Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
FIONA
Iclimb into my red BMW and slam the door, my gaze dropping to the pile of belongings in the backseat as I throw the car in reverse and pull out of the cemetery parking lot.
When I shift into drive with a heavy sigh, I spare a glance in my rearview mirror, swallowing hard as I watch the graveyard’s wrought-iron fence disappear from sight.
That’s about as much closure as I can get right now, given the circumstances.
My mother was a complicated woman, but she was not, in fact, a loving mother and wife as her headstone implies.
Honestly, she stopped being a loving mother when I was in elementary school, spending her time drunk more often than not.
I helped her hide her addiction most of my life, but it got worse when I left for college. I’m surprised she hung on this long.
People expected a bright future from Daisy Flowers—no joke, that was her real name—a beautiful, spunky redhead with a big personality. But she amounted to absolutely nothing.
I hate that I look like her: my hair, my green eyes, my freckles, and my pale, almost translucent skin. She’s all I see when I look in the mirror—or the woman I remember from when I was a little girl.
I hide all these feelings, of course.
My friends think I’m bubbly, sweet, funny—an extrovert to my core, just like Daisy. It's not their fault they don’t really know me.
Now that I’ve lost her, I’m just tired.
I blink moisture from my eyes and take a shaky breath as I focus on the road ahead.
The February sky is thick with gunmetal-gray clouds, and skeletal oak trees line the quiet streets of Clearbook, my hometown.
It’s not a happy place for me. I had a murky childhood that I don’t dwell on, but being here, it’s hard not to see memories when I drive past the bar, the bowling alley, the church, and the street where I grew up.
I slide one hand into my hoodie pouch, fingering the ridges of my mom’s red thirty-day sobriety chip.
Thirty days. It was the longest she had ever stayed completely clean, and it was the best month of my life.
We went to Cannon Beach and spent two weeks exploring tide pools, eating saltwater taffy, and reading on the beach, our bare toes buried in the soft sand. I haven’t been back since.
I glance at the delicate bracelet on my right wrist, the little gems twinkling as I move the steering wheel to turn onto the highway that leads out of town.
My mom bought it on that trip, and it always reminded me that there was hope for our relationship.
Even though now it feels tarnished. I haven’t taken it off since I found it going through her shit at the nursing home.
Outside the city limits, I wind my way through the pine-shrouded countryside until I hit I-5 and take the interstate north toward the Canadian border.
My life has been a complete mess the past two months.
After three exhausting weeks of visiting my mom in hospice, I was canned from my teaching job at the community college the same day she died.
Well, okay, I was laid off.
Whatever.
The dean called to give me his condolences and in the same breath told me that funding had been cut for the theater program.
And it gets better.
I broke up with my long-time girlfriend, Anna, later that night. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. We had been growing apart for the previous six months, and I was shouldering the emotional burden of my mother’s decline on my own.
Like always.
It wasn’t Anna’s fault. She tried to be what I needed, but, in the end, I didn’t need her.
I mask well to the outside world, even with my closest friends, but inside, my head is pure anxiety and chaos. It’s like that line from Titanic when Rose is boarding the ship: “Outwardly, I was everything a well-brought-up-girl should be. Inside, I was screaming.”
I kind of disappeared for a couple months after my mom died, living with a family I knew from work. My best friend, Charlie, is the only person I kept in contact with, and only by text to let her know I was okay.
I was hiding from myself and also from him: my stepfather, Dennis Abrams.
I don’t know why, but my mom never updated her will to include the bastard, probably because she was depressed and drunk out of her mind most of the time.
Dennis was furious when he found out. He called and texted so many times, threatening to contest the will.
He finally tracked me down a couple nights ago in the Costco parking lot, ranting and raving about needing money to pay off his debts.
I hate to admit that he scares me, but he does.
He’s been controlling me through fear ever since I met him when I was ten.
But I’m not having that anymore, so I ran again before he could try anything.
From what I understand, if he wants to contest Daisy’s will, he has four months from the date of her death to serve me papers.
