Jersey," he added.

Oh, you're talking a lot, Christopher. He quickly straightened up and looked at Cheyenne. "Sorry. Now I'm just rambling."

“Well bless your heart,” she drawled, flashing a grin as she leaned her hip against the nearest tap dispenser like it was a chaise lounge. “Fifteen’s a good age to retire from stalkin’, I suppose. Character growth and all that.”

The mention of Six Flags earned a wry, knowing smirk from her end. “Oh, honey. No one goes to Six Flags for the thrills—they go for the funnel cakes, the heat stroke, and the chance to judge everybody’s outfit in line. It’s tradition, if I know anything about it.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Though I’ll admit, L.A. might have us beat. We don’t have celebrities ridin’ roller coasters back home. Closest we get is a rodeo clown with a Red Bull addiction.”

She tilted her head when he apologized, waving a manicured hand through the air as if to bat the thought away. “Now don’t go apologizin’. I like a man who can carry a conversation. You’d be surprised how many think talkin’ is just shoutin’ about their truck lift or askin’ if I ‘ride bareback.’” Her lips curled in a mock cringe before softening again. “I take it you’re not from around here either, then? L.A. boy?” she guessed, eyes narrowing playfully. “Or just a theme park connoisseur with too many frequent flyer miles?”

“Classy,” he echoes, dragging the word out like it’s got splinters. “Right. Because nothin’ says ‘elegance’ like a fireball and a bar full of people duckin’ for cover.” He tilts his head, studying her for a beat, as if he can still see the flame curling through the air behind her eyes. “I swear, Chey, you were two seconds away from being the lead story on the local news—‘Heiress-turned-bartender immolates cocktail bar in high-drama flair stunt.’” He snorts. Truly, you can't make this shit up. “Could’ve at least worn sequins for it. Really lean into the drama.”

He takes another sip, slower this time. But, when he sets his glass down again, it’s almost empty. “But hey,” he adds, a flicker of softness brushing past the edge of his voice, “it was a vibe. Just… y’know. A different one. The kind you need a fire extinguisher and therapy for afterward.”

He leans back just slightly, one arm resting along the back of the stool like he’s settling in now, like he might stick around longer than he originally meant to. His eyes drift back to hers. “Anyway, I’m not haunting you. Yet. Ghosts don’t usually smell like saltwater and disappointment, last I checked.” He quirks a brow. “But if they did? I’d make a damn fine one.”

That teasing edge of his dims just a little. It's not gone, just shifted. Mellowed out. “You always had a funny definition of home,” he informs her, voice quieter now, not quite poking fun anymore. “But I get it. There’s somethin’ about this place… makes you feel like it might still fit, even after everything’s changed.” It's unclear if he was just talking about her now, or himself too.

He shrugs, picking at the corner of a coaster with one blunt fingernail. “Or maybe I’m just avoidin’ the silence. Any home gets real loud when it’s empty, you know?” The admission slips out almost on accident, like maybe he didn’t mean to admit that he was lonely. He covers it with another smirk, nudging his glass toward her again with a tilt of his chin. “You still got that matchbook with the gold trim? I feel like temptin’ fate.”

She poured him another drink, slower this time, more deliberate. It's a generous pour, and the kind she only gave to people who needed it but, would never ask. Her eyes stay fixed on the liquid until the glass is nearly full, and only then did she slide it back toward him with a soft clink. "You know," she starts, her voice but her gaze anything but. "You got a real pretty way of sayin' 'I'm lonely and emotionally constipated.' Really should embroider that on a pillow. Let all the girls know ahead of time."

She leaned against the bar again, this time not facing him but still remaining close enough to share the space in that way people do when they don't have to explain why its necessary. Her smile had even gone softer now and a little sad around the edges, like maybe they'd both gotten tired of laughing off things that actually matter. "For what it's worth Beckie, I don't think it's about avoidin' the silence so much as I think it is, we just keep hopin' somebody'll meet us halfway in it. Make it feel less loud and empty."

