his breath because he’d missed the play.
He’d intended to get here in plenty of time to order his dinner—the cheeseburger platter with the works and a nonalcoholic beer—before kickoff, but thanks to Chelsea Allen he had missed nearly the entire first quarter.
Murphy’s was crowded tonight, but there were still a few open spaces at the bar. A lot of people had turned out to see the game. On football nights, Murphy’s ran specials on beer and their very own signature Cowboy burger. Ethan claimed the closest seat and settled in, raising a hand in a quick greeting to Jack Murphy, who was at the helm of the bar.
“Hey, bro,” Jack said. “I was wondering where you were tonight. Be right with ya.”
Murphy’s Pub was one of Celebration’s best-loved community gathering spots. It was a casual place and one of Ethan’s favorite haunts. It was the kind of place where he could get out and be among people yet not really feel obligated to interact or explain why he was drinking sweet tea or nonalcoholic beer at a bar on a Saturday night rather than imbibing like the rest of the drunken fools.
The long teak bar ran the length of the wall to the left of the entrance. Murphy’s bartenders prided themselves on their ability to mix any drink known to mankind, plus several originals that had been invented on the premises and named after local notables.
One quirk of the joint was they were proud of the fact that they only stocked a standard offering of American beers. None of those frou-frou microbrew abominations that seemed to be sprouting like mushrooms everywhere you looked these days. Ask Pop Murphy for something like that and he was likely to direct you to the local cantina Taco’s or to a trendy start-up in Dallas.
But it didn’t matter to Ethan since he had been sober for two years, three months and one week to the day. All he needed was his favorite brand of nonalcoholic beer, which the Murphys always kept in stock for him.
Even though he couldn’t say staying sober today was any easier than it had been the first day he’d made the decision to go cold turkey and turn his life around, each day he stayed out of the bottle and in control of himself was its own victory. He wasn’t about to break his winning streak now.
Some who knew of his struggles thought he was crazy to hang out at a place like Murphy’s. They thought he was making it extra hard on himself by surrounding himself with the poison.
No. He had a handle on the drinking. Everything was under control. He didn’t have to give up going out. He’d worked damn hard to get here and he had no intentions of sliding back into that dark hellhole he’d landed in after his divorce.
He was a recovered alcoholic. That didn’t mean he had to be a shut-in, too.
One day at a time. The AA slogan had been his mantra when he was going through the hardest times. Now that he was stronger, now that he was sober, he liked to test himself by sitting at Murphy’s bar, watching everyone else tip back a few too many. The smell of bourbon might tempt him, but it would never break him. Never.
Jack came back with an open bottle of fake brew and set it down on a napkin in front of him.
“Thanks, man,” Ethan said and ordered his dinner.
Jack Murphy wrote it down and walked the ticket over to the kitchen window at the far end of the bar.
“Order,” he called to the cook as he hung the green ticket on a clothespin strung at the ready in the order pass-through window between the bar and the kitchen.
Family owned and operated for more than a century, Murphy’s was an institution around here. It was one of the oldest businesses in downtown Celebration, and had occupied the same spot since the Murphy brothers had opened their doors in the early 1900s. Not only had it survived prohibition, it had also expanded into abutting spaces over the years and had grown into the place it was today.
As Ethan nursed his drink, he squinted at the television, trying to catch up on what he’d missed of the game. It was still scoreless, but the Cowboys were making good use of their turn and were inching closer to a touchdown. At the very least they should get out of this with a field goal.
At least Chelsea Allen hadn’t made him miss anything important. As he took a long draw from the amber bottle, he wondered what she was doing in that house all alone tonight. But before he could swallow, he reminded himself that it wasn’t his business. Juliette had said she was welcome. Chelsea and whatever she was hiding wasn’t his concern. If he knew what was good for him he’d put her out of his mind.
Juliette was due home tomorrow afternoon. Since Ethan was watching her dog, maybe he’d help her out and take Franklin home and make sure everything was still copacetic, that Chelsea Allen hadn’t worn out her welcome.
It was the least a good neighbor could do.
When the TV network took a commercial break, Ethan relaxed. Inhaling the scent of booze, stale beer and fried food, he let his gaze sweep the joint to see who’d come out tonight. As he suspected, it was the regular crowd. Most of them had come to Murphy’s to watch the game and grab some dinner like he had.
Some had no interest in sports and danced to the music that played from the jukebox in the adjoining room. Others were crowded around tables, laughing and talking. Another subset, like his friend Aiden Woods, had come out to shoot pool. Looked like Aiden was beating Miles Mercer. Aiden’s wife, Bia, the editor-in-chief of the Dallas Journal of Business and Development, sat at a nearby table with Miles’s wife, Sydney, sipping red wine and sharing animated conversation.
All the other pool tables, which took up a good portion of the front room, were occupied. They always seemed to be in demand. As usual, Murphy’s was rocking with a good cross section of people from the Celebration community who kept the place buzzing with good energy.
“Hey, Campbell, I hear you caught the burglar.” Zane Phillips slid onto the empty bar stool next to Ethan and ordered a shot of bourbon, neat.
Good news traveled fast around this town. Since Zane had heard, that meant Ethan was going to be the butt of a few good-natured jokes for a while, but he still wasn’t sorry for making sure Chelsea was on the up and up.
“Yep.” Ethan took another long pull from his drink. “And she was hot.”
Zane’s right brow shot up. “I guess being the self-appointed neighborhood watch captain has some perks, after all.”
These days, everyone in Celebration was a little jumpier since the break-ins had started three months ago. Now neighbors were extra vigilant and took even more care to look out for each other. It was the decent thing to do, even if it meant calling in the occasional false alarm. Better safe than sorry.
“Just being neighborly,” Ethan shot back. “I told Jules I’d keep an eye on her place while she’s out of town. I saw a strange car in the driveway. I let myself in with the key she gave me and checked it out. No big deal.”
“But she was hot, huh? Are you calling dibs?”
Ethan slanted a sideways glance at Zane. Dibs? What kind of lame-ass question was that? Besides, Zane had a girlfriend. Granted, the relationship was probably nearing its expiration date. Zane was a serial monogamist. He tended to date one woman at a time, but he never could make a permanent commitment.
When Jack set a platter heaped with a bacon-mushroom cheeseburger and onion rings down in front of Ethan, he trained his focus on his meal.
“So, who is this chick?” Zane asked as Ethan bit into his burger.
He took his time chewing and swallowing. “An old college pal of Juliette’s, apparently.” Ethan turned his attention to the game on the big screen. He’d come to Murphy’s tonight to watch the game, not talk about Juliette’s houseguest. “You want to meet her? Go knock on the door.”
Zane Phillips was one of his best friends. They’d grown up together and Zane had even stood up for him as best man when he married Molly. He wasn’t sure why the thought of the guy getting his grubby paws on Chelsea rubbed him the wrong way. He signaled Jack