The man continued to glare at me, but his face was starting to turn red.

I cocked my head to the side to show how unimpressed I was with his temper.

“I see you’ve met my son’s new waitress,” a man said from behind me.

Mr. Fancy Pants broke eye contact to glance at the man who was now sliding into the seat across from him.

The silver-haired man wasn’t dressed as well as his dining partner, but he made up for it in arrogance and attitude. Bart Drummond was wearing a button-down dress shirt, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. It gave the impression he’d been working hard, but what he’d been doing was anyone’s guess. The Drummonds had founded Drum over two hundred years ago, but the town had fallen on hard times. Between the shuttering of their lumber yard, the legalization of moonshine, and the loss of their tourist industry after the state park system relocated the entrance to a popular trail down to Balder Mountain, Drum was hurting and hurting bad. According to the locals, Bart Drummond’s shine had begun to tarnish.

This was the first time I’d seen Max’s father darken the tavern’s door.

“Carly,” Bart said without bothering to look at me, “could you bother yourself to get me a glass of tea and one of Tiny’s world-famous burgers?” Then he turned to his lunch partner and said, “Good to see you, Neil. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

Anger seethed inside of me. He’d dismissed me as though I were hired help. Okay, so I was hired help, but no one enjoyed being treated like dirt. Besides, he had to know I was dating Wyatt, his older son. They were estranged, but it was a small town. Everyone knew.

As I headed to the service counter, I cast a glance at Max, who had been watching our exchange with worried eyes, although I wasn’t sure what or whom he was worried about. His father? Me?

I hung up the ticket, still keeping an eye on the two men in the dining room. It looked like Bart was having a business lunch…but at Max’s Tavern? Then again, there wasn’t really anywhere nicer to eat in this one-stop-sign town. Although Watson’s Café, a block down, nearly had us beat.

“The fact you’re not carrying a plate of food back must mean your cranky customer didn’t have any complaints,” Tiny called over from the grill.

“He’s fine,” I lied. “But this is an order for Bart Drummond himself. Said he wants one of your world-famous burgers.”

Tiny rushed to the counter, much nimbler than I would have expected from a six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-eighty-pound man. He peered through the opening, trying to get a view of the dining room. “Bart Drummond is here?”

“So it is unusual?” I asked.

“I ain’t seen him in here in years. Not since Max bought the place. Used to see him a lot when Wyatt was runnin’ things.”

I did a double take. “What?”

He shot me a look of surprise. “You didn’t know Wyatt used to run the bar?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I knew that part. I’m referring to the part about Bart comin’ in all the time when Wyatt was in charge.”

“Wyatt used to be a daddy’s boy, through and through. Then the incident happened and… well, they had their falling-out.”

Except I’d heard two different versions of the timeline. Wyatt had told me he’d fallen out with his father before he was arrested for a DUI and breaking and entering. In fact, he’d been caught trying to steal back a baseball his father had sold out from under him out of spite. Still, most of the townsfolk seemed to think the divide between father and son had come afterward. I had yet to learn the truth.

My past made it hard for me to trust men. My first week in town had been an intense whirlwind, and Wyatt and I had gotten caught up in it, and in each other. Maybe a bit too quickly given everything that had happened. I’d been plagued with nightmares and anxiety after Seth’s funeral. So much so that Wyatt had convinced me that we should take a week to process everything before discussing our plan to reveal our fathers’ crimes. And at the end of that first week, he’d suggested that we wait another week just to enjoy each other’s company.

I’d resisted. My father had destroyed my mother and my former life, and from the sound of it, Bart Drummond wasn’t much better. Besides, Wyatt knew so much more about me than I did about him, and all the things I didn’t know felt like a barrier between us. But my bluster hadn’t come to anything. Wyatt had taken my hand and quietly told me that Hank had heard me screaming the night before, and that had been enough to make me cave. Thanksgiving had been that week too, and since it had been Hank’s first holiday without Seth, I’d wanted to make it special. Max went to their parents for dinner, but Wyatt joined Hank and me for turkey, dressing, and all the fixings, with a few diabetic-friendly recipes sprinkled in.

Wyatt and I had agreed to talk over the weekend, but then he’d found out about an auction in Virginia. A couple of tow trucks would go on the block, and the opportunity was too good to be missed, even though he’d offered to do just that. I’d encouraged him to go, even though it hurt a little to do it. We’d talked on the phone a few times, but there’d been a Wyatt-sized hole in my days. Last night, he’d called to say he’d won his bid on a tow truck and would be back in Drum by early evening. He was coming to Hank’s after I got off at midnight.

My stomach fluttered in anticipation, and I felt like a high school girl with a crush—an unsettling feeling I’d be a whole lot happier with once he gave me some solid information about his past and his father.

A couple sitting by the window set their napkins down, so I hurried over to deliver their bill. Just as we settled up, a group of road crew guys came in and sat near the big-screen TV that was perpetually tuned to a sports channel. Franklin Tate—known as Tater to most of his friends—was with them. Franklin lived with Ruth, Max’s other waitress, in a trailer a few miles up the road from where I was living, but they were secretly looking for a house to purchase.

Max kept casting glances in my direction as I dealt with them. I knew he wanted me to come over, probably so he could grill me about his father, but I was the only on-duty waitress, and I was currently servicing eight tables. I wondered why he didn’t go over himself.

Not long after I served Bart his food, he and his guest left—Bart’s burger barely touched—without waiting for the check. I was about to rant to Max about his father dining and dashing, but then I noticed the two twenty-dollar bills on the table, plus a note written on the back of a business card.

Maybe waitressing isn’t a good fit for you.

Steamed, I flipped the card over and read, Neil Carpenter, Synergy Group, with a Nashville address.

Had Mr. Fancy Pants written the note, or had Bart? And was it wrong for me to pocket the overpayment on the bill without remorse? They’d left a twenty-plus-dollar tip. My only regret was that I hadn’t had an opportunity to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Max came over to bus the table just as I was about to leave to check on Franklin’s group.

“What did my father want?”

“He was here for a power lunch.” I started to pocket the business card, but Max snatched it out of my hand.

“What’s my father up to this time?” he asked with a frown as he read the front. “You’d think he’d be lying low after his right-hand man tried to set up an illegal drug business.”