She looked at him then. Almost as if she was searching for whatever he hadn’t said yet. That flicker in his eyes, that weight in his shoulders. The version of Beck that showed up when the crowd thinned out and the night stretched too long. "You ain't haunting me. Not really. You're just driftin' like the rest of us. Tryin' to see what still fits." Chey flashed a smirk, more her than anything else, before reaching into that drawer underneath the bar and pulling out the gold-trimmed matchbook in question. She waited a moment before tossing it lightly at Beck. "But, if you are gonna go ghost on me, at least burn bright. Give this town somethin' to talk about. Lord knows they get bored easily." She paused. "And next time, I set somethin' on fire, you better be there wearin' sequins too. Ain't no fun goin' down in flames if I'm doin' it alone."

Wes' heart gave a quiet kick at the way she was looking at him, all confident and sure like she could see right through the quiet he wore like armour. His gaze darted away for a moment, a flush rising on his sun-warmed skin as he let out a soft chuckle. "Uh—I don't know about trouble," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, fingertips catching briefly in his still-damp hair. "You might be giving me too much credit." When she described her drink, that shy smile of his tugged a little at the corners of his mouth, eyes dropping briefly to the glass before flicking back to hers. "Sounds like it lives up to the name then," he said, a hint of curiousity and amusement in his eyes. "Guess I'd better be careful, huh?"

When she offered him a drink on the house, Wes's brows lifted, a soft surprised laugh escaping him. "Aw you don't have to do that," he started, but the way she was already moving, confident and playful, made him fall quiet, letting her. He checked his phone for the first time all afternoon, wondering where in the hell time had gone. At her comment about the housewives, Wes’ cheeks flushed, and he let out a quiet, embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. "Ranch keeps me real busy.. and uh, my bar in town, too." Still felt weird saying that, even though he'd owned the place a few months now. He pauses, then adds, "Ocean helps with the bad leg sometimes, so.." His gaze lifted back to hers, the thought that he should come by more often brushing across his mind, though he didn’t quite dare say it out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat gently, a shy smile forming. "That a Texan accent I'm hearin'?"

Chey set the glass of her self proclaimed specialty, down in front of him. It lands an inch away from his fingers with a soft clink and is light pink in color with a rim dusted in sugar and a hint of chili salt. It packs just enough bite to make an impression. Like her.

“Oh darlin’,” she sings, those blue eyes twinkling with candlelight and mischief, “that is most definitely a Texan accent you’re hearin’. Born and raised just west of Austin. Big sky, bigger personalities. And no shortage of cowboys who think a shiny belt buckle makes ‘em a gift to women.” By the sounds of it, Chey doesn't seem to agree with that logic. "Wait a minute," she pauses, after dropping a lime wedge over the ice in his drink. Try as she might, it's impossible for Chey to pretend her ears don't perk up the second he mentions owning a ranch and a bar somewhere in town. It was as if the skies had opened up above her and delivered one half of her dream guy out to her, on a silver platter. "You own a ranch and a bar? Where at?" Not that he asked her the same question but, she felt comfortable enough to share her own assets back home. Or enough of them to suggest they have some things in common. "My daddy owns a ranch too, back in Texas. It's been a while since I've ridden horseback. I miss it. I take it you like to ride, too?" She pushed off the counter just enough stand up straight again, displaying her hands on her hips now. "Is that the cause behind this bad leg of yours that needs ocean salt to make it feel better?"

As he saw the girl approach him, he reached down for his phone to pause his music, and politely pull his headphones off his ears and just loosely around his neck.

A little laugh left his lips as he nodded. "New to Briar Ridge? Kind of. New to the gym? Not at all. But then again, I guess you could say I'm new to this gym," he spoke, bending over again to grab his towel to just lightly pat his forehead dry. There was no shame in the way he was sweating. This was the gym, afterall. It was almost a crime if you weren't dripping with sweat.

"Are you new around here? That accent is so thick but it's definitely not South Carolinian."

Cheyenne arched a brow, amused, as she tilted her head just slightly to the side like she was trying to figure him out. Maybe she was. There was something easygoing about him, something that didn’t scream 'Briar Ridge born and raised,' but also didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. That, and the fact that he wasn’t trying to puff his chest out or peacock around like some of the other gym bros she’d been expertly dodging all month. So far, that was already working out in his favor.

“Well now,” she started, hands resting on her hips as she gave him a once-over. Not in any rude way, more so like she was sizing-up a new potential friend. “That sounds like a very complicated way of sayin’ you’ve been around lurkin’ and I just hadn’t caught you yet.” She gave him a little smirk, clearly teasing. “But don’t worry—I ain’t gonna report you to management. Truthfully, a girl would be flattered.” Hand to her heart, they would. Little did she know, they likely weren't his type.

