Chapter 8 #2
Maybe if I were a billionaire, I’d be willing to drop ten million on a good fuck, too. But I’m broke, and this is one more problem to add to my collection.
“Just don’t implicate me in any of it.” I let the side door slam behind me.
“I’m only going to be here for a couple of months,” Clay says when I walk back in a few hours later. Gallo’s is open, but Briar is the only other person here, and she’s quietly rolling silverware in napkins at a table far from the bar.
“Is that right?”
Clay beckons me closer. The fire has gone out of my anger, though the embers are alive and well, so instead of flipping him off and stomping to the kitchen in search of something to eat, I walk over to stand in front of him.
He leans in close. “I’ll give you the bar back. You’ll have sole ownership.”
That doesn’t fill me with the overflowing joy it should. “Great.”
His brows furrow at my lack of reaction. “If you can keep my secret, I’ll replace the money your ex stole from you.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. That sixty thousand is small potatoes compared to what Clay could afford to give me. To what I could help myself to.
“I’m serious,” he says, reaching out to straighten the collar of my black blouse. His hand lingers as it slides down my shoulder.
A little shiver tries to break over my body, but I squash it and brush his hand away. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re simply bad at math.”
That puts a sour little pout on his face, but fuck him for trying to make me more complicit than I already am. I’ll accept that offer—I don’t have a choice at this point—but I don’t have to be happy about it.
“Louisa—”
I give in to my earlier urge to flip him off as I storm into the kitchen.
Mariah is bustling about, getting ready for the night and directing Isaac, and I force my voice to sound cheerful as I greet them both.
“Do we have anything about to hit the end of its shelf-life but still edible?” I ask once small talk winds down.
“I didn’t have time to make myself anything,” I add at Mariah’s stern look.
“Do you have propane in that camper?” she asks with a very expressive eyebrow raise.
“Nope.” I only have four nights’ tips. Breakfast was Fruit Loops. Lunch was a peanut butter sandwich. Propane for cooking isn’t a high priority when I need to put gas in my car and get a new phone.
Maybe I should dip into the till since Clay’s slipping extra in. It’s not like he can fire me.
Mariah’s expression is thunderous, but then she lets out an explosive sigh and says, “Pulled pork. It needs to go.”
Not according to the date written on it, but I smile and make myself a pulled pork sandwich, leaning against the back door where I’m out of the way to eat it.
The way Mariah and Isaac move around each other reminds me a lot of Rita and me, back when I was Isaac’s age. She was just as firm, just as blunt in the way she ran the place, but she was quick to laugh and fiercely protective.
I miss her. She died in a car crash while I was in the Twin Cities attending community college, getting a business degree she’d insisted on, more out of a chance to experience life away from Havenwood than actually needing the education.
I shouldn’t have left.
There’s a heaviness in my heart threatening to drag me down as I stick my dishes in the washer and head back into the bar. The anger I’ve been feeding since the day Hayden left town with my savings is flickering, in danger of being doused by gloom.
Briar is still sitting at the table, although she’s finished rolling silverware and is scrolling on her phone. A couple of locals are at the bar, but Clay’s pouring their beers, so I drop into the seat across from Briar. She barely glances up at me.
“How’s the holiday weekend going at Happy Lake?” I ask. I want to ask her if she knows about Clay’s money laundering, but if she does, I doubt she’d tell me.
She doesn’t look up, but her brows draw together. “Busy.”
I wait, but she doesn’t say more. She presses her lips together, a bit of color rising to her cheeks, and I stare at her, perplexed. She looks angry—but why?
It hits me and I groan.
Last night. Her face had been beet red when she walked in on my ill-fated attempt at seducing Milo, her eyes wide as saucers. Clay had sent her, I’m sure of it, because he’s a petty, cock-blocking asshole.
