Free Stirred: A Love Story by Tracy Ewens

Pill and knocked the volume up three notches. The mere sound of Alanis’s angsty voice brought her back to her senses. If Alanis could survive being all pent up, so could she.
    Kenna entered the bar, looked up at the speakers, and did nothing but laugh as she passed by with her laptop. Garrett stood, wiping his hands on what she should have registered as his faded old jeans, but the man wore them so well they might as well have been a tuxedo. If there were some sort of farmer magazine—there had to be, right?—Garrett would definitely be on the front cover. What are you even talking about? A farmer magazine? Stop!
    Sage leaned against the counter and picked up her Friday crossword. If she could get four across, that would open up a whole section. Wondering if the sound a baby bird made actually had a name, she felt Garrett slide behind her to leave.
    “Baler,” he said into her ear as he passed. She almost dropped her pencil as she became acutely aware of every detail, even with her eyes still on the puzzle. The warmth of his breath on her neck, the nearness of his body, even the vibration of his voice as it moved in the small space between them. Sage leaned on the counter to keep herself steady.
    “What?” she asked, face still in the paper.
    “Sixteen across. Machine that makes bundles. Five letters. B-A-L-E-R. . . baler.”
    Sweet Lord.
    “You do crosswords?”
    “No, but I have a baler.”
    “Of course you do,” she said, rolling her eyes, trying to mask the image of Garrett, shirtless, loading. . . bales of hay or something equally manly. She sighed again at her inability to keep her shit together.
    Garrett laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing”—she shook her head—“thank you.”
    Garrett moved to one of the tables and was checking his phone when Jeremy from Twisted Tree walked in carrying their wine order and looking like he’d recently returned from some tropical vacation. The man was tall and blond and always looked good in a salesman kind of way. Similar to Chris from the plane, he was neat and put together, complete with a great watch and nice shoes.
    “Hey, beautiful,” Jeremy said, setting the box on her bar.
    Sage looked at Garrett, his attention still on his phone, and saw the difference clearly. Jeremy, and men like him, were open and available. Granted, her palms still felt a little sweaty and she was a bit jumpy around any good-looking man, but none of them made her stupid. She needed to focus on that, focus on them.
    The minute Sage was about to draw from the chapter of her book called “Ferocious Flirter,” Alanis wailed her famous naughty line about going down on her man in a theater. Sage closed her eyes.
    “Interesting music,” Jeremy said.
    “It’s a classic.”
    “Sounds a little angry.”
    “You can tell a lot about a person’s mood by the music they listen to.”
    “Is that so?” Jeremy leaned against the bar.
    Sage nodded and bit into the soft wood of her pencil, willing both men to leave her bar before she bit the damn thing in half.
    “So you’re angry?” Jeremy asked, all playful and ready to flirt. Well, that figured.
    “Me”—she glanced at Garrett and became distracted—“no. This song is about frustration.”
    Garrett looked up from his phone as if he’d heard the squealing tires before a car crash while Jeremy’s eyes lit with acknowledgment.
    She hadn’t done that, had she? Sage mentally cringed because she knew what was coming. You volleyed that one right at him, nice girl.
    Silence. She and Jeremy had gone to dinner a couple of times, so she knew he liked the chase. Peering up from her crossword, she caught his eyes. His smile would probably make most women swoon, but Sage found herself pissed. Garrett was still watching them, probably waiting for her to fall on her face.
    Before she could pretend to be busy, Jeremy said, “Something you need to get off your. . . chest? You frustrated, Sage?”
    She was sure she turned