At his accent comment, she let out a low laugh and she wiped her brow off with the towel slung over her shoulder. “Guilty,” she curtsied, not at all embarrassed by the twang in her voice. “Texas born and bred. Hill Country. You ever been? Big skies, bigger opinions, and horses for days. My family owns a ranch there, actually.”

He takes a slow sip but, doesn’t wince. “Still tastes like something you brewed out of spite,” he muses, voice low but flat, threaded with a flicker of amusement behind his bright blue eyes. “So, perfect.”

His gaze lingers on her for another beat—enough to read her mood, like he’s checking for weather on the horizon. Then leans forward, forearms braced on the bar, hair still damp enough to curl around his temples. The scent of salt and pine lingers around him like it always does, ocean-worn and a little wild.

“What am I doin’ here?” he repeats, as if the question itself is a riddle with more than one answer. His thumb runs along the rim of the glass. “Maybe I just wanted a drink that didn’t come from a cooler and taste like despair. Or maybe I missed your charming hospitality and devastating people skills.”

A pause, then—just long enough for the weight of something unsaid to slip in. “…Or maybe I just didn’t feel like goin’ home yet.” He doesn’t explain much more than that. Instead, he knocks back another sip, then eyes her again with a small, knowing smirk. “You ever smile like that at one of the tourists and, they’ll never leave. Town’s already crawling with too many people who wear flip-flops with jeans.” He nudges his glass slightly toward her with two fingers. “This one’s almost good, by the way. Not that I’d say it out loud.” Even though, he kinda already did?

A beat. “…You still mess with those drinks that had the tiny flaming rosemary sprig? 'Cause I’d pay good money to see you set somethin’ on fire today.” Beck’s mind immediately drifts back to that one summer, when Chey decided to show off her “mixology skills” with a little flair. She was convinced she could light up a rosemary sprig like it was some kind of magic trick—'For the ambiance, Beck. It’s all about ambiance', he could've sworn he heard her say.

He’d watched with equal parts skepticism and resigned amusement as she carefully balanced the tiny sprig over the flame, warning him to keep back. Of course, things didn’t go as planned. Instead of a gentle, smoky glow, the sprig flared up into a sudden, bright blaze that set half the napkins on fire and sent a plume of smoke spiraling into the ceiling. The entire bar at her family's estate had to scramble for the fire extinguisher, while Chey swore up and down that it was “totally under control” even as her hair caught a stray ember.

Beck still teases her about it sometimes, the dry grin tugging at his lips when he says, “I like my drinks like I like my fire—contained and not threatening to burn the whole place down.” But deep down, he knows that chaotic spark is part of why she fits here so well, and why he can’t stay away—even when the tides pull him elsewhere. Well that, and she was family.

Chey rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her head and into her cousin's drink. “You say that like it’s not the secret ingredient to all of my best work.” Her smile twitches, barely contained behind her lips and utterly wicked in its intent. It was the kind of smile that launched more than a few bad decisions and at least one or two confirmed one-night stands she'd swear she didn’t regret. But for Beck, it was softer, a bit teasing, and tinged with affection between family. It's an expression you only give to those who know all your ugly stories and still come back around anyway.

At the mention of not wanting to go home yet, Chey stilled for just a moment. Wondering why that was or what he meant by it. “Yeah, well,” she offered him a shrug, before slipping back into that classic sass of hers like it's a second skin, “some of us don't have a home to go to, Beck. Mine’s scattered between my bank account, my daddy’s name, and a town that still isn't sure if I’m the scandal or the entertainment.” A shrug followed, careless on the outside but if he knew her at all, he'd know there was something more sensitive underneath. “So if you’re here to haunt someone, might as well be me, I s'pose.” She watched him take another sip of his drink, those sea-blue eyes flickering with something he wasn’t saying yet. Typical Beck. All guarded tides and cryptic metaphors. At his jab about her smile and the flip-flop crowd, she huffed out a laugh. “You hush. I like the tourists. They tip like they’re guilty about their entire lives and think 'y’all' is exotic. Besides, it ain’t my fault your resting grump face screams ‘don’t talk to me unless you're bleeding or on fire.’” Her gaze flicked down to his glass as he nudged it. “Almost good? Well damn, I better call the press. Beck Foster givin' out compliments without cryin’ about it first.”