Milo had bolted without a word, and now I know why.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a quiet voice. “I didn’t know.” Shit, I should’ve known. I noticed how they looked at each other during Gina’s wedding. But I thought it was just a look—I didn’t realize it was more.
“Didn’t know what?” Briar asks flatly.
“About you and Milo.”
Briar snorts, but gets to her feet, pocketing her phone. “There is no me and Milo.”
She strides to the bar and the potential safety of Clay’s irritating presence, and I add one more problem to my growing list.
My cousin sold my bar out from under me.
My ex ran off with my savings.
One of my employees hates me.
I’ve lost my fuckbuddy.
And I’m perversely attracted to the possibly dangerous man stupidly hiding ten million dollars in my bar.
With a sigh, I get to my feet and make my way to the bar, noting that while Clay doesn’t budge, Briar immediately finds something to do somewhere else.
Gloom has officially set in.
I need a pick-me-up. A hot and sweaty night of getting my back blown out will solve at least two and a half of my problems.
The prospects are grim despite the bar getting busy as Saturday night ticks on.
There are a few perennially single local men hanging out with their friends—including Keith, who gives me shit for not calling him and then for not replacing my phone—but I’m not in the mood to be reminded of the particular reasons those men are always single.
It’s always a toss-up between being a three-pump chump and being a man-child, or worse, some red-pilled loser. Often enough, it’s a combination.
Keith might be a rare good one, but I’d like to keep the fantasy that he might be okay intact for now.
There are no openly out single women around at the moment. All the ones I know of are in committed relationships—a downside of small-town life.
I could drive to Duluth. Hit the dating apps.
Ugh, that’s too much work.
“You’re sulking,” Clay says, elbowing me aside so he can wipe down the bar. We’re busy, but not busy-busy. He’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, which isn’t helping when I’m already suffering from an abundance of horny thoughts.
“My cherries are missing.”
He makes an unsympathetic noise.
That fucker hid them somewhere, and I’d rather blame my resulting forced sugar detox for the explicit mental image of my nails digging into his hard forearms while his fingers sink into me.
He’s in my space, and he’s starting to look like a tree worth climbing, which is all I need to win my battle with inertia.
Taking my drink with me, I slip out of the bar, into the kitchen, and into the stockroom.
Liquor bottles line shelves, some still in boxes.
My fingers slip over the bottle of gin I supposedly came back for, when I spot a few jars of maraschino cherries tucked high on a shelf—not even close to where they belong.
Did he think I wouldn’t see them? Why is he such an ass?
I set my drink on a shelf, grab the stepladder, and half a minute later, I’ve relocated my cherries and tucked the stepladder away.
“Snack break?” he asks from the doorway.
I hold the last jar of cherries close. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer as he walks toward me, and I suck in a breath when he doesn’t stop. Suddenly, a jar of maraschino cherries is all that separates us. The bottles behind me rattle when I press myself to the shelves. His eyes dip to my lips, his head tilting a fraction closer, closer.
Oh fuck. I want him to do it. To kiss me and push me against the shelves until bottles fall and break. I want him to unzip his pants, hike my leg up his hip, and fuck me until my eyes roll back in my head. I’m so close to begging for it.
“Take a breath, Ms. Gallo,” he says in that smooth, deep voice a mere inch from my lips. “I’m only after this.” He holds something up in my periphery, and it takes my brain way too long to convince me to look.
It’s that fucking bottle of gin.
He takes a step back, grins, and walks out.
Oh, fuck him. Take a breath? He just happened to be the nearest available semi-acceptable cock in my moment of weakness.
I want to scream, but instead I smooth my hair, take that fucking breath, and stride back out into my bar. All that pent-up emotion? I shove it into the job.
Take a breath, Mr. Bastien goes through my head each time I catch Clay watching me bend over to bus a table. I even stick my ass out a little more in spite.
But all my anger crashes out when I flick on the light in the camper at the end of the night.
I am utterly and hopelessly alone. Worse, I feel small.