I’m not entirely sure why he didn’t give them to me the night he tracked me down—it’s the reason I started hiding to begin with—but I knew then that if I wanted to protect my mom’s wishes, I had to make a more permanent move.
Another country seems ideal.
If I can just wait Dennis out for another two months, his claim will be null and void.
I don’t care about my mom’s money, but I definitely don’t want him to have it.
My family is old money, so it’s not a small chunk of change—like millions—especially after most of my mom’s assets were liquidated when she was moved to hospice.
Dennis is a seedy fuck who pretends to have access to all these powerful connections, but really he’s just their pawn, and his bad debt will probably be the death of him.
He deserves it.
Once I cross the border into Canada, the Vancouver city lights sit bright on the horizon.
I have a plan. Sort of.
Most people don’t know I’m a dual citizen, but I was born in Canada.
My mom met my biological father when she was nineteen.
It’s not uncommon for Americans living close to the border to drive north where the drinking age is lower, and this was one of those times.
My mom described their night together like it was some sort of epic instalove story, but it just sounded like drunk, horny teenagers fucking to me.
After she found out she was pregnant, my mom traveled back and forth a lot but happened to go into labor early while she was on the north side of the border. Looking at my life now, I’m glad it happened that way.
After I cross the Port Mann Bridge, the sun shifts below the horizon, and I take in the Vancouver skyline, a collage of mismatched skyscrapers and residential hills twinkling with streetlights.
I drive directly into the heart of the city, following my Maps app to the only connection I have here: Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon.
Charlie’s brothers Sebastian and Marcus own the place, and I visited a couple times with her when I was in college.
They also know me from family get-togethers we’ve had over the last couple of years.
I’m hoping that they like me enough to help me find a temporary job, at least until I can get into the film industry in Vancouver.
I love acting, and I know I’ll have to start small as someone’s assistant or a background extra, but it’s something, right? A concept of a plan, if you will.
I pass the bar a few times before I find some street parking nearby.
Then, I step out onto the dark, damp sidewalk and pay the meter.
The air is crisp and sharp with cold, and it smells like snow, which isn’t common in the Pacific Northwest. But the weather forecasters have been hyping La Nina this season, so in theory, it’s supposed to be extra cold.
I shuffle to the closest crosswalk and then walk a couple blocks until I see the red neon pub sign up ahead. While it’s dinnertime, it’s also midweek, which means most of the office dwellers have already begun their commutes home, so the city isn’t too crowded.
I grab the heavy wooden handle and open the door, and I’m immediately hit with the rich, salty smell of french fries.
The atmosphere is cozy with wood-paneled walls adorned with local art and sports memorabilia.
A roaring fire crackles in a large brick fireplace.
The atmosphere is buzzing with laughter and conversation, and I gaze around at all the people enjoying their meals and each other’s company. It’s a luxury I haven’t had in a while.
I pause when I see that the bar is closed and sectioned off. It looks like someone took a sledgehammer to the glass shelving that once held an impressive wall of liquor bottles.
“Can I help you?” The voice sounds out of breath.
My eyes snap from the damage to a petite woman with long black hair, bronze skin, and a warm smile.
She’s dressed in a white chef’s coat, which isn’t what I expect a hostess to wear, and I think she recognizes my puzzled expression because she glances at the bar, where two guys are now carefully hauling in a sheet of glass, probably to replace the bar backdrop.
“We’re a little short-staffed on account of this mess and the dinner rush,” she says apologetically. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“Oh no, not long. I’m actually here to see Sebastian or Marcus.”
The woman’s head tilts, and she’s just about to speak when Sebastian Conner walks through the double doors behind her.
He’s as gorgeous as ever—messy, dark brown hair, a straight nose, and full pink lips, which are currently sucking obscenely on the end of a pen while he walks, staring absently at the clipboard in his hand.
“Boss?”
Sebastian glances up, and his pale blue eyes meet mine. He pulls the pen from his mouth and gives me a knowing smirk. “Fiona Flowers.”
Goosebumps sheet my skin at the deep timbre of his voice. His sharp jaw is lined with dark stubble, and he looks more tired than I remember, though I suppose I can’t talk. I haven’t slept properly in months.
