Chapter 4
Finn
Iwoke up Monday morning feeling like I’d forgotten something important. It took me a full thirty seconds of staring at the ceiling, mentally running through my usual routine—shower, coffee, check schedule, put on Riley’s uniform—before I remembered.
I didn’t have a shift.
I didn’t have a uniform.
I didn’t even have a job.
I shot upright in bed, my heart doing this weird flutter thing that was either excitement or a panic attack. Probably both.
The smell of coffee smacked me as I stumbled into the kitchen. Priya was already in her scrubs and white coat, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, dumping what looked like her entire sugar canister into a travel mug.
“You are up early for someone who is unemployed,” she said without looking at me.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Regret or excitement?”
“Yes.”
She turned and looked at me, a smile tugging at her mouth.
“Good. That is healthy, and in case you have not noticed, thanks to my very persistent parents, I am a doctor. I know healthy when I see it.” She popped the last bite of a Pop-Tart into her mouth, checked her phone, and swore under her breath.
“I am so late. My attending is going to kill me.”
“Why are you always late?”
“Because I am always tired.” She took a very unladylike gulp of her coffee, made a face, and added more sugar. “Okay, I am leaving. You do not have permission to spiral today. Call Mark and get started. Do something productive.”
“Yes, mom.”
“I am serious, Finn. You are going to sit here and overthink until you convince yourself you made a mistake. Mark is . . . well . . . he is Mark. If you are not the spark to light the fire, there may never be flame.”
“You’re such a fortune cookie.”
“China and India are not the same.” She scowled. “Besides, fortune cookies are an American invention.”
“Really?”
“Save that for trivia night.” She swooped in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, which was about as affectionate as Priya got before 10 a.m. “Do something good today.”
And then she was gone, coffee in one hand, bag in the other, leaving me alone in our apartment with nothing but time and nervous energy.
I lasted approximately seven minutes before I grabbed my phone and called Mark.
He answered on the first ring. “Finn? Do you need a medic? Should I call an ambulance?”
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re calling me at eight in the morning, and you might be the least morning person I’ve ever known. In fact, I doubt you’ve ever seen a sunrise.”
“That’s ridicu—”
“You haven’t, have you?”
“No,” I muttered. “This is why we didn’t work out.”
“No, it was the kissing. My brutal honesty would’ve saved us had your tongue not been a limp fish.”
“My tongue—”
“Moving on.” His voice was too chipper. “So, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just—” I paced across the living room. “I quit my job. Last night, I texted Brad and told him I was done, effective immediately.”
Silence on the other end.
Then his voice shot up an octave. “Holy shit, you did it.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m stunned. You’ve been at Riley’s for seven years. I thought you’d at least give notice—”
“I texted him at 9 p.m. on a Sunday and blocked his number.”
Mark burst out laughing. “That’s the most impulsive thing I’ve ever heard you do. You sent your boss a Dear John text? I’m so proud.”
“Don’t be proud yet. I’m currently unemployed with eight hundred dollars in my bank account and a rent payment due in weeks.”
“So let’s get started. What do you need?”
I stopped pacing. “What do I need?”
“Yeah. You’re the detail guy. I’m assuming you’ve already made a list.”
I hadn’t made a list.
There were no lists.
Listing had not occurred.
But now that he mentioned it, my brain immediately started generating one.
“I need to see the space. Like, actually see it. We should measure things, figure out the layout, then we’ll need to price out equipment—bar equipment, kitchen equipment, furniture, POS system.
Oh, and we’ll need to start interviewing.
I can’t run a bar by myself. We need a barback and maybe another bartender.
I mean, if you work behind the bar with me, we won’t have to hire—”
“Finn.”
“—and someone for the kitchen. We can’t serve food without a cook. They’ll need a prep cook or whatever they’re called, someone junior and cheap. Do you have suppliers lined up? What about the liquor license? You said your lawyer’s handling it, but what’s the timeline—”
“Finn.”
“What?”
“Breathe.”
I realized I’d been talking a thousand words per minute. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I love it. This is exactly what I needed.” Mark’s voice was warm. “Meet me at the space in an hour? We can walk through it together and start making an actual plan.”
“An hour?”
“Unless you need more time to make spreadsheets.”
“I’m not going to make spreadsheets.”