Then came the rosemary story—and Lord, if she didn’t immediately drop her forehead to the bar with a groan. “Do not bring up the great rosemary inferno of 2019,” she mumbled, muffled by the wood and her own humiliation. “That was not my fault. The humidity was off. And I told y'all to stand back!” She looked up, finger pointed at him like she was ready to defend herself against a jury. “It was gonna be classy. Sophisticated. A whole damn vibe. And instead, I got singed bangs and a reputation as the arsonist of our social circle.” She narrowed her eyes, mock serious. “You know Mama still brings that up every time someone hands me a lighter? I can’t even do birthday candles anymore without supervision.”

Glancing over at the menu, like she hadn't already memorized every item on it twice over, "I'll take something cold, strong and with a side of whatever gossip I've missed out since I clocked out yesterday." Her gaze lifted from the menu, looking at Chey, "And don't worry, I always tip. Especially when my bartender is charming as you." @cheybriggs

"Me? Charmin'? That's so kind of you." The people who knew her would beg to differ. Then again, Chey could be charming if she wanted to be. She usually chalked most of her charm up to her accent, though. It made everything sound so much sweeter than it actually was. Setting down the now polished glass she hadn't actually cleaned a minute ago, Chey propped a hand on her hip while her other tapped against the bartop like she was thinking of what secrets to spill.

“Well, Let's see..." she leaned in, just so their workplace gossip wouldn't be overheard by the other customers. “You remember Sam? He tried flirting with another bachelorette party again, bless his delusional little heart. I don't think he gets the hint that they're too young for him. And, Marcy from the kitchen is convinced her ex is spying on her through our Yelp reviews. I know, I know, it's crazy, don't ask. Oh, and there’s some new guy wandering around here lookin’ like he got lost on his way to Nashville. Interviewed to be a lifeguard. But, he's got great abs, a beard, is real tall an' broody, and probably emotionally unavailable. I think you'd really like him.” Chey didn't know much about Morgan's personal life but she could never resist setting up a good love match when she saw one.

“Now onto that drink, yes? You said you wanted something cold and strong? Comin' right up.” Chey gave the order a once over before she grabbed a bottle of something top shelf and honey-colored and poured it into a glass, sliding it toward Morgan with a little flourish. “Has it been a long day or a long night? I can't really tell. But I'm a good listener, so you can confide in me, I won't judge.”

He pauses just shy of the bar, his lips twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile but might be the beginnings of one. His eyes, though—storm-colored—take their time traveling over the scene before settling on her. Chey. Steady. Appraising. Amused.

“Was gonna ask for the light beer and bad decisions, actually,” he teases her, voice low and roughened like the driftwood nearby and, touched with a rasp that makes it sound like he doesn’t often speak more than he has to. “But you ruined the punchline before I even had the chance. Nice goin, 'cuz.”

After sliding onto one of the barstools, with one hand bracing the edge like he wasn’t sure how long he planned to stay, the other reaches up to push his damp hair from his eyes.

“Surprise me,” he adds, after a moment. “Something that doesn’t taste like regret and won't give me the worst hangover in the morning. And make it ugly—too many drinks around here look like they belong on Instagram and are usually too gross and sweet.”.

Chey didn’t even flinch when she heard his voice. It rolled over her like a familiar tide, which was so very Beck in every way. Rough, teasing, and too close to home. Without bothering to look up, she just gave a little shake of her head, already smiling into the drink she was finishing for another customer. “You always were better at lurking than ordering,” she muttered, half to herself, before finally lifting her gaze to him. When her eyes met Beck’s, she gave him the kind of look only a cousin could get away with. Equal parts fond and exasperated. “Aw, Beck,” she drawled, setting the customer's drink down with a wink and a soft “Enjoy that, sugar.” Then turned her full attention to the weathered, sea-brined man parked on her barstool and leaking his sour attitude all over it. “Here I was, just startin’ to enjoy my shift, and you show up lookin’ like Poseidon’s personal problem. Or mine.”

