He grinned. “Now—” he kissed my forehead, then leaned back to give me a supportive smile “—turn around, walk over there, and introduce yourself. You know I’ll be right behind you.”
I didn’t feel particularly brave, but I’d come this far, right? I could do this. I could introduce myself. “Okay, yes. I can do this.”
We stared at each other for a protracted moment, and Jackson’s smiled softened. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I whispered back, happiness and hope tugging at my lips.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, his tone sincere. “No matter what happens, no matter who they are, no matter how they treat you, it doesn’t change who you are.”
His words—much like his mere presence and every delicious, sexy, polite, patient, good part of him—a balm to my soul. Gathering a deep breath, I finally felt enough courage to turn around and face my half siblings, to face the fear and hope I’d been juggling in equal measure since making that first phone call three months ago.
With Jackson behind me, I knew I could face anything.
*THE END*
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About the Author
Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
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Want more Penny Reid shenanigans? Read on for:
1. A sneak peek for Folk Around and Find Out, book #2 in the Good Folk: Modern Folktales series
2. A sneak peek for Truth or Beard, book #1 in the Winston Brothers Series
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Sneak Peek: Folk Around and Find Out, book #2 in the Good Folk: Modern Folktales Series
*Hank*
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
Lewis Carroll
Of all the strip clubs in all of Tennessee, why’d she have to walk into mine?
I heard her come in.
Of course, I didn’t know it was her, the door opened and closed with the same sound it did normally, no matter who was coming or going. Still early yet for any of the dancers, and way too early for any customers, I thought maybe it might be Jethro Winston. He didn’t stay for the shows, but we were business partners—of a sorts—and he stopped by midmorning from time to time to shoot the shit.
But once she turned the corner, and I saw her, I recognized her immediately. I was not amused.
“Charlotte,” I said, crossing my arms, making sure I sounded as unfriendly as I felt. I stood behind the bar. She’d caught me restocking whiskey, and I was only half finished.
“Hank,” she said, not looking at me. But she did paste on a tight, obligatory smile.
I tracked Charlotte Mitchell’s slow approach, didn’t miss how she looked around. Her eyes weren’t wide, but they were curious.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, coming straight to the point. I didn’t have time for charity cases, and that’s what Charlotte was, Green Valley’s most infamously pitied citizen. A single mother of four disease vectors (children) whose dumbass husband had left her for a nineteen-year-old stripper.
One of mine, actually.
Charlotte continued her moseying, her head unhurriedly turning this way and that. “I’ve never been in here,” she said, her voice faraway, distracted. “It’s nicer than I thought it would be.”
I thought about that for a tick. “Okay . . .”
She made it to the bar and stopped in front of a stool, glancing at me like I was an afterthought. “Can I order a drink yet?”
“No.”
“You’re not open?”
“Not for you, no.”
She made a face of intense irritation. This was the Charlotte I knew best, so I relaxed, smiling for the first time since she’d come in. I then lowered to my haunches and resumed restocking the whiskey. She wasn’t anyone important. No need for me to pause work, especially when there was so much to do.
“Do you have a rule against serving female customers?” she asked, and I knew without looking up that she’d leaned over the bar to scowl down at me.
“No. Just you.”
“Just me.” She huffed a laugh, it also sounded irritated. “Okay, fine. Then just give me an application.”
My movements stilled, and I stared at the bottle of whiskey in my hand, the one I hadn’t quite finished setting on the shelf.
. . . just give me an application.
“Pardon me?” I looked up, and sure enough, Charlotte’s long auburn hair was dangling over me from above.
“I said give me an application and I’ll leave.”
I had to blink, and think. And I couldn’t think while I was on my haunches, so I stood. She leaned back, sitting on the stool, watching me impassively like she was actually waiting for me to fulfill her request, like she’d asked for a driver’s license application from the DMV and not an exotic dancer application from my strip club.
Which was likely why I asked the stupid question, “What do you want an application for?”
Angling her chin, Charlotte Mitchell lifted one auburn eyebrow, looking down her nose at me—even though she was the one sitting—and said matter-of-factly with just a smidge of southern tartness, “For a job, of course.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
I scratched my neck, my eyes drifting to the right. This had to be a joke. Maybe Beau was hiding with a camera somewhere?
She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hey. Earth to Hank Weller. It’s not a difficult request to fulfill. Either you have applications or you don’t.”
“But . . .” I shook my head, unable to recall a moment in my life when I’d been as confused. This is a joke, this has to be—
“Hank Weller, let me spell it out for you. I want you—” she pointed at me, using her loud, slow voice, the one I’d heard her employ with her children “—to give me—” now she pointed to herself “—a job application—” now she mimed a piece of paper “—for the Pink Pony—” now she gestured to my club “—so I can fill it out.” She topped off her little show by pretending to write with an invisible pen. “Is that clear enough for you?”