“Hi, Sebastian,” I chirp as he approaches, and I stick out my hand.
He stares down at it, then steps forward, wrapping me in a tight hug. I swallow my squeak of surprise as his embrace just about forces the breath from my body. He smells like citrus and something earthy.
“Oh, we’re hugging,” I stammer awkwardly, and I hear the hostess snicker.
Sebastian’s chuckle rumbles against my ear, which is held against his very muscular pec. “Sorry.” He drops his arms.
“You’re Fiona Flowers!” I turn back to the woman behind me, and her smile widens. “I’ve heard so much about you! I’m Gabriella.”
I give Sebastian a bewildered look because why would he be talking about me?
“You…have?”
“Not from him,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “From Charlie and the boys whenever they come around.”
“Oh.” I smile. “Well, that makes sense. I think Charlie would make me join her throuple if the guys and I agreed. And I guess that would make it a quadrouple?”
Sebastian makes a funny sound in the back of his throat, and Gabriella bursts out laughing.
“Sorry.” My cheeks flush when I realize that was a weird thing to say to my friend’s brother. “The filter between my brain and my mouth is a little buggy sometimes.” I glance at Seb, who’s giving me an amused smile.
“What brings you up to Vancouver?” he asks, holding the clipboard against his chest.
“If you’re not too busy, I actually have a favor to ask.” My stomach flips. I don’t rely on other people for anything, so asking for help is really hard. But I take a breath and continue. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Yeah, of course.” His large hand drops to my elbow, and he gently guides me toward the doors he just came through. Clearly, I’ve been starved for touch after all these months by myself because Seb’s warm palm feels way too good, even through the thick material of my coat.
“What happened there?” I ask, nodding at the bar as we pass it.
Sebastian’s gaze darkens. “An old-fashioned bar fight, if you can believe it.”
“Yikes, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs and holds open the door for me, and we walk down a dimly lit hallway. “It’s fine.” His annoyed tone says otherwise. “Insurance will cover most of the cost, but Marcus isn’t happy about the little blurb in the Vancouver Sun.” He gestures to a door on the right, and I enter an office.
It’s a bit dated with dark Berber carpet, a particle wood desk, two well-worn rolling chairs, and a few gray metal filing cabinets lining the back wall.
Framed pictures catch my eye. There are some family shots, but most are photos of Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon, including one of Sebastian and Marcus standing outside in the rain with boyish grins as they point at the neon pub sign.
When I turn around, Sebastian is standing by the door with a soft smile on his face. He nods at one of the chairs. “Sit.” I do, and Sebastian sits across from me. He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “Drink?”
“Sure.”
He nods, his tousled hair spilling over his forehead as he pours the alcohol, giving himself a very generous amount. I raise my eyebrows but stay quiet.
“So, tell me more, Fiona.”
My stomach does that weird twisting thing again, and I close the fist in my lap, focusing on the way my nails bite into my palm. “I need a job, actually.”
Seb frowns, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t you work at the community college in Brighton?”
“I…did,” I say haltingly, “but my department’s funding was cut.”
His frown deepens. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It actually happened a couple months ago, after—” I consider whether I want to get into all the reasons that I’m here. But then it occurs to me that Charlie may have already told him.
Panic rises in my chest, and I take a sip of my whisky, letting it burn my throat before I look up at Seb’s expectant gaze.
Get a grip, Fi. You can do this. Just tell him.
But too many thoughts bubble to the surface: my mom’s death, my break up with Anna, hiding from Dennis.
It’s too much.
My brain scrambles.
I squeeze my fist tighter, but it doesn’t help this time. My heart is beating so fast.
“Fi?”
“What?” I startle, my knee banging against the desk leg, causing the cup of pens above it to rattle. “I’m sorry. Is there a bathroom close by?” I’m shocked my voice is so steady.
Sebastian gives me an odd look but nods. “Keep going down the hall, and it’s on your left.”
I bolt from the office. When I reach the bathroom, I shut the door and lock it. Then, I squat down with my face in my shaking hands, breathing hard. I recognize the panic attack—my mom used to get them a lot. I helped her through them but there’s no one here to help me.