The Quit List: A Romantic Comedy, page 2
I nod again as the door swings shut behind them. Inside the bar, the lights are dim and glowy, the atmosphere bustling. People seem to love this place, flocking here in droves every weekend…
I’ve been at Full Moon for years. People know me as a staple around here. Part of the furniture.
It’s going to be a huge change when I leave this all behind. But I’m ready.
At least, I think I am.
Stepping into the unknown is something I do regularly as a wilderness enthusiast, but when I’m out there, on my own, I know I’m not going to fail. I’m confident. Self-assured in my survival skills.
Running a business, however? Dealing with people past a wink and a smile as I pour them a drink?
It’s all new to me.
I’ve always wanted to live off-grid in a cabin in the woods. And while this just fuels my dad’s “my son is a disappointment” fire, and my step-mom’s upset that I won’t find a woman to “settle down with ASAP” (living alone in the wilderness is not exactly conducive to a long-term relationship), I don’t really care what they think.
Because being out there, in the wild, is the place I feel happiest. Most at peace.
I bought the cabin a few months back after years of saving, with the intention of turning it into both my new home, and my way of making money by leading guided excursions. Welcome people to the backcountry who want to change their lives, push their limits, and experience the nitty-gritty, exquisitely beautiful, sometimes difficult days in the Georgia wilderness.
As I get lost in these thoughts of my future workplace in nature, I look through the window of Full Moon and lazily scan my soon-to-be-ex-workplace in this concrete jungle.
My eyes land on a familiar brunette among the dining crowd.
It’s hard not to recognize her, honestly. She’s here every single Saturday night, always with a different guy, and always wearing a look of concern on her face, like she’s not quite sure how she got here.
I’ve often wondered what her deal is. Why she always orders a bottle of Chilean red while she sits through dates she clearly doesn’t want to be on, her foot tapping under the table (same table, every time) like she’s mentally counting down the minutes until she can leave.
I know the feeling well. Usually because I’m counting down the minutes before I can leave the bar, too.
“Jax? All good over there?”
I give my head a quick shake and turn away from the window to resume my pacing. “Yup. Sorry, Morris. Just thinking about… my upcoming booming social media presence.”
My mentor tuts good-naturedly. “You’ll get there.”
“Or, more likely, I can hire someone to get there for me,” I mutter.
With what cash, I don’t know. But I’m sure I can make something work. Maybe ask my little sister, who’s somewhat of a TikTok star—whatever that means—to give me some tips.
“You’ll need to think about the bigger picture too, Jax. How to sell this thing so people want to come to you. In fact, I’d suggest taking some friends or family on practice trips. Especially beginners who need a lot of guidance. The more experience you have—and the more natural and confident you appear as a guide—the more likely people are to book with you.”
I’m nodding. Doing a whole lot of nodding and head bobbing.
But I have to admit, I’m overwhelmed. Probably in over my head.
It’s not like I’m an outgoing people person with an active presence on social media. When it comes down to it, I’m content being alone. With my own thoughts and company.
Guiding is the best way I can think of to make money doing what I love, being where I love. Failing is not an option. I’ve sunk all of my savings into this cabin, and it’s going to be my stepping stone to the life I’ve worked towards for a long time now.
I’m about to answer Morris—a joke to the effect of taking some of my more unwilling friends and family (AKA my sister Maddie) to the middle of nowhere and leaving them there to fend for themselves like they’re on Survivor— when the door to the bar flies open, and a blond man stalks onto the street, his face red as a beetroot.
I recognize him as the concerned brunette’s date for the evening. And right now, he looks angry, his fists clenching.
What the hell?
I’m pretty good at reading people—serves me well as a bartender, let me tell you—and this guy strikes me as a man with some serious ‘roid rage.
I immediately look into the bar, but there’s no big commotion, no drama. So at least the guy wasn’t getting himself into a fight.
