MILE HIGH

8

The walk is nice with Denver’s October breeze blowing my wild curls away from my face. This bar is unexpectedly packed tonight. It’s a Monday night, and none of Denver’s teams are playing, so I didn’t expect a sports bar with wall-to-wall TVs to be as crowded as it is. But I thankfully find a solo seat at the bar and sidle up, making myself comfortable to spend the next three or so hours watching my brother’s game.

“What can I get you?” The bartender leans forward a little more than necessary. But he’s easy on the eyes, so I let it slide.

“Do you have an IPA on draft?”

He gives me an impressed glance. “Sanitas’ Black IPA. Twelve or sixteen ounces?”

What kind of question is that? “Sixteen, please.”

As he comes back with my perfectly poured beer, he places it on a coaster and leans over the bar once again. “Where are you from?” A flirtatious smile plays on his lips.

I look over my shoulder, not entirely convinced the hot bartender is talking to me.

Finding no one behind me, I turn back to him, his blue eyes locked on mine. “Chicago currently. Just in town for work.”

“Oh yeah? How long are you in town for?”

“Only the night.”

His shy smile is now a full-on devilish grin. “Glad you found my bar top for your one night in town. Anything you need, I’m your guy. I’m Jax, by the way.” He puts his hand over the wooden countertop to shake mine.

“Stevie.” I place my hand in his, noting the veins and muscles of his forearms that continue up under the sleeve of his black button-down shirt.

Suddenly my original plan for the night doesn’t sound all that bad.

“Actually, I do need something from you, Jax.”

“Anything.” His eyes twinkle with mischief.

I lean forward, crossing my arms on the bar top and bringing my most flirtatious grin, wearing my mask of confidence once again. “Can you put that TV”—I gesture to the large screen directly behind him—“on the Devils and Bucks game? It’s on ESPN.”

His eyes narrow, but his lips tilt even more. “Beer and basketball girl, huh, Stevie? What do I have to do to keep you at my bar top all night?”

“Depends how many beers you pour me.”

He lets out a deep, sexy laugh. “Your glass will never be left empty.”

The skin around my eyes crinkles with satisfaction. This is what I needed—a little attention from a cute guy, my brother’s game on the screen, and a beer in my hand. I feel better already.

“And I’ll take a burger when you get a chance.”

“Damn, Stevie,” Jax exhales. “Stop making me fall in love with you.”

He shoots me a wink over his shoulder before redirecting his attention to the computer where he places my food order.

My food has taken a little longer than I thought it would, but I don’t mind. The bartender’s attention and the first quarter of the basketball game keep me plenty occupied. Not to mention my second beer.

Tara’s little remark about my uniform is less so at the forefront of my mind, though I realize now why it bothered me as much as it did. It’s not just because that’s an insecurity of my own, but how she said it was very similar to how my mother talks about my body.

It’s never direct. It’s always backhanded because how dare a Southern lady speak so directly. They don’t do that. I understand that my mother is a perfect Southern belle with an overactive metabolism, but that’s not me. And it’s never been me. I’ve got big t**s, a big ass, and an even bigger desire never to become the kind of woman she is.

I love her, but she’s judgmental. I’ve never felt like enough in her eyes. I grew up playing with the boys because my twin brother was my best friend, and he was much more fun than any debutant ball or pageant my mother was so adamant about me participating in.

When I was in college, I refused to rush a sorority, which almost did her in. It’s big in the South, and my mother’s entire side of women have all attended the same University in Tennessee and rushed the same sorority. I’m a legacy. It would’ve been easy for me, but I don’t want to be anything like them.

And once she realized she lost the battle of me being a real proper Southern woman, her attitude towards me quickly shifted to disappointment. Her attention was no longer focused on how great I’d be in Southern society and instead, how different my body looked from hers.

Unfortunately, it’s become ingrained in me, making me believe something is wrong with the way I look. My shape became more womanly the older I got. But my mom, she’s not used to curves, and in her mind, I’m overweight. But I don’t know what she expected. Her husband, the other half of my DNA, looks nothing like the ginger hair, freckled, thin-framed side of my mom’s family.

I want to be proud that I’m half of a remarkable man, but it’s hard when my own mother is disappointed in the way I turned out. And for some reason now, it seeps in more than it used to.

As the bartender places my burger down in front of me, a quick regret paces through my mind. The more I think about my mother, the less appealing this food sounds. Maybe I should’ve ordered a salad with the dressing on the side. Maybe my uniform will fit a little better tomorrow if I eat that instead.