She leaned on the bar, her voice lowering just enough to match his rasp while her smile widened with mischief. “And excuse you. My drinks are pretty, thank you very much. Like me. Not my fault you’ve got the palate of a mechanic and the attitude of a tired grandpa.” Still, she reached for a lowball glass. Something thick, simple, and with no frills just for him. “Somethin’ bitter and burnt, just like your soul. Comin' right up.” She threw together something dark and citrusy, a splash of smoked whiskey, a squeeze of orange, and just a whisper of honey before sliding it across to him with an exaggerated flourish. “Here,” she said, chin tilted. “No umbrellas, no glitter, a total mood killer and it won’t kill your liver before the weekend. But it might make you slightly less grumpy.” She paused, then added with a raised brow, “What’re you doin’ here anyway? You finally get tired of pretendin’ you hate people? So you thought you'd test that theory out by botherin' little ol' me?”

Wes cleared his thoat softly, his voice lowering somewhat when he spoke. "Oh, uh.. no trouble," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, the sun still warm on his skin. "Just hoping for a drink before I head home." His gaze lingered on the bright, lime-coloured drink with the tiny umbrella in her hand, before lifting to meet her gaze. A slow, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That your concoction?" He shifted, his fingers tapping lightly against the bar, his eyes holding hers for a quiet moment. "Looks like trouble," he added, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, betraying a hint of humour beneath the nerves. "Might have to try it sometime."

Chey gave him a once-over that was anything but subtle. It started at his own boots and gradually lingered on the way his shirt clung to his torso. Before finally settling on those shy eyes and that smile of his that underestimated just how dangerous it could be. Her own mouth curled in a slow simper before she leaned in and folded her arms over the bar like she was settling in for more conversation with the handsome stranger. “Well now,” she sing-songed, voice dropping into something softer and silkier. “You sure got that ‘trouble’ look about you, cowboy. All sun kissed skin an' quiet, an' probably got a truck nearby that needs a new alternator or smells like cedar an' leather inside it. I know the type.” Her eyes sparkled as she teased him, one perfectly manicured finger tapping against the glass beside her indicating her amateur attempt at becoming a mixologist. “But yes, this one's mine. I call it ‘The Heartbreaker.’ Wanna know why? 'Cause it's tangy, sweet, and will sneak up on you if you’re not careful. Kinda like me, if I’m bein’ honest.”

She winked, then pushed off the bar just enough to grab a clean glass. “Tell you what, guy who claims he's no-trouble.” She didn’t know his name yet, but she was good at reading people, and this one said plenty. “I’ll whip you up one on the house, since you look like you've had a long day and you’re bein’ real polite about it. But then you'll have to promise to be honest with me about how good it tastes. Alright?” As she started mixing and pouring with ease, she glanced back at him, curious. “You come around here often?" Never when she's workin' that's for damn sure or else she'd remember. "If not, you should. The housewives would eat you up." Not that, she could blame them of course.

He'd been out of the game for a little while, mostly since he had moved to Briar Ridge. But back home, Kit was somewhat of an athlete. As a child, he played little league, which rolled over into what could've been a professional baseball career had it not been for that fateful night in October when he was 16. Dislocated his knee in the middle of the SEC Finals and he never went back to baseball again.

However, as he grew older, and he needed to find a new way to occupy himself between the depression and the alcoholism, he took up being a little bit of a gym nut. Everyday was the same routine, and he liked to stay consistent. Wake up 4:30am. Drink a protein shake 4:45am. Gym 5:30am. Healthy breakfast 6:45am. Then he could start his day.

But it had officially hit the three-month mark of not being consistent in the slightest. In LA, he also had the pleasure of having an in-home gym where he could roll out of bed and just get started. But here, he had to make sure his schedule and his babysitter aligned with the times he wanted to go out to the Rec Center and get a workout in.

Finally, this particular Thursday evening, he had the opportunity to go get his work out in. He headed to the gym, found a little place in the corner to get started on his stretches, put his noise-canceling earphones on and got going.

Bored and looking for a source of entertainment wherever she could get it, Cheyenne grabbed her water bottle from the cup holder and made her way over toward the mats, casually stretching her hamstrings as she offered the stranger a half tilted smile. Not flirty, more so neighborly. “Well hey there,” she greeted him with a wave, in that thick southern drawl of hers that made everything sound much sweeter than it actually was or it was intended to be. “Ain’t seen you around here before. You new or you just blend in real well?” Despite the question, her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She wasn't being nosy, she was just genuinely interested. After all, Briar Ridge could feel real small if you didn’t make an effort to talk to folks.