My break is definitely coming to an end, so Morris and I say our goodbyes—with a promise from me to look into this whole website and booking system and social media fandango—and I cast one last glance at the angry guy on the street as I walk back into the bar.
He’s standing on the sidewalk, clenching and unclenching his fists in clear agitation. But he’s turned towards the street, probably waiting for his Uber or something. He doesn’t seem to have any interest in coming back to Full Moon. Which means that he’s not my problem.
As I make my way back behind the bar, I look over at the brunette to make sure she’s okay, that the guy didn’t take any of his anger out on her.
I’m not sure what I expected to see, but I’m surprised to see her smiling as she texts someone.
Another date, perhaps?
Yeah, I might be good at reading people, but I have to say that the concerned brunette with her parade of different men each week throws me for a bit of a loop. Which means that, on the bright side, tonight’s shift is slightly less mundane than other nights.
I slip back behind the bar and nod at Dante, my fellow bartender. “Thanks for letting me take five. Everything good here on the floor?”
“All g, my man.”
Guess I must have misread the situation outside, then. Maybe the guy was just red-faced from stepping out of the heat and into the cold, or something.
But again, not my problem.
With a shrug, I grab the next order and get back to work.
And that’s when the front door swings open, and ‘Roid Rage himself marches back inside.
3
HOLLY
“Hallie!”
The familiar, rude voice pulls my gaze off my phone screen and my relatively pleasant conversation about injuries-by-horse and there he is…
Keith is standing in front of me, his face glowing red like a beacon.
For such a nice establishment, this place has a real problem with pest control.
“Hello again, Keith.” I give him a flat smile. “And for the fifteenth time, my name is Holly.”
Instead of acknowledging this really, very simple fact, he leans towards me, getting into my personal space. I involuntarily shrink back.
“You don’t get to call the shots, missy,” he says, coating me in a cloud of his gross sour breath. On the bright side, “missy” is, at least, a change up from “Hallie.”
“Pardon me?” I look at him with what I hope are unwavering eyes because I don’t want to betray the fact that I’m quaking a little inside. Keith’s a large dude, and he’s angry right now. As little as I think of him, it’s difficult not to be intimidated. He’s purposefully leaning close to me, speaking quietly so as not to make a scene. Trying to both isolate and intimidate me.
“You think you’re above everything with your high and mighty attitude, acting like you’re better than me,” he spits quietly, venom lacing his tongue.
I force myself to hold his gaze, though it’s almost painful. Guys like this, who expect things from women and then use intimidation techniques when they don’t get what they want, are the worst kind of men.
Why did I go on this date again?
Ah yes, that’s right: desperation.
After ten straight terrible dates, I have decided that I hate dating with a passion. I hate the unknown of meeting someone new for dinner each week. Hate the cringey small talk bracketing awkward silences, the push-up bras and the heels that give you blisters.
But I’m in this situation because of my own sheer stupidity.
I’m almost thirty, I’ve spent the last few years of my life waiting for a relationship I now know will never happen, instead of putting myself out there. And on top of that, I’ve just been passed over for yet another promotion that I’m pretty damn sure I deserved.
Which led me to my New Year’s resolution for this year.
I had to quit wasting time and get over my (apparently unrequited) feelings for my boss. Quit letting life pass me by. Quit being afraid to step out of my comfort zone.
Instead, I would seize the day, and go in search of my happily-ever-after.
Of course, the only way to achieve such a thing is to, you know, date.
So, I’ve thrown myself to the wolves, so to speak, of the modern dating scene for the first time in literal years.
Though, so far, it’s less of a cool-and-trendy, cocktail-swilling at the bar scene, and more of a three-car pile-up, traffic accident scene. Complete with police cars, ambulances, and rescue helicopters.
But I have no idea how else to achieve my goal, short of sitting through all these dinner dates with men I meet online. Because unlike my sister, Mindy, I don’t have any attractive male friends I can fall in love with. And unlike Aubrey, I certainly haven’t ever had a doctor ask me out during a trip to the emergency room…
Although I do now have a habit of always wearing respectable underwear, just in case I ever get in a car wreck and my soulmate happens to be the surgeon who has to cut off my clothes before operating on me.