“You’re absolutely going to make spreadsheets.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“See you in an hour.”
I got to the space thirty minutes later because I was incapable of staying in my apartment when I was nervous.
The building sat on the corner of 18th and Palm in Ybor, right on the edge where the neighborhood transitioned from residential to commercial.
It was a good location—close enough to the clubs and bars to get foot traffic, but far enough away that it felt like its own thing.
The faded red-brick space had big windows facing the street, which would be perfect for visibility, and a hand-painted “For Lease” sign that someone had already partially covered with graffiti.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at it, trying to picture what it would look like with our sign and lights in the windows. I closed my eyes and tried to picture people inside, laughing and drinking and watching a game.
My chest felt tight.
This was real.
Sweet mother of Jack Daniels and shit, this was happening.
I checked my phone.
Mark would be here in fifteen minutes.
I should stop standing here like a creep and—
Someone slammed into me from the side.
Hard.
I stumbled sideways, barely catching myself on the wall as an explosion of white paper erupted around us like the world’s most boring confetti.
“Shit—sorry—fuck—I’m so sorry—”
I looked up to find a man in a rumpled suit scrambling to collect papers that were now scattered across the sidewalk and drifting into the street.
He was around my height, maybe a little shorter, with dirty blond hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it too many times and hadn’t looked in a mirror since.
His tie was loosened despite the early hour, and he had the frantic energy of someone who was very, very late for something important.
“It’s fine,” I said, bending down to help. “No worries. Here, let me help.”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He lunged for a paper that was making a break for the gutter. “I’m such an idiot—”
“Seriously, it’s okay.” I grabbed a handful of documents that had landed near my feet. They looked official—legal documents, maybe? Court filings? I tried to stack them, but they were all different sizes and my hands were shaking from the adrenaline of being body-checked on a Monday morning.
“Thanks. I’m sorry, thank you—” The man was still scrambling, trying to collect everything while also preventing new papers from escaping. One got caught by the breeze and sailed toward the street. He made a desperate grab for it and nearly face-planted on the asphalt.
“Here, I’ve got it.” I chased down the escapee and added it to my stack.
We both straightened at the same time, me holding about a third of his papers, him clutching the rest to his chest like they might make another run for it.
That’s when our eyes met.
And my breath caught.
He had these eyes—hazel, I thought, or maybe green depending on the light—and they were looking at me with this mix of embarrassment and gratitude and something else I couldn’t quite name.
His face was all angles, sharp jaw with a blondish five-o’clock shadow, and there was this little scar on his chin that I suddenly wanted to know the story behind.
“Thanks,” he said, and his voice was rough, like he’d been yelling or hadn’t had coffee yet or both.
“Yeah, sure,” I managed. “No problem.”
I handed him my stack of papers, and our fingers brushed.
It lasted maybe half a second.
It felt like longer.
We both froze, papers suspended between us, and I swear to God the world got quieter.
The traffic noise faded.
The sound of Ybor waking up around us dimmed.
There was just this moment of his fingers against mine and his eyes locked on my face and my brain forgetting how to form words.
What was my name again?
A clock tower somewhere nearby began to chime the hour.
The man’s eyes went wide. “Shit,” he breathed. “Shit, shit, shit, I’m so late.”
He grabbed the papers from my hands. It was less of a gentle take and more of a panicked yank. Then, without another word, he took off down the street at what could only be described as an awkward sprint-walk, his jacket flapping behind him.
I stood there on the sidewalk, surrounded by a few stray papers he’d missed, watching him disappear around the corner.
My heart was doing that thing again. The flutter thing.
It was definitely not a panic attack this time.
“What the hell was that?” I said to no one.
“That,” said a voice behind me, “was you getting hit by what looked like a very stressed lawyer.”
I spun around to find Mark standing there, grinning like he’d just witnessed the best entertainment of his life.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch you get plowed by a man in a suit and then stare at his ass as he ran away.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were staring. He’s got a great ass, even in that crappy suit.” Mark glanced down the street as the guy vanished around a corner. “Did you at least get his name?”
Well, shit on a stick. I hadn’t.
“I was just—he dropped all his papers. I was helping—”
“Uh-huh.” Mark’s grin got wider.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” Mark clapped a hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm and grounding. “Come on. Let’s go open a bar, big boy.”