First impressions matter.
“I don’t think I’m better than you,” I tell Keith, though I am clearly the superior human in this situation. Though that doesn’t stop my voice from betraying me with a tremor.
“Oh, yeah?” Keith moves closer still, and I want to gag at the mingled scents of musky cologne and alcohol-tinged breath.
I’m trying to think of what my next move should be, what my escape route might look like, when…
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was terrible.”
I jerk my head in the direction of the deep voice. Is Keith expecting someone? Brawn backup, perhaps?
Standing above us is a man I can only describe as a tall drink of water. Said in one of those old-fashioned western voices while tipping my imaginary hat and chewing on a blade of grass. Because this man is broad-shouldered and black-bearded and he’s staring down at us with these intense slate-gray eyes that make my insides feel wobbly. He’s dressed in all black: black jeans, black boots, black t-shirt.
He doesn’t have the same obvious, pretty-boy good looks that Keith does, but he’s handsome in a piercing eyes and rugged manly-man way that is infinitely more attractive in every single sense of the word.
This guy looks like he belongs in an ad for power tools. Or really big barbecues. Or… wolves. If there were such a thing as ads for wolves.
Keith pushes a stray lock of hair off his forehead and glares at the Wolf Man. “Who the hell are you?”
Not brawn backup, then.
“Jaxon.” The guy says this like it’s obvious. “And who might you be?”
Keith ignores his question. “Look, bro, we’re kinda in the middle of—”
Jaxon—who I’m now realizing looks vaguely familiar—puts his hand on Keith’s shoulder. Firmly. His expression remains mild, but his grip appears powerful. Commanding. In fact, I swear I see Keith wince a little.
“First off, I’m not your bro. Secondly, you were in the middle of nothing. In fact, your time was very much up. And as you have already caused enough of a scene this evening, I’m going to give you until the count of three to get the hell out of here and never bother this woman again.” He gives Keith the full force of those mesmerizing eyes. “Understood?”
This Jaxon character makes for a rather imposing form, and not only is he at least four inches taller than Keith, he’s buff in a way that makes him look like he’d come out on top in any street fight. There’s a bit of a West Side Story vibe to him, without the random breaking out into song. Or gang membership. One would hope.
Keith, on the other hand, has the kind of muscular bulkiness that suggests he’s seen the inside of too many gyms. The kind with smoothie bars and free tanning. And good ol’ Keith seems to come to this realization as well, because he takes a step back.
“I have to get going, anyway,” he says, sounding all business-like, but I don’t miss the flicker of fear in his eyes. He recovers enough to smirk at Jaxon in this maddening, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, boys club kinda way. “She’s all yours, buddy. But fair warning, she’s not worth it.”
Jaxon’s mouth sets in a grim line for a moment that makes me somewhat fear for Keith’s wretched life. Then, out of nowhere, he smiles, moves behind me, and sets a big hand on my upper back almost possessively. He smells as woodsy and manly and delicious as I thought he might.
“Not your buddy,” Jaxon says, and then surprises me by giving Keith a conspiratorial wink. “And believe me, she’s definitely worth it. In fact, I should be thanking you.”
Keith blinks again like the idiot he is. “Why?”
“Your date with Holly was so terrible that it made me look good in comparison,” Jaxon says smoothly. “I’ve been begging her to go out with me for weeks. And one dinner with you—just one single pasta course—made her decide to take a chance on me.”
I tilt my head to look at the man in black, wondering for a moment if he’s clinically insane, or if he has mistaken me for a different, much luckier Holly. And that’s when I see the twinkle in those pretty eyes.
He’s messing with him.
Suddenly eager to join in on the fun, I flash my own smile at Keith. “I texted Jaxon the second you left. Thank you for helping me find my soulmate.” I say the word all breathy and reverentially, fluttering my eyelashes.
Beside me, I feel the vibration of Jaxon’s deep, quiet chuckle.
Keith looks a little ill.
“There’s a word for this,” I continue, unable to help myself. “People who stand in for the actors before they come onstage. In fact, I think that’s what they’re called. Stand-ins.”
“Or fluffers,” Jaxon supplies with amusement.
I startle at Jaxon’s unexpected input, then grin at him in thanks before turning to Keith solemnly. “Thank you for being my emotional fluffer, Keith. I’ll be forever indebted to you.”
“I’m not… I…. I’m not a FLUFFER!” Keith yells a bit too loudly before remembering that he’s in a fancy restaurant and people can hear him. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face.
Inside, I’m dying.
Dead.
Deceased.
Because this is too freaking good.
And then, Keith drops his voice a fraction. “I’m the main character.”
“Sure you are,” Jaxon says in this soothing, pitying tone that one might use to placate a petulant three-year-old.
Keith is not placated. He points from me to Jaxon. “Whatever this little circus is, I’m out!”
“Bye, Keith,” I tell him, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in what feels like days as he flounces towards the exit.
As soon as the intricate oak front doors shut behind Keith (unfortunately not hitting him on the way out), I turn to Jaxon, eyes wide. “Um… Thank you for that.”
“Don’t mention it, soulmate.” Jaxon throws me a wink and I go red.
He then gives me a quick once-over, like he’s checking that I’m okay, and apparently satisfied with what he sees, he removes his big, warm hand from my back and sits in the chair opposite mine without being invited. He swipes a wine glass off the empty table next to us and begins filling it with my wine.
“Please, help yourself,” I say dryly.
“Thank you,” he replies with a smirk, totally unruffled as he takes a sip.
I assess him as he assesses the red wine, taking in his familiar-not-familiar features.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Nice company you keep,” Jaxon adds.
Which is rude. Accurate, maybe. But still rude.
I choose to ignore his taunt, raise a brow at him. “Who are you and how did you know my name?”
“Like I said, I’m Jaxon. Jaxon Grainger. But you can call me Jax.” Call-Me-Jax clocks my confused expression, then jerks a thumb towards the bar along the far wall. “Bartender. Usually found lurking in the back corner. And I know your name because I saw it on your credit card receipt.”
Ah, the bartender. Makes sense that he looks familiar now.
I’m not quite sure why I’ve apparently chosen the Full Moon Bar & Bistro as my go-to date location. Maybe because they have deep-fried brie on the menu (which I obviously looked at online well before date number one). And once I started coming here, it simply never occurred to me to go somewhere else.
I like that I can eliminate an extra worry-factor every time I meet with someone new. I already know where the bathrooms are, what’s on the menu, and what the staff wear so I don’t accidentally dress in a way that I could be mistaken for one of the waitresses (this is based on date number four, which went downhill spectacularly fast after he started hitting on one of the actual waitresses right in front of me).
“Oh.” I turn my head to see the rest of the bar staff watching us with unabashed stares. “Assuming it’s not in your job description to come to the aid of customers on terrible dates?”
“I can honestly say that I’d never seen a truly terrible date until tonight.” Jax lifts his gray eyes to meet mine. “At that point, it wasn’t so much ‘job description’ as much as it was ‘humanitarian obligation.’”
I should feel prickled by this, but something about Jax’s mild expression—the way his tone is jokey but not mocking—makes me smile instead.
“Really?” I blink at him innocently. “I thought Keith was the poster-child for the perfect gentleman.”
“That guy was for sure on the sex offender list.”
I laugh at this, surprised by the sudden, unexpected turn this night has taken. Jaxon is… funny. Like, actually funny. And easy on the eyes. I’m not usually into guys with beards—Dylan was always clean-shaven and smooth-faced. But I gotta say, this guy’s short, neatly-kept beard just adds to his sex-on-legs appearance. “You want me to draw up a little ‘Wanted’ sketch for you to tape to the doors so he never returns?”
